The wind carried a song that chilled Kael to the bone. From the northern hills, a soft, unbroken chorus rose a resonance that was both eerie and mesmerizing. The dead were coming. Not scattered, not aimless, but in formation, in patterns that suggested purpose and intelligence.
Kael climbed the walls to watch. Thousands of figures moved in rhythm, skeletal and decayed, yet somehow coordinated. Their eyes glimmered with pale fire, like lanterns in a graveyard. The sight made Kael's stomach churn with both fear and the ever-present, gnawing hunger.
Varen approached him silently, placing a hand on his shoulder. "They come for the living, not us yet. But they will," he said, voice grim.
Kael nodded, but words failed him. His eyes followed the undying choir as they crossed the fields, their movements precise, almost musical. Every note, every step, was a pulse in the world's heartbeat, and Kael felt it resonating within him.
He stepped back from the parapet and ran his fingers along the hilt of his spear. Hunger surged in response to the presence of so many souls, a tidal wave of temptation and power. Kael clenched his teeth. Not here, not yet. He was still human enough to know restraint.
At nightfall, the choir circled the enclave, chanting without sound. Kael lay awake against the wall, the Sight stretching outward, touching every soul, living and dead, near and far. He could feel their intentions, their memories, their pain. It was too much, and yet it gave him clarity a dark, terrible clarity that made him shiver.
The enclave slept uneasily. Kael did not. He listened to the heartbeat of the dead, learning its rhythm, its patterns, and he realized that tomorrow, survival would not depend on walls or weapons. It would depend on him.