Chapter 19 – The Dead Do Not Rest

 The first skeleton rose slowly, the creak of ancient bones breaking the silence.

Then another.

And another.

All around the chamber, the dead began to stir. Rise.

Delwyn gritted her teeth, shifting into a fighting stance. Half a dozen of them—maybe more. Some still clad in rusted armour, gripping shattered weapons, others just twisted husks of bone and darkness.

One of the freed rebels, a broad-shouldered man named Thorne, took a step back. "What the hell is this?"

Mira muttered a curse, raising her stolen sword. "I don't think they're here to talk."

The nearest skeleton lurched forward.

Delwyn moved first.

She sidestepped the creature's charge, bringing her blade down in a sharp arc. Steel met brittle bone—shattering ribs, slicing through the spine. The skeleton collapsed, its skull rolling across the stone floor.

Another lunged for her.

Before it could reach her, Vaelor stepped in. His short sword flashed, slicing upward through its arm, severing it at the elbow. The creature barely faltered, its empty sockets glowing with something unnatural.

Vaelor didn't hesitate. He drove his sword through its sternum, twisted hard, and ripped the blade free. The skeleton crumbled.

But more were coming.

The rebels fought desperately, though exhaustion and wounds slowed them.

Thorne swung a heavy axe, smashing one skeleton to pieces—only to be impaled by another.

He let out a choked gasp, blood blooming across his tunic. The skeleton wrenched its rusted sword free, and Thorne crumpled.

Mira let out a furious snarl, hacking the creature down before it could strike again.

Another rebel—a woman barely older than a girl—screamed as skeletal hands dragged her down. She struggled, kicking wildly, but the dead did not tire.

Delwyn rushed to her, slashing through the creatures gripping her arms. The girl scrambled free, but she was bleeding badly.

Too many. There were too damn many.

"Fall back!" Vaelor shouted, parrying a sword strike before burying his blade into the skull of another. "We need to move!"

Delwyn knew he was right.

They weren't winning this fight. They were surviving it.

"Go!" Delwyn called, slicing through the knees of an advancing corpse. It toppled, and she didn't wait to see if it rose again.

The remaining rebels broke for the tunnel ahead.

Delwyn caught Mira's arm, pulling her along. Vaelor held the rear, his short sword flashing in the dim torchlight.

Another rebel—a wiry man named Rellan—almost made it.

Almost.

A skeletal warrior caught him by the throat, yanking him backward.

Delwyn turned—too late.

She locked eyes with him just as the creature's sword ran him through.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Then, he collapsed.

Delwyn cursed under her breath.

But she kept moving.

The tunnel loomed a head, its walls lined with ancient, crumbling carvings.

They rushed inside, boots pounding against stone. The sound of rattling bones and clanking armour grew distant behind them.

Delwyn didn't stop. Not yet.

The tunnel twisted deeper underground, winding through the ruins like a maze. The air grew colder, the weight of the dark pressing in.

Then—light.

A distant glow at the far end of the corridor.

Delwyn pushed forward.

The tunnel spat them out onto open ground.

And she skidded to a halt.

They stood at the edge of a cliffside, the valley stretching wide below them, mist curling over the trees. The ruins were behind them, but the nightmare wasn't over.

Vaelor pulled his cloak tighter, glancing back toward the tunnel's entrance. "That wasn't just old magic."

Delwyn knew.

Whatever Galborn was up to in Blackreach, whatever power he had touched—it had all begun here at Eldermire.

And now, it was waking up.