Chapter 11 – The Village of Silent Debts
The rain finally died, leaving the world soaked and heavy. The mud on the road was thick, clutching at their boots like the hands of beggars.
Uzo walked with a limp. The "Unmake" command had taken more than just energy; it felt as if a piece of his own shadow had been carved away. His skin felt too tight, and the silence inside his head was loud, buzzing like a nest of wasps.
Ronnie walked a pace behind him, her chain-dagger cleaned but still held loose in her hand. She watched the tree line, her eyes scanning for the shimmer of Veyra's stealth runes.
"We can't keep walking," Ronnie said, her voice rough. "You're bleeding through your bandages, and I can barely feel my left hand."
Uzo didn't stop. "If we stop, the House of Iron finds us. Veyra didn't leave because she was beaten. She left to get a bigger hammer."
"Then where are we going?"
Uzo pointed ahead. Through the thinning fog, the silhouette of a small village emerged. It sat in a valley where the trees grew twisted and black, their leaves refusing to fall despite the season.
"Blackroot," Uzo muttered. "It's a trade post. We can get supplies."
"It looks… dead," Ronnie said.
"In Eins Kingdom," Uzo replied, clutching the Lexicon, "dead is just a different kind of tax bracket."
They descended into the valley. As they neared the village gates, the smell hit them. Not rot, but something sterile—like cold earth and dried lavender.
The streets were clean, too clean,
there were people working in the fields and sweeping the cobblestones. A blacksmith hammered rhythmically at an anvil. A woman hung laundry on a line.
But no one spoke.
No one looked up.
No one breathed.
Ronnie stopped in the middle of the street, the hair on her arms standing up.
"Uzo… look at their eyes."
Uzo looked. The blacksmith's eyes were milky white, void of pupils. His movements were stiff, mechanical. The woman hanging laundry had a gray pallor, and a stitched line running across her throat.
"Necromancy," Uzo whispered. "This isn't a village. It's a workplace."
The House of Necromancy.
One of the Eleven Houses. The only House that claimed debts even after the heart stopped beating.
"We shouldn't be here," Ronnie hissed, backing away. "The dead don't like visitors."
"The dead don't care," a voice rasped from the shadows of a porch. "It's the living you should worry about."
A figure stepped into the pale sunlight. He was tall, gaunt, wearing robes of deep violet velvet that trailed in the mud. His fingers were covered in silver rings, each one holding a small, trapped soul-light.
He didn't look like a warrior. He looked like an accountant for a graveyard,
"Welcome to Blackroot," the man said, smiling with teeth that looked too sharp. "I am Silas Vane. Debt-Collector for the House of Necromancy."
Uzo kept his hand near the Lexicon. "We're just passing through."
Silas chuckled, a dry sound like shifting gravel.
"Passing through? With the smell of the Void on you? And a Lexicon fragment burning a hole in your pocket?"
The Necromancer's eyes drifted to Uzo's hand.
"You're the one they're screaming about. The Nameless."
Ronnie stepped forward, raising her dagger. "Back off, corpse-herder."
Silas didn't flinch. He just twitched a finger.
Instantly, the blacksmith stopped hammering.
The washerwoman dropped the laundry. The field workers froze.
Fifty pairs of dead, milky eyes turned toward Ronnie and Uzo at the exact same moment.
"Rude," Silas said softly. "My workers are sensitive."
Uzo placed a hand on Ronnie's shoulder, signaling her to lower the weapon. He looked Silas in the eye.
"We need supplies. Food. Bandages. And a map of the northern crossings."
"And why would I give you that?" Silas asked, examining his rings. "The House of Judgement has a high price on your head. If I turn you in, I could buy a thousand fresh corpses."
"Because," Uzo said, his voice dropping to that strange, hollow tone that made the air vibrate. "If you try to take us, I won't fight your dead."
He took a step closer. The Lexicon hummed.
"I will speak the word that wakes them up. And I don't think they'll be happy about who enslaved them."
Silas froze. His smile vanished.
For a Necromancer, the Awakening of the Thralls was the ultimate nightmare. To lose control of the debt.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and dangerous.
Finally, Silas laughed—a nervous, sharp sound.
"You bluff well, Nameless. Or perhaps you're crazy enough to do it."
He waved a hand, and the dead villagers returned to their tasks, the tension breaking like a snapped twig.
"Come inside," Silas said, turning toward the largest house. "I have soup. I have maps. And I have news from the Capital that you definitely want to hear."
"Why help us?" Ronnie asked, suspicious.
Silas paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder.
"Because King Lazarus just issued a decree. He isn't just hunting you, boy. He's hunting anyone who knows you."
Silas's eyes glinted.
"And I hate that old bastard more than I love money."
Uzo and Ronnie exchanged a look. It wasn't safety. It wasn't friendship. But it was a door that wasn't locked.
They stepped inside, leaving the silent, working dead behind them.