Valca Kingdom was missing the sound of its bells this morning.
They tolled slowly. Heavily. Relentlessly.
The tolling rang for each of the seven towers of the capital, spreading to the streets like a funeral knell. It was like a death rattle on the cobblestones. Before noon had even passed, the market stalls had been covered up; women hurriedly gathered their children and rushed inside, closing doors behind them, sentries stood in double files at the gates, and even the banners on the parapet of the High Keep drooped lifelessly in the gray wind.
An official announcement was made at noon:
"By decree of the Royal Council, it is with great sorrow that we inform the people of Valca: King Edraven Valcaryn has passed from this world. The king was found dead in his sleep. Further inquiries and statements will follow from the High Keep."
But in High Keep, the king still lay upon his bed. Untouched. Unchanged. No scratch of a wound disturbed his flesh, no hint of poison had crept into his body. The flesh itself was strangely comforting, though his nails were black, as if the blood within him were being slowly consumed.
So what could go wrong?
His eyes were...
Hushed stillness enveloped the chamber as the royal doctors forced them apart. They weren't blind, and they weren't dimmed.
They were black.
Utterly black, as if the Void ate from within.
The first priest uttered, "Possession," and fell over. The second whispered of some old curse, then ran off, never to be seen again.
Archmaester Aldric Thorne had not been a whisperer.
He did not quake. He knew such tremors, having read them in neglected volumes and in the flyleaves of proscribed holy texts. He knew that eyes like these had never presaged only death… nor merely magic.
Two days after the council officially announced the death of the king, they had no knowledge of what was left behind.
And then, when mourning itself was just taking hold, war broke out.
From the riftlands of the south arrived a letter. On the wax there was a signet that surely would have caused any other man to tremble in fear: seven daggers pinned through the face of a plumed skull.
Lord Malrec's sign.
The King of Dreadline.
"The sunken empire in broken ground," he whispered, a civilization of iron and shadows. An empire ruled by Malrec with his seven sons, and the three queens, each commanding a different kind of weapon.
The seal was broken by Aldric. A short but powerful letter, full of threats:
Let go of that you pursue. Three complete moons. Refuse, and the shadow of the Revenant Falcon shall be cast upon your land.
It was quiet in the chamber. Faint rustlings of dead frontier guards. Scorched armor left on lonely hilltops. A winged form on a lonely path under the moon.
"Two months back, Malrec awoke that which should have been buried," said one voice in a murmur.
It was not only fiction that held the Revenant Falcon.
General Varro's jaw was tight enough to whiten his knuckles. "The Dreadline Dominion," he ground out, his voice like scraping steel. "An army that cannot bleed. Soldiers which don't get tired . We have never known anything like them."
He walked the perimeter of the council table. "Do as he demands. End it now, at the beginning. It's been a hundred years since our kingdom knew an uprising. Let them know another hundred—or meet it now."
A hesitant murmur of disapproval ran through the congregation.
Varro's voice rose. "You have heard the rumors, though? Whole villages extinguished from existence, patrols vanished. And that was before the main army arrived! If he calls in the seven sons, if he summons the three, then…"
The other general swallowed hard. "The Lightning Drag—"
"Enough." Aldric's voice pierced the room like a newly honed sword.
Silence descended immediately.
Aldric scanned each face in the room. "We cannot give them names, as though naming would give us knowledge," he said. "We have no concept of what they can do."
Varro exhaled, rasping and rigid. "The Storm Drake. The Three-Headed Wolf. The Rust Golem. And the three witches that rule them. They are not an army. They are death to all things."
Outside, thunder rumbled like a distant warning.
Aldric stepped into the middle of the room. "Malrec is not making a threat. He is stating a reality. If we yield now, we will be forced to yield more in the future."
"If we do not," murmured Varro, "we are done."
Each word pressed into the room, shrinking, suffocating, pressing against the walls.
"Then it's war," declared Varro, slamming his fist onto the table.
"We're already behind schedule," Aldric commented with his usual air of nonchalance. "20,000 men at our disposal."
"And he rules the dead," said Varro, voice strained with terror.
The words hung in the air, heavy as dust.
"Then he's at the southern pass?" Varro asked.
"No," said Aldric. "We defend the capital. We will draw back all of our regiments, and then we will await a siege."
The council seemed to buzz with excitement.
Aldric turned to the two sentries at the chamber doors.
"Dispatch riders to the west barracks," he commanded. "Fetch Commander Zadent Luceran to the High Keep immediately."
The nobility nodded at each other. Zadent Luceran was no more than a boy in his late teens, yet his actions bore the weight of a man much older. He led the Sword Legion, the kingdom's sharpest swords, and could be counted on where most men would fail. He would lead at the head of any charge should war come.
The sentries bowed and departed swiftly.
Aldric, however, was not done.
He crossed to the balcony of the inner courtyard. Fire grew from his fingers, self-contained, methodical, folding into wings. In a moment, an infinitesimal kingfisher of living fire hovered over the stone, every feather rendered in glowing characters.
No vellum. No seal. The bird itself was the message.
Aldric whispered into the flame. His words were absorbed by the creature, which pulsed slightly in understanding.
"Find Azel Ardent," he whispered. "Inform him the dead walk."
The flaming message flew over the land, to a lost village, to a man who would no longer heed the capital's call.
Azel Ardent.
Few knew of him; fewer still knew who would need to summon Aldric.
But if the dead were rising… Azel Ardent would answer.
The sky rumbled like a throat, and Aldric looked up, his face impassive.
"If the Falcon comes," Varro spoke softly, eyes on the disappearing sun, "we'll be ready…"
Aldric gave a single, steady, nearly soothing nod. "Then we shall see to it that the kingdom will not be unprepared for war."
Aldric watched the flaming message fade into the dusk, the tiny kingfisher disappearing over the darkening hills. A chill wind swept across the balcony, bringing the faint, metallic smell of blood and old iron. It was the lingering scent of a kingdom on the brink of decay. He took a slow breath, feeling the weight of the council's fear settle around him. Even hours after the official announcement, the castle felt empty, as if the stones themselves were holding their breath.
Varro moved to the nearest window and stared out at the city below. The streets were deserted. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, but the usual sounds of life—merchants calling, children laughing, dogs barking—had disappeared. It was a city that had already begun to mourn, though for what, no one could say. The king was dead but not truly gone; his body remained, untouched by blade or poison, yet something unnatural had taken hold within it.
"The people will notice," Varro said in a low voice, almost a growl. "They will see the king lying there as if asleep… and they will wonder. They will whisper."
Aldric nodded. "Let them whisper," he replied. "Fear is a tool. But we must be careful. Rumors can become truths if they are repeated enough."
A faint tapping echoed in the corridor behind them. Aldric narrowed his eyes. "Who goes there?"
A young page appeared, bowing quickly. "Archmaester, a courier from the southern roads. He brings news… not from Malrec, but from the border villages."
Aldric's fingers tingled, the faint crackle of residual fire flickering across his knuckles. "Speak."
The page swallowed, his voice trembling. "Villagers… they say… they have seen shadows. Moving… figures without faces… the dead walking among the trees. They ran, Archmaester. They ran into the hills. Some… they did not return."
Aldric's jaw tightened. The council may have declared war already, but this was different. Malrec's army was not yet at the gates, and death was already spreading. The seed of darkness had taken root much sooner than anyone had anticipated.
Varro gritted his teeth. "This is impossible. There are no armies moving yet. How can this be?"
"There are things older than armies," Aldric said, his voice flat and calm, yet carrying a sense of certainty. "Things that hunger and move while men sleep. This is a warning. One we should heed."
He turned from the balcony and moved toward the chamber where the king lay. The air grew heavier with each step, pressing against his chest and making each breath feel intentional. The candles flickered as if stirred by invisible wings, casting the room into a dance of shadows.
The king's eyes remained black—deep and endless. Watching, waiting.
Aldric placed a hand on the cold sheets. No warmth, no life in the flesh, yet the presence was undeniable. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, though he said nothing. Outside, the city shivered beneath the growing twilight, and the first stars appeared like pale watchers in the sky.
"Get some rest, Varro," Aldric murmured, more to himself than to the general. "We cannot fight shadows with swords alone. There will be time to train, to prepare… but first, we must understand what stirs in the dark."
Varro nodded stiffly, but his eyes remained fixed on the king, on the impossibility of the scene. Aldric left him there and stepped into the corridor, the silence enveloping him. Somewhere deep in the High Keep, doors clicked shut as if by their own will. Steps echoed where none walked. The walls whispered, and the shadows leaned closer.
Tonight, the city slept. But it would not remain safe.
And in a distant, forgotten village, Azel Ardent stirred, restless in his small, cluttered room. The wind carried a faint shimmer of fire through the open window. Something flickered in his mind—a name, a command, a warning—and for the first time in many years, he felt compelled to act. The dead were rising, and the world would soon remember his name.