The first screams shattered the fragile calm before dawn. From the horizon, the horde emerged like a living shadow, endless in number, their movements synchronized with a terrifying precision. Kael stood atop the walls, the pale glow of the Sight radiating outward, mapping every soul, every fragment of consciousness in the chaos. He felt the pulse of the horde, the dissonance between the desperate living and the unyielding dead.
The hunger stirred sharply, whispering with every fragment: "Take them. Consume them. Become unstoppable." Kael clenched his fists, tasting the metallic tang of blood and ash in the wind, and remembered the Witch's lessons. Power without restraint would make him no savior, it would make him a demon.
He extended the Sight, guiding the initial waves with painstaking precision, redirecting clusters of the dead to avoid the weakest points in the walls. He saw small groups of undead poised to exploit gaps and rerouted their paths, threading control with careful, invisible motions. Each misstep could cost lives, each decision a test of will.
Hours passed, the clash of iron against bone reverberating through the walls. Kael moved from point to point, adjusting, compensating, occasionally reaching out to consume fragments to maintain order. The whispers of hunger were relentless, promising a simple path of dominance. But Kael persisted in restraint, weaving order from chaos, guiding the dead like threads on a loom.
By nightfall, the first wave was halted, restrained without decimation. Kael's body trembled with exhaustion, sweat mingling with ash and blood. Yet amid the chaos, a quiet satisfaction bloomed he had preserved lives without surrendering his humanity. Still, he knew this was only the beginning. The tide of bone was patient, and more would come.