The Survivors' Grief

The forest was silent.

Not the comforting silence of nature, filled with the distant chirps of insects or the rustling of leaves in the wind.

This was the silence of death.

The kind that lingered after a massacre.

Arlan sat on a fallen log, staring at the flickering campfire before him. His fingers dug into the rough wood, his knuckles white. His cloak was torn, his body bruised from the desperate escape. His mind felt… blank.

All around him, survivors huddled in makeshift camps. A few dozen people—maybe more—had managed to flee Duskhaven before the undead overwhelmed the town. Most were adventurers, though some were just townsfolk who had been fast enough to run.

Not many had been that lucky.

A few feet away, Mira crouched beside Gareth, wrapping his wounded arm with cloth torn from her own robe. He hadn't spoken much since the escape.

Leila sat near the fire, hugging her knees to her chest, her eyes unfocused. Her bow lay beside her, forgotten.

Beren hadn't stopped moving. He paced near the edge of the camp, gripping his axe so tightly his hands trembled.

Tomas was silent, sitting beside Leila, absently turning his sword in his hands. He hadn't made a joke since they left.

No one had.

Because no one could.

Duskhaven was gone.

And they had watched it burn.

Arlan's chest ached.

The images wouldn't leave his mind.

The paladin who had been crushed.The adventurers who had fought and fallen.The moment Cedric was swallowed by the dead.

He clenched his fists. His nails bit into his palms, but he barely felt it.

He had never wanted this.

Had it been a mistake to go back to the crypt? Had they caused this by digging too deep? By provoking the sorcerer?

Or had this been inevitable?

Bones nudged his leg. The skeletal rat—now in his normal form again—looked up at him, green eyes glowing faintly.

For once, Arlan didn't know what to say.

The first voice to break the silence was Mira's.

"We need a plan," she said, her voice steady despite everything.

No one responded.

She exhaled sharply. "I know we're all in shock. I know we all just lost—everything." She swallowed. "But if we stay here, lost in our grief, it won't matter. Because they're still out there."

The words settled like lead in the air.

Beren's jaw tightened. "We should have stayed," he growled. "We should have fought."

"We did fight," Tomas muttered.

"And we lost," Leila whispered, her voice barely audible.

Beren turned on her. "So what? We just run? We just let them take our home?"

Leila flinched but didn't argue.

Arlan forced himself to speak. "If we had stayed, we'd be dead."

Beren rounded on him next. "Then what do we do?" His voice was raw. "Just keep running? Keep pretending this didn't happen?"

Arlan met his gaze. "No."

The word came out stronger than he expected.

Mira's sharp eyes turned to him. "Then what?"

Arlan hesitated. He didn't know.

But deep inside, something stirred. A quiet whisper beneath his thoughts.

Not a voice. Not the amulet.

Just a feeling.

He couldn't run forever.

He had seen what true power looked like. The sorcerer had crushed them without even trying. And Arlan had felt his own weakness clearer than ever before.

If they ever wanted to stand a chance…

They needed to become stronger.

Arlan exhaled. "We find somewhere safe. We regroup. We train. We get stronger."

Beren scoffed. "And then what?"

Arlan met his gaze. "Then we stop running."

A rustling in the brush made everyone tense.

Tomas immediately had his sword raised. Leila reached for her bow. Beren gripped his axe.

Then—a figure staggered into the clearing.

A paladin.

His armor was cracked, his once-pristine tabard soaked in blood. His left arm hung useless at his side.

Cedric.

Arlan's breath caught.

The paladin was alive.

Barely.

Cedric swayed, his body trembling. He looked at them—really looked at them—then collapsed to his knees.

Mira rushed forward, catching him before he could hit the ground.

His breathing was ragged. His face pale. But his eyes burned with something stronger than pain.

Fury.

He looked at Arlan, his expression unreadable.

Then—his voice came, hoarse and broken.

"They knew."

Arlan's stomach twisted. "Who?"

Cedric's fists clenched weakly. "The necromancers. The Order tried to bury them. But they were waiting. For centuries."

Arlan swallowed. "You're saying…"

Cedric's eyes burned. "This wasn't just an attack." He shuddered. "It was a declaration of war."