The sun hadn't risen yet, but the forest was already sweating. Mist clung to the undergrowth like a dying curse, and the stink of damp rot filled every breath.
Somewhere in the distance, something screamed—and then quickly stopped.
Freya didn't flinch.
Grant didn't blink.
Callum, however, nearly tripped over his own boots. Again.
"Remind me," Freya said, voice low and dry, "why exactly we're keeping him alive?"
Grant's skull tilted slightly, one bony finger ticking against his hip like a metronome of judgment.
Callum huffed. "I'm very useful, thank you. Just not… wilderness useful."
"That much is clear," Freya muttered, slicing a vine apart with a flick of her scythe. "Don't worry, though. When Godzilla shows up, you'll be incredibly wilderness-useful—as bait."
Callum gave a nervous chuckle. "God—what?"
"You've got jokes. That's… reassuring."
They trudged on in silence for a time. Birds stirred in the canopy above—hoarse, shrieking things that didn't sound entirely natural.
After a while, Freya broke the quiet. "Tell me more about Krasvale."
Callum blinked. "What, now?"
"You planning on going somewhere else? Yes, now."
Callum exhaled hard, breath fogging in the clammy morning air. "You really shouldn't go to Krasvale."
Freya arched a brow. "Why? You got more shady things to hide?"
"I'm serious," Callum answered while stepping over a gnarled root with far too much effort.
"Krasvale's not the kind of place you just walk into. People remember new faces."
"Especially when they're small, suspiciously pale, travel with reanimated corpses, and carry a murder weapon the size of a barn door."
"I'm not that pale," Freya muttered, then glanced at Grant. "You might be a problem, though."
Grant said nothing, but the way he turned his head—just slowly enough to imply menace—made a passing squirrel drop from stress.
"Yeah," Callum muttered, eyeing the skeleton warily. "That's putting it mildly, milady. You don't exactly see a seven-foot death knight and think, 'Oh, I bet that guy's here for the local cuisine and sightseeing.'"
"No, you ring the freaking town bell and tell everyone to grab their torches and pitchforks."
The path twisted into thicker brush.
"So," Callum asked, "why are we going there anyway? Krasvale, I mean. You don't seem like the 'quaint village getaway' type."
Freya didn't answer right away. Her scythe swished lazily through a patch of ferns, lopping off their tops like a gardener with issues.
"It's the closest settlement," she finally said. "And settlements have people. And people have information."
Callum squinted. "Information about what?"
Freya stopped, turned, and fixed him with a look as flat as a gravestone. "That's none of your concern."
Callum blinked. "Right. Silly me. Must be tourist attractions, huh."
Grant let out a low grinding noise that might've been a laugh. Or a warning. Or the sound death makes when it's bored.
Callum pressed on, trying not to look at him. "Still… Krasvale's not exactly booming. It's small. Insular. And lately? Kinda weird."
Freya's eyes narrowed. "Weird how?"
"Disappearing travelers. Shuttered shops. That temple at the edge of town hasn't opened its doors in weeks, and nobody's seen the priest since the last blood moon."
Freya's pace slowed. "Temple? What kind of temple?"
Callum glanced at her, surprised. "The Temple of Light, of course. You know—the big fancy one with the marble arches and blinding sun iconography—very 'we love righteousness' aesthetic."
Freya frowned. "The Temple of Light... Of course it is."
Grant emitted a soft clatter behind her, like dry bones shifting in agitation.
Callum tilted his head. "Wait… don't tell me you've never heard of the Light? The faith? Pretty much the dominant religion across the continent?"
"You really aren't from around here, are you?"
Freya smirked and cast a look toward Grant. "Oh, I've heard of them. One of my friends used to be real close with the Temple of Light."
"Like… way back."
A low, foreign sound echoed behind her—not the usual rattle of bones or creak of armor.
This was deeper. A growl, dragged from lungs that no longer worked.
Freya turned, looking puzzled and concerned. "...Grant?"
The towering skeleton had stopped walking. His entire frame was trembling—not from weakness, but from tension.
His eye sockets, normally dull and hollow, now shimmered faintly with violet light.
Callum took a cautious step back. "Uh… did I say something?"
Grant raised one skeletal hand, clenched it into a fist, and slammed it into a nearby tree.
The trunk shuddered from the impact, bark exploding outward.
A beat later, the tree groaned—and toppled.
Callum yelped and ducked. "Okay! I'm sorry!"
"Grant," Freya said calmly, though her eyes had narrowed. "Easy."
The light in Grant's eyes dimmed slightly, but his posture remained rigid.
Bones cracked as he rolled his shoulders, like a man shaking off an old ghost.
Freya stepped forward, resting a hand on his arm. Cold, of course. But not unfeeling.
"They'll get what's coming for them," she whispered, voice low. "I promise."
Grant didn't answer. He never did. But something in the way his fingers twitched—curling toward the haft of his blade—said enough.
Callum peeked from behind a fern. "So, just to clarify… we're still going to Krasvale? Despite the undead rage spike?"
Freya didn't look away from Grant. "Why not?"
Callum exhaled, hands raised in surrender. "Okay, okay, listen. I'm just saying—maybe we shouldn't go waltzing into town like that."
"Let's be real, there's no way we can hide... this." he added, gesturing toward Grant.
Freya didn't reply. She was still watching Grant, who now stood unnaturally still—like a statue that had just remembered how to hate.
Callum cleared his throat. "Look. I know Krasvale. I grew up there. I know the people, the layout, the gossip. I even know where the mayor hides his actual good wine. "
"The point is—if it's information you're after, I can be at service."
Freya turned to him slowly. "You're suggesting I rely on you for intel?"
Callum puffed out his chest slightly. "Yes. I am, in fact, the most resourceful and most-educated person in Krasvale."
Grant turned his head, just enough to give Callum the Are you serious? look—without eyes, somehow.
"I mean it!" Callum protested. "I read books! I talk to people! I know when not to talk to people! I can write in three languages, and one of them isn't screaming!"
Freya studied him a moment longer, then sighed. "Fine. Impress me. Give me something useful."
"Oh, and he's not 'it.' His name is Grant. Sir Grant, to you."
Callum froze, then gave a surprisingly proper bow. "My apologies, Sir Grant. I shouldn't have said that."
He straightened and grinned at Freya. "As for you, milady—what would you like to know?"
Freya paused, and said, "Start with where we are."
"I need names, demographic, laws and currencies."
"Ahem..." Callum cleared his throat and stood tall, trying to look scholarly. "Alright, lesson time, milady."
He pointed eastward. "We're northwest of the imperial capital—the most civilized, advanced city on the continent. Jewel of the Atlatean Empire."
"Built by Louis the Great 223 years ago. The royal family, House Reinhart, has kept peace through sheer influence… and mana stones."
"Every mechanism that matters runs on them. Carriages? Mana engines. Streetlamps? Mana filaments. Even fancy café coffee machines? Mana stone powered."
"That's how the empire stays ahead of the neighbors."
Freya crossed her arms, intrigued. "So… no coal? No steam?"
"Oh no, no. That's for barbarians and dwarves. Here in Atlatean, we just work the peasants 24/7 and pay gemologists handsomely to keep the mana stones flowing."
Freya chuckled at his sarcasm. "And Krasvale?"
Callum shrugged. "Backwater town. Closer to moss than mana. Most folks still use oil lamps, and I'm pretty sure the mayor thinks gemologist is some kind of cheese."
Freya sighed, disappointed. "Demographics?"
"Mostly humans. Some elves. A few dwarves pretending they're not. No orcs, beastkin, or demonkin since the Great War."
"But that's just the surface," he added with a glance, "I'd always believed, they are definitely among us, especially demonkin..."
Freya glanced back, but ignored his assumption. She paused, paced a little, and finally she took a glance at Grant. "We are still going to Krasvale."
"We need supplies, transportation, and the most important of all, I really need a hot bath."
"Oh c'mon, we will never enter the town unnoticed." Callum burst with frustration, "that's suicide."
Freya gave him a slow, wicked smile.
"Don't be so pessimistic, this is a chance to prove your worth."
Callum opened his mouth, then gave up and sighed. "You know, I used to dream about dying warm in bed. Full belly. Maybe a couple of dramatic sobs at the funeral."
"But now, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die a fugitive."
Behind them, Grant loomed silently, his heavy steps rustling the undergrowth like a plow through wet straw.
Callum glanced back and gave the death knight a nervous smile. "What about you, Sir Grant, how did you die?"
Grant didn't respond.
The conversation lapsed into silence after that.
Above them, the light began to change.
The forest's clammy gloom shifted into a bruised amber hue as the sun finally broke the horizon, bleeding gold through the mist.
Shadows stretched long across the undergrowth, and the air thickened with the scent of damp leaves and unseen things watching from the trees.
Without another word, they continued onward—toward Krasvale.
And whatever waited there....