The mist clung to the ridge like a living thing, coiling around the soldiers' boots and armor as if unwilling to let them go. Below, Iron Creek lay in dreadful stillness, bathed in the sickly glow of its unnatural fires. The green flames flickered and hissed without smoke, as though the ground itself burned.
Arthur stood at the crest of the hill, his breath steaming in the night air. Behind him, what remained of his battalion gathered in uneasy silence… two dozen men from fifty. The rest were gone, taken by the fog, their screams still echoing in the dark corners of his mind.
"Sir," whispered Rowan, his voice hoarse, "we should not go down there. Whatever curse grips that place i-it's not meant for the living."
Arthur's eyes never left the valley. "And yet, it's our duty to face it. If the dead truly rise, then we are already trespassing in their domain."
Rowan swallowed hard. "Iron Creek… isn't that where the holy men are buried? The priests and monks who served the Crown before the War of Faith?"
Arthur nodded slowly. "Aye. The Abbey of Iron Creek stands at the heart of the village. They say its catacombs stretch deep into the earth where the bones of saints lie beside the remains of sinners. It was meant to be sacred ground."
Rowan crossed himself instinctively. "Then what could have turned it into… this?"
Arthur's gaze hardened. "That's what we're here to learn."
They descended into the valley, their torches flickering weakly as the mist thickened once more. The silence was suffocating—no crickets, no owls, not even the rustle of leaves. Only the steady creak of saddles and the faint jingle of mail.
As they neared the outskirts, the smell struck them first rot and old incense, mingling into a nauseating perfume. The first houses stood empty, doors hanging ajar, windows shattered. Strange symbols had been carved into the wood circles within circles, runes filled with black ash.
One soldier dismounted and knelt to inspect the ground. "Sir… the soil's warm."
Arthur crouched beside him. Indeed, faint heat pulsed beneath the earth, like the slow heartbeat of something sleeping below. "Keep moving," he said quietly. "Eyes sharp."
They rode on until the road opened into the village square. There, beneath the warped statue of Saint Meron the first High Priest of the realm lay a pit. Dozens of bodies filled it, twisted and blackened, as if burned alive. But their faces… their faces were untouched, frozen in expressions of silent agony.
A murmur ran through the ranks. One of the younger soldiers stepped closer, trembling. "Sir… these aren't just villagers. They're knights. From the Abbey's guard."
Arthur approached the pit. The armor was indeed that of the holy order engraved with silver crosses now dulled by soot. A few of the corpses still clutched rosaries, their beads melted into the flesh.
He looked up toward the looming silhouette of the Abbey at the edge of the square. Its steeple was broken, leaning like a snapped bone. The great doors stood half-open, a faint green light spilling from within.
"That's where it began," Arthur said. "Inside."
Rowan hesitated. "Do we… go in?"
Arthur drew his sword, the steel reflecting the ghostly light. "We go in."
The Abbey was a corpse of a building its walls cracked, its air heavy with the stench of death and incense long burned out. Candles burned on their own in alcoves, their flames a sickly shade of green. The stained glass windows depicted saints and angels, but their faces had melted into warped visages, as if the holy light had turned against them.
The men moved cautiously through the nave. Their armor clinked softly, echoing through the vast chamber. Along the pews lay more bodies—priests, monks, acolytes all seated upright, hands folded in prayer. Their eyes were open, cloudy and unblinking.
One of the soldiers whispered, "They… they look alive."
Arthur approached the nearest corpse. Its skin was pale and thin, like parchment stretched over bone. When he touched its shoulder, the head turned slowly toward him, neck cracking with a dry snap.
The corpse smiled.
Arthur staggered back, sword raised, but the thing did not move further. Its lips parted, releasing a soft hiss that sounded almost like a word "Sanctum…"
Then it stilled once more.
The men were silent, their torches quivering in their trembling hands. Rowan muttered a prayer under his breath.
Arthur's eyes darted toward the altar. Behind it, a stairway led down into darkness, half-collapsed but still passable. A faint light glowed below—pulsing, like breath.
"The catacombs," he said. "The holy men's rest."
Rowan's face went pale. "You can't mean to go down there. Not after what we've seen."
"I do," Arthur replied. "If the dead are walking, the answer lies beneath."
They descended, the air growing colder with each step. The walls were lined with skulls, thousands of them stacked in neat rows, some bearing faint carvings of scripture. The deeper they went, the more the bones changed. Some were blackened, others fused together by unnatural heat.
At the bottom, the passage widened into a chamber. In the center stood a great iron coffin, its surface engraved with runes that glowed faintly green.
Arthur approached it cautiously. The ground trembled beneath his feet. The runes flickered—then went dark.
From within the coffin came a sound. A slow, scraping breath.
The men drew their weapons, backing away. The iron lid began to shift, metal shrieking as unseen hands pushed it aside. A stench of ancient rot and blood filled the chamber.
Something rose from within. It was clad in the tattered robes of a high priest, its flesh gray and stretched thin, its eyes burning with a terrible light. When it spoke, its voice was both a whisper and a roar.
"You disturb the rest of the sanctified… and yet, you bring no offering."
Arthur raised his blade, his voice steady despite the chill crawling up his spine. "Who are you?"
The creature tilted its head, a grotesque mockery of curiosity. "Once… I was the Keeper of the Holy Dead. Now I am their voice. And their hunger."
Behind it, the skulls on the walls began to shudder then turn. One by one, their empty sockets flared with pale green fire.
Rowan shouted, "Sir! The walls—!"
The chamber erupted in whispers. Thousands of voices pleading, laughing, praying. The dead were waking.
Arthur gritted his teeth, raising his sword high. "Steel and faith, men! For the living!"
And as the first of the risen monks lunged from the dark, the light of their torches was swallowed whole by the abyss.