Dust and Shadows
The night swallowed Evan as he stumbled out of the tunnel, Lysa's undead form beside him, her boots crunching the dirt in a rhythm too steady for the blood still dripping from her wounds. The compound's walls loomed behind them, dark and jagged against the bruised sky, their edges lit by torchlight that flickered like dying stars. Alarms wailed, a shrill cry cutting through the air, and shouts echoed—guards, maybe, or Veyra's men, scrambling after the mess they'd left in the pit. Blood soaked his leg, the gash from the longsword burning with every step, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not with her—whatever she was now—keeping pace, her red eyes glowing faint in the dark.
He risked a glance at her, his chest tight. She looked like Lysa—same sharp jaw, same thin frame—but wrong. Her hair, once bright and wild, hung black and limp, framing a face too pale, too still. Those green eyes he'd loved were gone, replaced by a dull red that didn't blink, didn't soften. She gripped her sword, the blade bent from her last kill, and moved with a strength he didn't recognize—steady, tireless, like the wounds in her side and chest didn't matter. They didn't bleed anymore, just oozed slow and dark, and it hit him again: she was dead. He'd lost her. And yet, she was here.
"Lysa," he said, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. She didn't answer, just kept walking, her head turning slightly toward him, those red eyes locking on his. No smile, no nod—just a blank stare that cut deeper than the sword had. He swallowed, tears stinging his eyes, and looked away, focusing on the path ahead. The system's voice hummed in his head—[Quest: Escape the Pit. Progress: 47%. Enemies Slain: 7.]—cold and flat, like it didn't care what he'd lost. He didn't care either, not about it. Just her.
The ground sloped down, dirt giving way to scrub and rocks, the compound's lights fading behind them. Atherion stretched out—wild, endless, a mess of hills and shadows under a moon too thin to light much. His breath came hard, his leg screaming, but he pushed on, Lysa matching him step for step. Dogs barked in the distance, sharp and close, and his gut twisted—hounds, tracking them. He gripped his stolen sword tighter, its hilt slick with blood and sweat, and scanned the dark. They needed cover, a break, anything to shake the chase.
A cluster of trees loomed ahead, gnarled and sparse, their branches clawing at the sky. "There," he muttered, more to himself than her, and veered toward them, limping faster. She followed, silent, her sword dragging a thin line in the dirt. The barking grew louder, boots pounding now, and he ducked into the trees, pulling her with him. Her arm was cold under his hand, stiff but solid, and he let go fast, the feel of it twisting his stomach.
They crouched behind a thick trunk, the bark rough against his back. Torchlight bobbed closer—three guards, maybe four, their armor clanking, hounds straining at leashes. Evan's heart pounded, his leg throbbing, and he tightened his grip on the sword, ready to swing. Lysa stayed still, her red eyes fixed on the lights, her face blank. He wanted to say something—Stay down, we'll get through this—but the words stuck, useless. She wasn't her anymore, not really.
The guards closed in, their voices sharp. "Tracks lead here—spread out!" one yelled, a big guy with a spear, his torch casting long shadows. A hound snarled, nose to the ground, and Evan held his breath, waiting. The system pinged in his head—[Enemies Detected: 4. Threat Level: Low.]
Lysa moved first, sudden and quiet, her sword slashing up as she stepped out. The spear guard grunted, his torch dropping as her blade cut his arm—deep, blood spraying. He yelled, swinging the spear, but she grabbed it with her free hand, yanking hard. The wood snapped, her strength bending it like straw, and she drove her sword into his chest, piercing armor. He fell, choking, and the hounds lunged, teeth bared.
Evan stumbled out, swinging at the nearest dog—his blade hit its neck, blood gushing, and it yelped, dropping. The other guards shouted, one with a club charging Lysa, the other—a skinny guy with a short sword—coming for him. Lysa took the club hit to her shoulder, the crack loud but her body holding, and she punched the guard's face, her fist smashing bone. He staggered, nose bloody, and she stabbed him through the gut, twisting the blade free as he collapsed.
The skinny guard slashed at Evan, the sword nicking his arm—hot pain, blood welling. He swung back, clumsy but hard, and their blades clashed, steel ringing. The guard grinned, pressing forward, but Lysa appeared behind him, her hand grabbing his neck. She squeezed, her grip crushing, and his eyes bulged, the sword falling as he gasped. She let go, and he dropped, dead, his throat bruised purple.
The last hound whimpered, backing off, and Evan sank to his knees, chest heaving, blood dripping from his arm and leg. Lysa stood over the bodies, her pale skin streaked with red, her dark hair hanging in her face, those red eyes staring at nothing. The system chimed—[Enemies Slain: 11. Quest Progress: 62%. Level Up: Level 2. Stat Points Available: 5.]—and he cursed under his breath, shoving it away. "Shut up," he muttered, wiping his face with a shaky hand.
He looked at her, the grief hitting fresh. "Lysa… you okay?" Stupid question—she was dead—but he needed something, anything. She turned, her red eyes meeting his, and stepped closer, her sword dragging. No answer, just that blank look, but she stopped beside him, waiting. He forced himself up, leaning on the tree, and nodded. "We keep moving."
They trudged deeper into the trees, the barking gone, the torches snuffed out behind them. His leg burned, every step a fight, but Lysa's steady pace kept him going—her resilience, even now, pushing him forward. The system pinged again—[Skill Unlocked: Raise Dead. Cost: 10 Mana.]—and he froze, the words sinking in. Raise Dead. Like her.
He glanced at the dead guards, their bodies sprawled in the dirt, and hesitated. The system hummed, cold and insistent, and he clenched his fist, feeling that dark pulse in his hands again. "Fine," he said, voice low, and focused on the spear guy, willing it—whatever it was. The pulse surged, a chill running up his arm, and the body twitched, then rose, slow and jerky. Its eyes glowed red, like hers, its skin paling, and it stood, silent, waiting.
Evan stared, his stomach turning. Another one—another dead thing under his control. The system logged it—[Undead Raised: 1. Minions Active: 2.]—and he shook his head, the weight of it sinking in. Lysa watched, her face unchanged, and he couldn't meet her eyes, not now. "Follow," he said, his voice flat, and the new undead obeyed, shambling behind them with Lysa.
The trees thinned, opening to a rocky hillside dotted with scrub. Evan limped on, the two undead trailing him—Lysa on his left, the guard on his right, their steps eerily matched. His mind churned, grief mixing with something colder, harder. She was gone, but she was here, and this power—this system—meant he could keep her, maybe keep others. The thought twisted in him, dark and tempting, and he gripped his sword tighter, blood drying on his hands.
A stream cut through the hill ahead, its water glinting under the moon, and he stopped, sinking to the bank. His leg gave out, pain shooting up, and he cursed, dropping the sword. Lysa knelt beside him, her red eyes fixed on his face, and the guard stood watch, silent. He reached for her hand—cold, stiff, but hers—and held it, tears welling again. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I couldn't save you."
She didn't answer, just stayed there, her grip tightening slightly—stronger than before, unyielding. The system pinged—[Health Critical: 23%. Rest Recommended.]—and he ignored it, staring at her pale face, her dark hair, those red eyes. She wasn't Lysa, not the one who'd laughed with him, fought with him, but she was something—his something—and he'd hold onto it, no matter what.Footsteps crunched behind them, faint but close—more guards, maybe, or scavengers drawn by the chaos. Evan forced himself up, leaning on Lysa, her strength propping him. "We fight," he said, grabbing his sword, and she nodded—small, stiff, but there. The undead guard turned, its red eyes glinting, and Evan felt that dark pulse again, ready to use it.