22

Morning came like a slow tide, washing away the darkness of the long night. The sun stretched its rays across the ruined courtyard, falling softly on cracked stones and moss-covered walls. In the shadow of the Necropolis, the survivors stirred.

Vanthelis stood at the center of the makeshift gathering hall—just the old dining area of the abandoned mansion, really, with broken tables pushed aside and worn-out chairs arranged in a circle. The children and teenagers sat or stood around him, eyes uncertain, some wary, others merely curious. The fire pit in the center had long gone cold.

He had finished speaking. His words still lingered in the silence.

A heavy pause held the room. No one clapped. No one cheered. Just the wind brushing through broken windows and a distant bird cawing over the cliffs.

Then a voice broke through.

"What do you think of what he said?" asked a boy—thin, maybe thirteen, with messy black hair and tired eyes. He sat cross-legged on a rock near the fire pit, arms folded.

"I think… it's worth a try," replied another, a taller girl with cropped hair and a crooked nose. "He's been training. Morning to night. I've seen him dragging boar carcasses alone."

"Yeah?" another scoffed, a teenager leaning against the wall. "You call punching trees and screaming in the woods training? You think grunting at the forest makes you strong?"

"At least he's doing something," the girl shot back.

"Something stupid," said the scoffing teen. "He's not a knight. He's not a swordsman. He's a necromancer—we are necromancers. We were never trained to fight with fists or swords. We were trained to command, not punch."

"But none of us can even use necromancy," someone said from the back. "The awakening crystal are gone. Dead. We've been feeding off scraps and fear. If he can lead us somewhere better—"

"He's not his father," the boy interrupted. "He's just some angry kid with daddy's name."

"I don't know," another murmured. "He's changed since Ishlar died. He trains like a madman. He doesn't even sleep inside anymore. He eats last. He guards us without asking."

Silence settled again, thoughtful this time. The group's eyes lowered, each wrestling with their own doubts and hopes.

The morning passed like that—small conversations in corners, groups splitting off to whisper their thoughts, nervous glances cast toward the distant forest.

By the time the sun hung high in the sky and shadows shortened, it was time.

They gathered again, this time in the main hall of the mansion, where the cracked tiles still bore the blood of past battles. Everyone older than twelve stood in attendance. The younger ones huddled near the Necropolis, watched over by the few caretakers still able-bodied.

Vanthelis walked in, as he always did: no grand entrance, no dramatic words, just quiet steps and leather armor worn from use. His pants were scuffed. His gloves had dried blood at the knuckles. A simple sword hung at his side.

His eyes swept across the group.

They weren't soldiers. They weren't even students anymore. Just scared survivors. He knew that.

He stood there for a moment, waiting—not saying anything.

One of the older boys stepped forward. Not one of the vocal critics, but not a supporter either. He had a bandage on his arm and a faint bruise on his jaw.

He looked Vanthelis in the eye and took a breath.

"Milord… we've talked. We've argued. But we've made our decision."

Vanthelis's heart thudded in his chest. His fingers tensed slightly at his side.

The boy bowed his head.

"We'll follow your lead. If this plan of yours can give us even the smallest chance to survive—we'll take it."

One by one, the others followed suit, heads lowering in quiet unity.

Vanthelis took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders.

He nodded slowly. "Then let us prepare," he said.

For the first time in a while, he smiled—not the bitter kind he often wore in solitude, but something small, tired, and real.

They saw it.

And they nodded back.