The wolf''s teeth snapped inches from Val''s face, close enough that he felt the cold rush of fetid air. He twisted away, the movement burning through his already-taxed reserves as he channeled aether to enhance his reflexes. His sword flashed in the dappled forest light, severing the beast''s head in a single fluid arc. The wolf''s body tumbled forward from momentum, crashing through undergrowth before coming to rest against the base of an ancient pine.


    No time to catch his breath. The rest of the pack was closing in.


    Val backed against a massive oak, counting shadows through the trees. Five more undead wolves circled him, their movements jerky but coordinated. Unlike the mindless shambling of typical ghouls, these predators retained the hunting instincts that had made them deadly in life. Death had only made them more persistent.


    Their eyes glowed with unnatural blue light, pupilless and cold. Patches of fur had sloughed away, revealing rotting muscle and bone beneath. One was missing its lower jaw entirely, its tongue dangling obscenely from the ruin of its face.


    "Come on then," Val muttered, adjusting his grip on his sword. The weapon felt heavier than it should, his arm trembling slightly from hours of running and fighting. "Let''s get this over with."


    The wolves attacked as one, converging from different angles. Val channeled aether into his legs and leapt upward, catching a low-hanging branch with his free hand. He swung his body up just as the first wolf lunged through the space where he''d been standing. From his perch, he drove his blade down through the skull of another as it passed beneath him.


    The remaining wolves circled the tree, their ruined muzzles lifted toward him, jaws snapping. Val took a precious moment to assess his situation. His chest heaved with exertion, sweat stinging the numerous small cuts on his face and arms. His clothing was torn in several places, stained with his own blood and the black ichor of the undead he''d fought since leaving Willow Creek at dawn.


    Noon had come and gone while he''d been fighting his way through these woods. He''d made good progress initially, sticking to the main road where the going was easier, but the appearance of a substantial horde of ghouls had forced him to divert through this stretch of forest. What should have been a shortcut had become a gauntlet of ambushes.


    The wolves prowled below, watching him with terrible patience. Unlike living predators, they had no need to rest, no hunger to sate beyond the drive to kill. They would wait him out, and his perch was neither comfortable nor secure enough to be a long-term solution.


    Val reached for his aether core, assessing his reserves. The familiar internal glow had dimmed to less than half its normal intensity. Still enough for what he needed, but the margin for error was shrinking with every encounter.


    He reached into his belt pouch and withdrew a small object – a hunter''s whistle carved from bone. Taking a deep breath, he blew into it, producing a high, piercing sound that mimicked the distress call of a wounded deer. The wolves'' heads swiveled in momentary confusion, their dead brains processing the conflicting stimuli.


    It was enough. Val dropped from the branch, landing behind the closest wolf. His sword took it through the spine before it could turn. He rolled forward, coming up in a crouch as another wolf sprang at him. This time he didn''t dodge but met the attack head-on, sidestepping at the last instant and letting the beast''s momentum carry it onto his blade.


    The remaining two wolves charged together. Val channeled aether into his arms, enhancing his strength. He wrenched his sword free and swung in a wide arc that caught both creatures across their chests. The blow wasn''t immediately fatal, but it sent them tumbling backward, giving him space to press his advantage.


    He dispatched them with quick, precise strikes, conserving his energy but ensuring the creatures wouldn''t rise again. Only when the last wolf lay still, its skull cleaved in two, did Val allow himself to sag against a tree trunk, breathing heavily.


    "Shit," he muttered, wiping black ichor from his blade with a handful of leaves. The substance was sticky and foul-smelling, clinging to the metal with unnatural persistence. He''d have to properly clean and oil the sword when he reached Oakspire, assuming he made it that far.


    Val took stock of himself once more. In addition to the numerous minor cuts and scrapes, he had a deeper gash on his left forearm where one of the wolves had caught him earlier, and what felt like bruised ribs from a fall he''d taken while evading a ghoul. Nothing life-threatening, but the cumulative effect was slowing him down.


    He drank sparingly from his waterskin, the lukewarm liquid barely easing his parched throat. Food would have to wait. The sun filtering through the canopy told him it was early afternoon. He needed to keep moving if he hoped to reach Oakspire by nightfall.


    Sheathing his sword, Val oriented himself using the position of the sun and the distant silhouette of the mountains. He was still on course, roughly speaking. If he maintained his pace and didn''t encounter too many more undead, he might still make good time.


    With a grimace, he pushed away from the tree and resumed his journey, moving at a steady jog through the underbrush. His legs protested, muscles burning from hours of exertion, but he forced them into motion. Each step took him closer to Oakspire, closer to delivering the warning that might save Willow Creek.


    The forest thinned as he traveled, giving way to rolling hills spotted with abandoned farmsteads. Val kept to the treeline where possible, using the cover to avoid detection. The open ground of the fields made him uneasy – too exposed, too vulnerable to being spotted by roaming undead.


    He paused at the edge of one such clearing, surveying the landscape ahead. A small farmhouse stood about two hundred yards away, its windows dark, no smoke rising from its chimney. The surrounding fields lay fallow, weeds growing among what might once have been wheat or barley. No signs of life, or death, stirred in the immediate vicinity.


    Val considered his options. The most direct route would take him across the open field, past the farmhouse and over the next rise. Faster, but riskier. The alternative was to skirt the edge of the forest, maintaining cover but adding considerable distance to his journey.


    Movement in his peripheral vision made the decision for him. At the far edge of the field, shambling figures emerged from the distant treeline. Ghouls, at least a dozen that he could see, possibly more hidden by the terrain. Too many to fight in his current condition.


    Val cursed under his breath. The undead hadn''t spotted him yet, but they were between him and the most direct path to Oakspire. He''d have to go around, or...


    His gaze returned to the abandoned farmhouse. If the structure was sound, it might offer temporary shelter. A chance to rest, to recover some of his strength before continuing. The risk of being cornered had to be weighed against the certainty of being run to exhaustion if he continued without rest.


    The ghouls were moving slowly, seemingly aimless in their wandering. Val took a deep breath, channeling a small amount of aether into his legs. Then he broke cover, sprinting across the open field toward the farmhouse. He kept low, moving as quickly as he dared while trying to minimize his profile against the landscape.


    The hundred yards seemed to stretch endlessly. Val''s heart hammered in his chest, each beat a countdown to possible discovery. Sweat trickled down his spine, his senses hyperalert for any sign that the ghouls had spotted him.


    He reached the farmhouse without raising an alarm, pressing his back against the weathered wooden siding as he caught his breath. Up close, the building showed signs of hasty abandonment; the door hung slightly ajar, a rake lay discarded in the dirt nearby. The shutters were closed but not barred, swaying slightly in the afternoon breeze.


    Val drew his sword again. He pushed it open with the tip of his blade, wincing at the creak of rusty hinges. The sound seemed deafening in the quiet afternoon, but a quick glance confirmed that the distant ghouls hadn''t reacted.


    The interior of the farmhouse was cool and dim after the brightness outside. Val paused on the threshold, allowing his eyes to adjust as he listened intently for any sound that might indicate danger. Nothing stirred within, no shuffling footsteps, no ragged breathing. Just the settling of the old structure and the soft whisper of wind through the eaves.


    He stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. The main room was modest but had once been well-kept. A wooden table with four chairs dominated the space, with a stone hearth along one wall and simple furnishings arranged for comfort rather than show. Dust covered every surface, undisturbed for what might have been weeks.


    Val moved deeper into the house, sword at the ready. A short hallway led to two small bedrooms and a storage pantry. It was in the larger bedroom that he found them.


    The family lay on their bed, arranged with terrible care. A man, a woman, and two small children, their bodies desiccated but largely intact in the cool, dry air of the abandoned house. No obvious wounds marked them, no signs of violence disturbed the scene. They might have been sleeping, if not for the unnatural stillness and the sunken quality of their flesh.


    Val had seen enough death to recognize poison when he saw it. The empty vial on the bedside table confirmed his suspicion. They had chosen their end rather than face whatever horror had approached their home. A family decision, made in desperate circumstances.


    He felt a pang of grief for these strangers, for the choice they had been forced to make. But there was nothing he could do for them now, except ensure they remained at rest.


    Backing out of the room, Val closed the door firmly behind him. He would leave them undisturbed. In these times, even such a small dignity felt important.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Returning to the main room, Val conducted a more thorough inspection of the house. The windows were intact, the shutters closed but not barred from within. He secured them as best he could, using a chair to brace the front door. It wouldn''t stop a determined assault, but it might buy him precious moments of warning.


    The pantry yielded modest treasures of a half-empty jar of dried fruits, some hard bread that had not yet molded, and a strip of dried jerky that looked and smelled edible, if unappealing. Val''s stomach growled at the sight of food. He hadn''t eaten since the hasty breakfast at dawn, and his body needed fuel.


    He forced himself to eat slowly, washing down the tough jerky with water from his skin. Through the small window, he kept watch on the distant ghouls, tracking their seemingly random movements across the field. They showed no sign of approaching the farmhouse, their attention drawn to something at the far edge of the property that Val couldn''t identify from his position.


    As he chewed the leathery meat, Val''s mind drifted to the morning''s departure from Willow Creek. The village had been quiet, most of its defenders catching what rest they could before the expected next wave of attacks. He''d slipped from the inn just as dawn broke, his gear packed and ready.


    Elara had been waiting for him at the eastern gate, her eyes shadowed from lack of sleep but alert. She''d pressed a small packet of herbs into his hand.


    "For the pain," she''d said simply, nodding toward his various injuries. "Mix with water when you need it."


    Val had tucked the packet into his belt pouch, oddly touched by the practical nature of the gift. "I''ll be back," he''d promised. "With reinforcements."


    Elara''s expression had been complicated, fear and hope and something deeper, more personal. "You''d better," she''d replied, her voice steady despite the emotion in her eyes. "We need you. I need you."


    The memory of her kiss lingered, fierce and desperate in the cold morning air. They hadn''t spoken of the night they''d shared, of the comfort they''d found in each other''s arms. There hadn''t been time, and perhaps neither had been ready to define what had passed between them. But her final words as he''d departed had held a promise of their own.


    Val pulled himself from the memory, focusing once more on his surroundings. The farmhouse remained quiet, the distant ghouls still occupied with whatever had caught their attention. He allowed himself a few more minutes of rest, knowing that the next leg of his journey would be just as demanding.


    He finished the jerky and drained his waterskin, refilling it from a rain barrel at the back of the house. The water was stale but clean enough. Val splashed some on his face, the cool liquid briefly revitalizing him as it washed away layers of dirt and dried sweat.


    His aether core had recovered slightly during the rest, the familiar inner glow a bit brighter than before. Not fully replenished, but enough to continue.


    He left the farmhouse as quietly as he''d entered, securing the door behind him. The ghouls were still visible in the distance, but they''d moved further along the field''s edge, away from his intended path. Val took advantage of their distraction, keeping low as he crossed to the opposite treeline.


    Once back under the cover of the forest, he increased his pace. The brief rest had helped, but he was acutely aware of the time slipping away. The sun had begun its descent toward the western mountains, the quality of the light shifting subtly toward evening. He needed to reach Oakspire before nightfall.


    Val''s route took him through increasingly hilly terrain, the forest giving way to rocky outcroppings and deep gullies carved by seasonal streams. He followed one such gully, picking his way carefully along its sandy bottom. The walls rose on either side, providing cover but also limiting his visibility and potential escape routes if he encountered danger.


    The risk proved worthwhile. The gully led him directly to the main road between Willow Creek and Oakspire, emerging just beyond the point where he''d been forced to divert earlier. Val scrambled up the steep bank, emerging onto the dusty road with a sense of relief. From here, the path to Oakspire was relatively straight and open. Barring unexpected obstacles, he might make it before sunset after all.


    Val paused only long enough to orient himself, confirming that he was indeed on the correct road. Then he set off at a steady jog, his boots raising small clouds of dust with each impact on the hard-packed earth. The familiar rhythm of movement helped quiet his mind, focusing his thoughts on the immediate goal of reaching the city.


    The road wound through rolling countryside, passing abandoned fields and occasional clusters of buildings that had once been roadside taverns or way stations. Val saw no signs of recent habitation – this stretch of road had been largely deserted. Travelers preferred to make the journey between settlements in larger groups, with armed escorts when possible.


    He maintained his pace, pushing through the fatigue that threatened to slow him. His muscles burned with the effort, his lungs working harder in the warm afternoon air. But with each mile, the distant silhouette on the horizon grew more distinct, the massive shape of the Oakspire, the colossal tree that gave the city its name.


    Even from this distance, the Oakspire dominated the landscape. Its enormous trunk rose hundreds of feet into the air, supporting a canopy that stretched wider than the city itself. The sight never failed to awe Val, no matter how many times he''d seen it. The ancient tree was more than just the city''s namesake, it was its heart, the source of the unique magical properties that had allowed the settlement to flourish even as the Deadlands encroached on the valley.


    As the Oakspire grew larger in his vision, Val felt a surge of renewed energy. He was making good time now, the undead encounters having fallen away once he reached the main road. If his luck held, he might reach the city gates well before sunset.


    The terrain flattened as he approached, the road widening and showing signs of more frequent use. Wagon ruts cut deep paths in the packed earth, and occasional stone markers indicated the decreasing distance to the city. When Val passed the five-mile marker, he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Barring catastrophe, he would complete his mission today.


    It was as he rounded a bend in the road, with perhaps three miles remaining to the city gates, that Val realized something was wrong. The road ahead was filled with people, not the usual scattered travelers or merchant caravans, but a dense, disorganized mass that stretched almost to the horizon. Men, women, and children moved in a steady stream toward Oakspire, many carrying hastily packed belongings or leading heavily laden carts.


    Val slowed his pace, approaching the rear of the crowd with caution. The people looked haggard and frightened, their expressions tight. He fell into step beside an elderly man who pulled a small handcart piled with what appeared to be his worldly possessions. The man''s face was deeply lined with exhaustion, his hands raw from gripping the cart''s handles.


    "What happened?" Val asked, keeping his voice low to avoid startling the man.


    The elder glanced at him, taking in Val''s ranger uniform and blood-stained appearance with a flicker of hope. "Stonebridge," he said, his voice rough with fatigue and emotion. "They came in the night. Hundreds of them. Ghouls and worse."


    Val''s stomach clenched. Stonebridge was one of the largest settlements in the northern part of Yelden Valley, second only to Oakspire itself. If it had fallen...


    "The militia?" he asked, already dreading the answer.


    The old man shook his head, the gesture conveying both grief and bitter admiration. "Stayed behind to cover the evacuation. Brave lads. Don''t expect any of them made it out."


    Val absorbed this information with a growing sense of dread. First Willow Creek, now Stonebridge. Two settlements attacked within days of each other, both by organized hordes of undead. This wasn''t random. This was coordinated, purposeful.


    "When did you leave?" he asked, calculating distances and times in his head.


    "Dawn today," the man replied. "Been on the road since. Some faster folk are probably at the gates by now." He eyed Val''s uniform again. "You a ranger? From Oakspire?"


    Val nodded, not bothering to correct the assumption that he''d come from the city rather than Willow Creek. "Yes. On patrol."


    "Good," the old man said with grim satisfaction. "You''ll tell them, won''t you? Tell them what happened. Make sure they believe us."


    "I will," Val promised, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders once more. He had to reach the city, had to report not just the attack on Willow Creek but now this news of Stonebridge as well. The pattern was becoming clearer, and more frightening with each revelation.


    Val quickened his pace, moving through the crowd of refugees with as much haste as he could manage without appearing callous. Many turned to look at him as he passed, hope and desperation plain on their faces at the sight of his ranger uniform. He felt a pang of guilt at pushing past them, but his mission took precedence. The sooner he reached Oakspire, the sooner help could be organized for all the affected settlements.


    The crowd thickened as he neared the city, the road becoming increasingly congested with people and carts. Progress slowed to a crawl at times, forcing Val to weave through gaps in the press of bodies or occasionally leave the road entirely to bypass particularly dense clusters.


    Through gaps in the crowd, he caught glimpses of the city walls ahead impressive fortifications of stone and timber that encircled the base of the Oakspire. The massive gates stood open, but even from this distance, Val could see that the flow of refugees into the city was being strictly controlled. Guards in the distinctive green and brown of Oakspire''s militia maintained order at the entrance, checking those who sought entry and preventing any rush that might overwhelm the checkpoint.


    Val rejoined the road about half a mile from the gates, integrating himself back into the stream of refugees. The mood here was tenser, frustration mingling with fear as people jostled for position. Children cried from exhaustion or hunger, while adults argued over minor infractions of personal space. The strain of the journey and the horror they had fled was evident in every face, every voice.


    Drawing closer to the gates, Val began to hear fragments of conversations between the refugees and the city guards.


    "...need to verify your identity before..."


    "...just let us in! They''re right behind us!"


    "...orderly fashion, please. Everyone will be processed..."


    "...children haven''t eaten since yesterday..."


    The bureaucracy of the city was clashing with the desperate need of the refugees, creating a bottleneck that threatened to spark violence if mishandled. Val could sympathize with both sides, the guards needed to maintain control, to prevent the outer city from being overwhelmed, while the refugees needed safety and succor after their traumatic flight.


    As he reached the edge of the crowd nearest the gates, Val saw the full extent of the situation. Hundreds of people pressed against makeshift barricades, held back by a line of city guards armed with spears and shields. Behind them, a handful of officials processed refugees one family at a time, checking identification where possible and asking questions to verify stories.


    Val needed to bypass this logjam, to reach the city officials directly with his urgent news. He began to edge his way through the crowd, moving toward the barricades with determined persistence.


    "Let me through," he said, keeping his voice firm but not aggressive as he navigated the press of bodies. "Ranger business. Please, let me through."


    Some made way grudgingly, while others ignored him or actively resisted his progress. Val continued forward, one step at a time, occasionally showing the ranger insignia on his uniform to those who blocked his path. Slowly, he made his way to the front of the crowd.


    As he reached the barricade, one of the guards noticed his approach, taking in his uniform with a frown of confusion.


    "Ranger?" the guard called over the noise of the crowd. "Where''d you come from?"


    "Willow Creek," Val replied, raising his voice to be heard. "I need to speak with your captain immediately. I have urgent information for the council."


    The guard hesitated, glancing back at his superiors near the gate. Val seized the moment of indecision, channeling a small amount of aether to enhance his voice, giving it the ring of authority that might cut through the chaos.


    "Lives depend on it," he said, meeting the guard''s gaze directly. "Willow Creek is under siege. Stonebridge has fallen."


    The guard''s eyes widened at the mention of Stonebridge, confirming that news of its fall had already reached the city. He nodded sharply, then turned to signal to a superior officer near the gate.


    Val waited, painfully aware of the time slipping away, of the sun sinking lower toward the western mountains. Behind him, the crowd continued to press forward, their collective fear a palpable force at his back. Ahead, the massive silhouette of the Oakspire rose above the city walls, its ancient presence reassuring in the fading light.