From another world. The [Hunter] lowered his bow for a second to stare at the beautiful world contained in the light. Then he put an arrow to his bow and loosed. A deer stumbled and fell over as its head was illuminated for a moment for Rethis.

It was such a strange thing. It felt so wrong, to hear such music now. But why not? Music was for the living. Silence for the dead. More voices were joining in. Singing…they had forgotten they could sing in the darkness.

The man laughed. And for once, it was drowned out by the sound. It was a welcome thing.

[Singer Level 9!]

1.08 P

The next day, Lord Lantal rode into Landsmecht with eight of his personal guard. He couldn’t spare any more from the keep. There was still that last [Necromancer] around.

He’d ridden hard at first light to get to the village. The young man who’d ridden for the keep through the night had told Lantal there was a Mothbear who’d died. If left unchecked, all the wildlife in the area would turn into a horde. Animals had adapted to evade the undead—but the danger remained, especially to stupid creatures like migrating deer herds which hadn’t adapted to this land.

The sky was always grey. But at night and before dawn, it was almost pitch-black. No stars save for rare occasions. Even the moon was often obscured.

“Can one not simply ride through the night to get there? I am simply curious, Lord Lantal.”

He recalled the conversation with [Princess] Seraphel; the entire keep had awoken as the young man was let through the gates, shouting the alarm.

“Unless it is very dire—and Landsmecht’s walls are thick enough to protect them, I think—I would never risk it, Your Highness. Common zombies have no intellect, but Ghouls will lurk in the shadows and ambush us, even with [Light] spells.”

“I see. Ghouls? Forgive my ignorance.”

It amazed Lantal—first that Seraphel would ever apologize to him—second, that she had no knowledge of how to fight undead. It was second-nature to him, and even children knew such basic rules about their types.

Lord Lantal felt the worn bit of saddle uncomfortably transmitting some of the shock of his ride to his posterior and shifted. The eight men and women around him were all yawning, but alert, adrenaline in their veins.

“First light, Ghoul’s night. Second light, Ghoul’s flight. Anyone else need food? Stamina potion? No one overate, did they?”

He muttered, and someone laughed at the nursery rhyme about fighting Ghouls. The false dawn was a bad time to fight them.

“Does anyone have dried jerky?”

“Here—”

Two riders converged to exchange a snack. It was a bit illogical to eat before combat, or soon enough.