The dead pour through every cemetery, every mass grave, every ash pit in the city. They claw their way out of consecrated ground and cursed earth alike, rotting hands grasping at anything living, mouths working to form words they’ve been denied for decades. Centuries. The accumulated weight of forgotten grief made flesh, and all of it answering to a king who refuses to let them rest.
A child’s scream cuts through the night—high, terrified, abruptly silenced. Somewhere to our left, a building burns. Somewhere to our right, death wardens fight a losing battle against corpses that refuse to stay down.
And beneath it all, the whispers. Thousands of voices speaking at once, demanding to be heard, begging for the closure they were denied.
Drokhar pulls me close as a revenant stumbles past—a woman in a burial shroud, her face half-dissolved, her hands reaching toward a house where a candle still burns in the window. She doesn’t notice us. She’s looking for someone. Someone who probably died before she did.
“The Cinder Hall.” His mouth brushes my ear, his rumble cutting through the chaos. “The Council needs to hear this.”
I want to argue. The Council has spent generations burning the dead without rites, ordering silence when grief demanded voice. They’re part of the reason the King exists. Every burn order they signed, every mass grave they sealed without ceremony, every mourning witch they handed over to the pyres—it all fed the thing that’s now consuming their city.
But they’re also the only ones with the authority to coordinate a city-wide response. And right now, Blackreach needs every death warden it has.
We move through streets that have become rivers of the risen dead. Drokhar’s blade carves a path when necessary, severing revenants from their animation with precise efficiency. Twentyyears of experience in every swing—he knows exactly where to strike, exactly how much force to apply, exactly when to burn and when to simply cut.
I whisper calm to the ones that pause—brief touches of magic that buy us moments of stillness before the King’s will reasserts itself. They look at me when I speak. Not with hunger. With hope. These were people once. Soldiers, merchants, mothers, children. They didn’t ask to become weapons in a monster’s war.
A corpse in rusted armor blocks our path—a soldier from one of the old border wars, his face preserved enough to show the expression of surprise he wore when death claimed him. His mouth works, trying to form words that won’t come.
I reach out before Drokhar can strike.
“Be still.” My whisper carries the weight of my magic. “Speak.”
“My—my son.” The soldier’s words grind out like rust and dust. “He was only three when I left. I never—I wanted to tell him?—”
“That you loved him. That you were proud of him. That you were sorry you couldn’t come home.”
The soldier’s empty sockets fix on my face. “How did you know?”
“Because that’s what fathers say.” My throat tightens. “Go. Rest. I’ll make sure he knows.”
The soldier crumbles. Not into dust, but into peace. One more spirit released from the King’s control.
One down. Ten thousand to go.
“You can’t do that for all of them.” Drokhar’s words come out rough.
“I know.” I step over the empty armor. “But I can try.”
THIRTY-FIVE
ARADYA
The suppression wards protecting the Cinder Hall are the strongest in the city. As we approach the gray stone walls, I feel my magic dampen, the whispers in my mind fading to a distant murmur. The relief is immediate and overwhelming.
For a few precious breaths, I can’t hear the dead at all.
“Inside.” Drokhar steers me toward the iron-banded doors, his hand finding the small of my back. The touch is proprietary. Protective.Mine,it says, to anyone watching. I lean into it without thinking, my body seeking his the way flowers seek sun.
The guards recognize him—of course they do. He’s the Ashwalker. They step aside without question, though their gazes linger on me with undisguised suspicion.
The mourning witch who should have burned days ago.
The mourning witch who’s now wearing the Ashwalker’s claiming mark.
I lift my chin and meet their stares. Let them look.
The Council Chamberis chaos barely contained.