Three days. Three days since the siege had begun and help was nowhere in sight. The undead army besieging Afiele was one of several. The other groups were moving north, not under direct control. The relief coming from Menorome and Ovela was stalled evacuating every settlement ahead of the other hordes and battling them.

And to make matters worse—apparently the neighboring nation of Ailendamus had launched an attack against Ovela. Politics aside, it meant no help was coming immediately. Cara had heard the daily, sometimes hourly, speeches Princess Seraphel or Lady Risel or Lantal or Grishen would give to anyone awake.

The narrative had changed from help coming ‘tomorrow’ to ‘next week’. What was amazing to Cara was that they had lived through the first day. There were so many undead bodies.

Yet the people of Afiele fought. With spears, some of them makeshift by attaching a kitchen knife to a pole, or with swords, farming tools, shovels—they held back the undead. [Farmers] fought beside the Thronebearers of Calanfer and the [Warriors].

They were leveling up. Becoming stronger, gaining classes. It was surreal to Cara. She had not been part of the fighting, incidentally.

They hadn’t wanted her. She was not trusted. Cara didn’t blame them for that. Everyone knew it was her fault now. Violetta and Idelt avoided her, just like everyone else.

So she watched. Cara inhaled and the fresh air she caught from a passing breeze was tainted by that rotting odor again. She gagged.

For the first time, the traveller from another world wished she were dreaming. That she was back at home, hoping to land the audition. Figuring out rent. Being angry at—smaller things.

The injustice of the world, yes. Unfairness, yes. Cruel people doing terrible things because they could.

That was one kind of evil. Cara had possessed many things to be rightly angry about. The changing climate, corruption, crime, murder, wars…

But this was—different. This was pure. Cara gazed down and saw something universal. The myriad glowing eyes of the dead, their rotting faces, promised only one truth for the world.

Death.

The undead made little sound as they tried to take the walls. They did not taunt the defenders, or cry out in pain as arrows struck them.

Rethis, the [Hunter] of Violetta’s village, was one of the [Archers] loosing arrows again and again into the horde. Aiming for the largest undead, the deadly Draug or the Crypt Lords. The ones that made Cara shudder. They—were made up of body parts. Countless eyeballs, squished together in oversized, bloated, lumbering bodies. Hands and arms joined together to form their limbs.

Legs—large and small. Cara looked down at a small zombie. A blank face among all the others. There was no distinction there. The undead killed everyone.

The horror of it made her want to puke, or just run and hide. But there was nowhere to run.