“I wish I was stronger too, Culin. But we are here. It has been an honor.”

He nodded and they waited together. The army spread out, preparing to meet the undead. There was a desperate shout from Dalimont.

“Princess! Lord Culin! Another force of undead to the southwest!”

Seraphel turned. Her heart sank.

Undead were coming up on Afiele’s flank. Not more than a few hundred. But the people looked up and cried out in mortal fear as they saw what was leading the other force.

A flying figure. As pale as a dream but terribly real. A class of undead beyond even a giant.

A ghost. A [Knight] in armor, who flew ahead of the undead. Seraphel closed her eyes. Culin stared up in numb despair. It was wrong. Yet he almost thought the ghost was beautiful.

Ancient armor shining under rain and the dark skies. A pale, azure glow, and a face not torn by rot or death. He looked noble, not like a specter of death. Culin looked towards the monster who had conjured him and saw—the robed figure had paused.

——

The [Necromancer] had spotted the second force of undead. His breath caught. Feren stared at that familiar shape. And the other undead. He hesitated.

“I—didn’t conjure them. Rogue undead? What is—”

His tongue froze in his mouth when he saw the [Knight]. He backed up.

“But I was sure I captured—”

Then he heard the song. It came from the marching undead. Feremont realized the undead were also—

Different. They walked, not with the mindless malice of his creations, but with purpose. He sensed no hunger against the world, no hatred of life.

Yet they were angry. So angry. A righteous anger, an all-consuming rage against what had been done to their lands.

Sons and daughters of Afiele, their eyes glowing bright. But how? How?

Then he heard the song and saw where it came from. From a young woman walking amidst the dead.

She was not of Afiele, living, yet they permitted her presence. His eyes fixed on her, and he recoiled.

It wasn’t a song with words. It was slow, summoning the dead, calling them.

To war.

——

Seraphel’s eyes widened as she heard the voice. She turned and found the young woman walking there.

She breathed in disbelief.

“Cara?”

Sidheag sang. The ghost of a [Knight] flew towards Afiele’s army, weightless, as fast as a horse. Dalimont bellowed, raising his sword in desperation.

“Stop him! Defend the [Princess] and Lord of Afiele!”

The people surged towards the ghostly knight. But he landed as softly as a feather in front of Culin, too fast for them. And—

Knelt.