Chapter 8 - Rumble

Alina sat at her desk, her fingers tracing over the yellowed pages of the book in front of her. The text was dense with diagrams of bones, muscles, and tendons, each meticulously labeled, explaining how the body functioned in life. She tried to absorb the information, to force it into her mind like she used to when she was alive. But no matter how long she stared at the words, they refused to settle in her thoughts, slipping away like sand through her fingers.

With a frustrated sigh, she reached for the plate of food Thorne had left for her earlier. The sight of it made her stomach churn—not with hunger, but with an odd sensation of emptiness that had been growing stronger with each passing day. She picked up a small piece of bread, chewing slowly, feeling it crumble against her tongue before she swallowed. It did nothing. No relief, no satisfaction. Just an empty act of mimicry.

She put the plate aside, pushing it away as irritation bubbled up within her. Something was wrong. She knew that much. Her hunger was growing, but food wasn't the answer. Her mind felt sluggish, like she was wading through thick fog, her ability to focus slipping through the cracks. She clenched her fists and slammed them down onto the desk with a sharp thud.

The coldness of her own skin made her pause. She shivered, an automatic response, though she knew it shouldn't be possible. As she lifted a hand to her face, fingers brushed over her smooth scalp, and the realization hit her once more. She had no hair. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force down the emotions rising inside of her, but it was no use.

Her mother had always stressed the importance of hair in spellcraft. It was a conduit, second only to one's own blood. She had spent years taking care of it, brushing it, weaving small charms into its strands, keeping it clean and healthy. And now it was gone, stripped from her along with everything else that made her her. She gritted her teeth, gripping the edge of the desk until her knuckles—or what was left of them—ached.

She couldn't take this anymore. No amount of reading was going to suddenly make her understand what she was studying. Pushing herself up from the chair, she decided to move, to do something—anything—to shake this suffocating feeling.

She wandered through the camp, her feet taking her past familiar places. The farms, the storehouses, the greenhouses, the stables. All structures she had seen before, yet she took the time to truly observe them now. Everywhere she looked, the undead moved in perfect synchronization, carrying out their tasks with silent precision. They worked tirelessly, plowing fields, tending to crops, moving supplies, caring for the skeletal horses in the stables.

Alina stopped, watching them closely. There was something deeply unsettling about them—the way they moved, devoid of thought, of hesitation. And yet… she felt a strange connection to them. A pull deep inside of her. They were like her. And at the same time, they were nothing like her.

The realization terrified her.

She didn't know how long she had wandered, lost in thought, before she heard a voice cutting through the haze.

"Alina."

She blinked, the world snapping back into focus. Thorne stood in front of her, arms crossed, watching her with sharp crimson eyes.

"You've been sitting there staring at me for the last half hour," Thorne said, raising an eyebrow. "Wordless. Unmoving. I tried speaking to you several times, but you didn't respond."

Alina swallowed hard. "I… I didn't realize."

Thorne studied her carefully before sighing. "Come on. Let's talk."

They walked back toward the main structure of the compound, Alina wrapping her arms around herself. She wasn't sure when she had started feeling cold again, but it was becoming harder to ignore.

"Is winter coming?" she finally asked, trying to distract herself from her growing discomfort.

Thorne glanced at her, a look of intrigue flashing across her face. "Even if it were, people like us shouldn't be able to feel temperature."

Alina hesitated. "Then why do I feel cold?"

"That's what I'd like to figure out," Thorne murmured. "Either your nervous system is more intact than I initially thought, or… you're starting to degrade."

Alina tensed at that. "Degrade?"

Thorne didn't answer immediately. Instead, she shifted the topic. "You were supposed to be studying anatomy earlier. Let's test what you've learned."

She began asking questions—basic ones, things Alina knew she should remember. How bones connected, how tendons functioned, what muscles did what. But no matter how hard she tried, the answers refused to come. Her thoughts were sluggish, fragmented, slipping away the moment she tried to grasp them.

Thorne's expression darkened. "Alina, how much of your studies do you actually remember?"

Alina clenched her fists. "I don't know. I—" She exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her forehead. "I want to remember, but it's like my brain won't let me."

Thorne observed her for a moment before shifting her approach. "Are you hungry?"

Alina hesitated before forcing a small smile. "No, I'm fine."

She didn't want to be a burden.

Thorne sighed. "This is worse than I thought."

Alina stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Thorne met her gaze. "I had hoped we would have more time, but if your condition is degrading this quickly, then we need to speed up the preservation process."

A cold pit formed in Alina's stomach, heavier than the hunger gnawing at her insides. She wasn't sure what that meant—what speeding up the process entailed. But she knew one thing for certain.

She was running out of time.