The village burned, and Charon walked through it like a shadow.
The clamor of battle carried without touching him, no heat, no ash, no bite of the smoke in his lungs.
The screams, however, reached him as sharply as if he stood beside each victim.
Alastor's soldiers moved in rigid formations through the streets, their steps perfectly matched, the sound more like a clock ticking down than a march. Purple light pulsed from their chests in a slow rhythm, the glow spilling across the cobblestones in waves.
'They are perfect soldiers, built with murder and obedience as their only job. Is this what I'm supposed to build? Will my skeletons one day be like these machines, unfeeling and loyal to any command?'
He didn't know if he liked that notion, and he didn't know if he liked how readily he accepted a level of apathy towards it.
Instead, Charon refocused on Alastor's minions.
He passed between them like a ghost.
His boots made no sound. His shadow did not fall.
