CHAPTER 86: GOREHILL’S WAKE

The road narrowed again.

A trail of churned mud and black leaves wound through the darkwood trees, veering toward the east. No one spoke as they rode. The villagers walked with heads bowed, carts rattling over roots and sunken stone. The children no longer asked questions. Even the youngest seemed to understand that something old and watching had begun to walk beside them.

Gorehill waited beyond the next ridge.

But even from here, the air stank of it.

It wasn’t rot—not entirely. It was damp earth, scorched cloth, blood turned bitter in the wind. The kind of smell that came only when graves were too shallow, and time refused to move on.

Elena fell into pace beside Leon. Her voice was quiet. "You said the third seal was broken."

"It didn’t break clean. Something clawed through."

She nodded, eyes narrowing on the dark ahead. "Then Gorehill isn’t cursed. It’s infected."

They crested the ridge just as light began to bleed into the sky—grey, pale, but light nonetheless.

The village below was still.

Roofs sagged. Chimneys stood hollow. Fences collapsed beneath the weight of moss and time. Smoke did not rise from the houses. But windows stared open, every door left ajar. Like the town had walked away mid-thought.

Leon raised a hand. The column stopped.

The riders dismounted. Blades were drawn, bows readied, but still no orders were given. It felt like shouting might stir something better left asleep.

Tomas stepped beside Leon. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

They walked in first.

No birds. No dogs. No wind. Just the soft creak of wood and the muffled sound of their own steps.

Leon reached the well at the center of the village. The rope was cut. The bucket rotted where it had fallen.

Elena moved toward the largest house—what might have been the mayor’s hall once. The door was shut.

She pushed it open.

And froze.

Inside, dried blood painted the walls.

Not in splatters.

In shapes.

Circles. Runes. Names. The same ones that had whispered to them at the river.

Leon stepped beside her.

"A ritual," he said. "But not to summon. To bind."

Behind them, Tomas let out a breath.

"He was buried here," he said. "My brother. In the grove behind the orchard."

Leon turned.

"Then that’s where we go."

The group followed the path behind the hall—a trail overgrown, but still marked by faded stones and broken prayer markers. The orchard trees had lost their leaves, bark cracked and blackened.

At the far end, the grove waited.

Six graves.

Only five sealed.

The sixth was open.

Not freshly dug.

Torn.

Elena crouched beside it. "No coffin. Just earth. Something forced its way out."

Leon looked down at Tomas.

"You said he came to the door."

Tomas nodded. "But he left. He just—stood there for a night. Then he walked back into the dark."

Elena stood. "He wasn’t alone."

The wind shifted.

And from the trees, movement.

Not a shuffle.

A step.

Precise.

Measured.

Leon drew his blade.

The orchard bent.

And the dead began to return.

But they did not stumble.

They remembered how to walk.

The orchard twisted with the weight of something unseen.

Branches reached low, scraping bark against bark like bones whispering secrets. From the far line of trees, figures stepped forward—slow, steady, not with the lurching gait of risen corpses, but the calm certainty of those who had simply never left.

They wore the clothes they were buried in. Torn tunics. Wedding shawls. Child-sized boots still caked with soil. Some held nothing. Others gripped broken tools, snapped spears, fragments of their old lives. But it was their eyes that made the riders flinch.

They were open.

They were aware.

Tomas stumbled back behind Leon. "That’s... that’s him. That’s Caleb."

A boy no older than nine stepped through the brush. His eyes locked on Tomas. His skin was pale, stretched too tight across a face that hadn’t aged in two years. And though his chest didn’t rise, and his lips never moved, his presence reached.

Tomas took a step forward. "Caleb?"

The boy didn’t answer.

But more came.

Men with carpenter’s hands. Women with their wedding veils half-burned. A girl holding a doll. A hunter with an arrow still lodged in his ribs. Twenty-three in all, standing at the edge of the grove like they’d been waiting for roll call.

Elena whispered, "They remember."

Leon nodded once. "They’re not hollow."

A breath stirred the orchard.

And then, one of them spoke.

"We buried the name. But the name never died."

The voice came from the hunter. His mouth didn’t move, but the air vibrated with it. Thick. Measured.

Leon stepped forward. "Who called it?"

The figures did not blink. Did not shift.

"None of us. But one of us... let it in."

Leon’s hand tightened on his blade. "The seal was here. It opened."

"No," the voice said again, though now it came from the little girl. "The seal was here. Now, it walks."

Elena turned sharply. "Walks where?"

The orchard fell still again.

Then the boy—Caleb—raised his hand. Not to point. To beckon.

He turned.

And walked into the forest behind the grove.

Leon followed.

No hesitation.

The others came behind—Elena, Tomas, two riders, the elder woman from the caravan. The rest stayed behind, watching the dead with wary silence.

The forest beyond the orchard grew denser, darker. Roots coiled like veins beneath the dirt. And at its heart, they found it.

A pit.

Deep. Circular. Lined with stone. Not dug, but made. The moss around its rim had receded. The trees bent away. As if they refused to touch it.

Caleb stood at its edge.

Leon peered in.

There was no bottom.

Only darkness.

And sound.

A heartbeat.

Slow.

Awake.

Elena whispered, "That’s not a grave."

Leon shook his head. "It’s an eye."

Tomas flinched. "I can hear him again."

"Who?"

"My brother. Inside. He’s talking."

Elena turned. "Leon—"

"I know."

He knelt beside the pit and set his palm to the rim. It pulsed beneath his touch.

A memory not his own surged through him.

Firelight. Chanting. Blood offered willingly. And a name spoken into the hollow of the world—Veyreth.

Leon pulled back.

"The seal didn’t break," he said. "It was traded."

The others stared.

Tomas asked, "What does that mean?"

Leon stood.

"It means someone here gave something up."

And below them, in the pit, something laughed.

A sound without shape.

Not cruel.

Not loud.

Just patient.

And endless.

The laughter did not echo. It clung.

Tomas pressed his hands to his ears, but his eyes still widened in pain. The others backed away, except for Leon. He remained still. Listening.

"You hear it too," Elena said, her tone tight.

Leon nodded. "It’s speaking through the laugh. Layered. Like words hidden beneath a scream."

"What’s it saying?"

Leon looked down at the pit. His mouth was dry.

"’One was given. One remains. One will open.’"

Elena stiffened. "The seals."

Leon drew his sword and dragged its edge slowly over the rim. The pit flinched.

He spoke into the dark. "Tell me who gave you the name."

The laughter broke.

A whisper followed.

"Your blood knows. Ask the one who walks with no shadow."

Leon froze.

Behind him, Tomas trembled. "Who... who walks with no shadow?"

But Leon didn’t answer.

Because he knew.

He turned from the pit.

"We leave. Now."

"But what if it rises?" Elena asked.

Leon looked back once.

"It already has."

—

Elena’s hand hovered near her belt, fingers brushing the edge of her dagger. She didn’t draw it. Not yet. But the way the trees leaned in, the way the air grew thick, it told her this wasn’t over. Not even close.

Tomas looked ready to bolt. "Leon... what did it mean? Your blood knows?"

Leon’s jaw clenched. "Later."

But the pit pulsed again. Not in warning. In rhythm.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

With each sound, the forest grew quieter. As if the world itself was holding breath. Then the trees behind them shifted—and a figure stepped out from between the trunks.

Not Caleb.

Not any of the dead.

A man.

Cloaked. Hooded. Barefoot. Mud and ash clung to his legs like vines. He walked without sound, and where he passed, the grass withered.

Leon raised his blade.

The man stopped at the edge of the pit, head tilted. Slowly, he lifted one hand and pressed it to the stone rim—just as Leon had done.

The pit glowed faintly red beneath his palm.

"You shouldn’t have come," the man said. His voice was low, but not threatening. Just... certain. Like gravity.

Leon stepped between him and the others. "Who are you?"

The man’s head turned, just slightly. "A remnant."

Elena frowned. "Of what?"

The man lowered his hand. "Of the last bargain."

Leon narrowed his eyes. "You’re the one who made the trade."

"No," the man said. "I am what was left after."

Then he looked up—and for the first time, they saw his face.

There were no eyes. Only dark hollows, lined with ancient scars.

And no shadow stretched from his feet.

Leon stepped back, sword lifting.

"You walk without shadow."

The man gave the faintest nod. "Because it was taken."

Tomas staggered. "That’s who the pit meant. He’s the one."

"No," the man said again. He pointed—not at Leon, not at Tomas.

At Elena.

"She carries what was promised. And what was stolen."

Elena didn’t move. Her fingers tightened on her dagger. "You’re lying."

"I don’t lie," the man said, and his voice trembled now, like the trees above were shuddering with him. "I can’t. Not anymore."

Leon put a hand out, steadying her. "What does she carry?"

The man’s blind gaze turned to the pit.

"Not what. Who."

Then the ground shook.

Not a quake.

A breath.

And from the pit, warmth surged.

But it was the kind of warmth that came before fire.

The kind that melted bone.

Leon shouted, "Fall back!"

The riders turned. Tomas ran.

But behind them, the orchard was no longer empty.

The dead had followed.

And now, they weren’t alone.