Erik planted Erythrael's butt against the ground and leaned on it, catching his breath. His muscles felt like jelly and the adrenaline was ebbing, leaving behind exhaustion and a deep ache where claws and crude blades had found their marks. Still, he was alive, and so were his friends. He glanced around quickly: Finn was climbing down from the roof, limping slightly but grinning at a job well done. Holt was rolling his shoulder, complaining loudly about a bite on his arm but clearly fine. Zara was already wrapping a strip of cloth around a bleeding cut on her thigh, hissing at the sting but waving off Lyra's fussing. Lyra…
He saw Lyra moving from one wounded person to the next, her face smudged with soot, focus etched in her eyes as healing light glowed faintly around her hands. She left the celebration to others; her concern remained with a young man whose leg was mauled and a woman cradling a broken arm. Her compassion was a tangible, unwavering force. He noted a nasty bruise on her cheek and a tear in her robe, but she paid them no mind as she worked, lips moving in quiet prayer with each spell.
Erik drew a deep, smoke-laced breath and exhaled slowly, forcing himself out of the battle trance. The night air was rank with the coppery smell of blood and the cloying rot of undead remains. The grim reality of what they had survived settled on him like a weight. Corpses, both villager and monster, lay scattered in gruesome piles. A victory, but one paid in pain.
Movement at the edge of the square caught his eye. Through the thinning smoke, he spotted Joran, the young soldier, slipping away between the sagging ruins. Bloodstained, pale, helm tucked beneath his arm, he moved with the precision of a man on orders rather than relief. No words, no thanks, no place among the exhausted defenders. One last glance around the square, then he was gone, lost in the shadows beyond the firelight. Interesting, Erik thought, filing the observation away. He's more than just a volunteer.
Darius, who had followed Erik's gaze, grunted low in his throat. "A Silverkeep soldier, judging by that crest. Strange to see one so far from the capital, and without a formal retinue." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he watched the spot where Joran had vanished. "The King has many eyes and ears across Astoria, it seems."
An older man, forehead swathed in a bloodied bandage, approached Darius and the group. The village headman, by the look of him. "You… you saved us," the man said hoarsely, voice trembling. "Every one of you. We cannot ever repay, "
Darius, still catching his breath, raised a gauntleted hand gently. "No repayment is needed. We did our duty," he said, voice humble and sincere.
Lyra stepped in, laying a gentle hand on the headman's arm. "How many wounded? Please, let me tend them," she said softly. At her insistence, the headman began listing people in need, and Lyra immediately moved off to heal and comfort with the few potions left and her dwindling magic. Erik could see the villagers' faces fill with reverence when she passed; to them, a miracle-worker had descended.
Erik, Finn, and the others did what they could in the following hour. The adrenaline fading left a grim, heavy pall in its wake. They formed bucket lines to douse the burning cottages before the fires could spread further. Erik used his prodigious strength to help lift a collapsed roof beam off a trapped farmer, and carefully carried the man to Lyra for healing. Finn, despite whining about needing a rest, found himself directing a few able-bodied villagers to gather the undead carcasses into a bonfire pile. Holt, true to his origins, commandeered a hammer and nails and set about reinforcing the shattered gate.
The survivors of Graystone were a hardy folk. Though many wept as they worked, they did work. Under the torchlight, with stars beginning to glitter above, the village picked up its pieces. Erik found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with a grey-haired farmer boarding up a busted window, the simple, manual task a welcome distraction from the echoing silence in his own mind.
Only when the immediate triage was done did the adrenaline crash fully hit the rescue party. The headman pressed flasks of mead into their hands in thanks, insisting they take a moment to rest.
Erik found himself near the central bonfire. He sank onto a low wooden bench, the warmth of the flames a small comfort against the internal chill that had settled in his bones since the crypt. The flames cast dancing shadows across the haggard faces of his friends as they, too, finally took a moment to breathe. Finn dropped down next to Erik with a groan. "Well… remind me never to complain about a quiet day again," the rogue quipped weakly, taking a long swig from the mead flask.
Erik managed a tired smile, accepting the flask from Finn but only letting the honeyed wine warm his hands. He looked around at the villagers offering them shy words of thanks. It struck Erik deeply that just hours ago, these people thought they were going to die horribly. Now they looked at them like heroes. The thought was humbling and deeply uncomfortable. He felt like a fraud.
After a few moments of quiet, Finn spoke again, more somberly. "If… if you lot hadn't held the line when we broke in… when that horde kept coming… I thought we were done for." He stared into the fire. "Honestly, Erik, I thought we'd all be corpses on the ground by now. But you, and Darius, and everyone, you were amazing." He let out a shaky laugh. "When you went into that berserker fury, hacking left and right, I nearly felt sorry for those ghouls. I've never seen you fight like that." There was admiration in his tone, but also a hint of wariness.
Erik flexed his fingers, remembering the hot haze of rage that had overtaken him under the ghoul's claws. He recalled the moment he split that ghoul apart, the cold, detached efficiency of it. Was that me? Or was it the rune acting through me? The thought of being a passenger in his own body was a chilling one. He answered Finn, his voice carefully neutral. "I just… didn't want them to get past us. If we'd broken, even for a moment, the villagers would have been slaughtered." He stared into the flames, images of the dead child and her family flashing in his mind.
Finn nodded slowly. "Aye. Good thing you held, then. We all held." He offered a small, genuine smile and gently nudged Erik's shoulder.
Across the fire, Zara was cleaning her spear blade with a scrap of oiled cloth, her movements methodical. She glanced up, her sharp eyes scanning the weary faces around the fire. "This was a good fight," she stated, her tone matter-of-fact. "But don't relax just yet." She jerked her chin toward the north, where beyond the village palisade a dark hill loomed against the starry sky. "I've passed through this valley before. There's an old, desecrated cemetery on that hill. Forgotten ruins. If a necromancer set this horde upon the village, the source is likely there. The job's not done until we've investigated and cleared it."
Darius, who had been listening, gave a short nod of agreement. "At first light, we'll scout those ruins," he declared. "We'll camp here tonight to ensure your safety. At dawn, we'll root out whatever evil spawned this attack and make certain it never troubles Graystone again."
A few of the villagers murmured prayers of thanks. Holt stretched his burly arms. "I'll take first watch," he volunteered. A couple of Graystone's own militia offered to join him.
Erik himself took a middle-of-the-night watch shift. Sleep was a distant possibility. He stood atop Graystone's front gate, leaning on a sharpened stake, gazing out into the darkness. The twin moons cast a pale, silvery light over the fields and the accursed hill where the old cemetery lay. The axe at his side, Erythrael, gave off a low, almost imperceptible hum, a resonance that pricked his skin. It felt less like a response to the lingering slaughter and more like an answer to the profane energy that now clung to that place.
His mind focused on the nature of the attack. This wasn't a beast driven by hunger. This was strategic. The undead horde, their relentless assault… it had a cold, driving intelligence behind it. They were a tool, wielded for a purpose he could not yet fathom, but one that treated innocent lives as disposable refuse. The injustice of it was a bitter pill. His own death had been a random, meaningless accident. He had been given a second chance. These villagers had not. He stared out at the field of corpses, at the bodies of people who had been making dinner or telling stories to their children just hours ago, their futures erased. Dead men don't choose, he thought, the words a shard of ice in his soul. But he could. A cold rage, different from the hot fury of battle, settled in his bones. It wasn't just about protecting people anymore. It was about confronting the intelligence that saw them as nothing.
When his watch was done, he climbed down and found a spot near the wagons to rest. Before he drifted off, he saw Lyra finally allowing herself to sit. She ended up between Erik and Finn, leaning against Erik's side before sleep claimed her. He felt her small weight and warmth but did not move, not wanting to disturb her. These people were his only anchor in this mad world, his only chance at finding answers. Whatever malevolent will had orchestrated this slaughter, he would find it. He would face it. He had vowed to survive, but now, a new vow took root beside it: he would understand.