Callan's boots slammed into the cracked soil just as the bone-tree let out its second shriek. The sound wasn't merely noise—it tore at the mind like claws on flesh. Around him, men clutched their heads, some collapsing outright. Those with weaker wills sobbed uncontrollably or bolted from the field.
But not Callan.
Not now. Not ever again.
He focused on the Pale Hand, who stood unflinching amidst the chaos, surrounded by a growing ring of withered earth. The scythe in his hand hummed with a low, keening resonance that set Callan's teeth on edge.
"General!" Ren's voice rang out from the battlements. "Don't engage alone!"
But it was too late.
The Pale Hand moved like shadow and fire. One blink, and he was upon Callan.
Their weapons clashed—steel against molten iron—and the resulting shockwave sent a ripple through the ground, cracking it for several feet around. Sparks flew. Callan staggered back but held his footing.
The Pale Hand didn't follow up. Instead, he tilted his head, as if analyzing Callan's form.
"You carry the scent of the Thronefire," came the voice in Callan's head. "But it does not burn in you. Not yet."
Callan spat blood to the ground. "Then you haven't seen me angry."
He struck again—an overhead slash aimed at the creature's neck—but the Pale Hand vanished in a wisp of smoke, reappearing behind him.
Callan twisted just in time to parry a sweeping scythe that would've eviscerated him.
It was like fighting death itself.
Atop the Walls of Valmere
Ren barked orders to the defenders. "Cover the general! Fire! NOW!"
Archers loosed volleys of arrows at the bone-tree and its conjurer. Most struck true—but instead of piercing, the arrows turned to ash mid-flight.
The bone-tree shrieked again. This time, from its boughs dropped figures—humanoid shapes wrapped in strips of flesh and bone, their eyes burning with pale fire.
"Revenants!" one soldier screamed.
Ren cursed. "Everyone, brace! They're coming!"
The creatures hit the ground running—dozens of them—and tore into the barricades with unnatural speed. Where they passed, wood rotted, steel rusted, and men aged years in seconds. The air stank of decay.
But the defenders fought back.
Spears thrust. Blades cleaved. Firebombs were hurled from the tower-top. Ren, bow in hand, loosed a glowing arrow straight into the skull of a revenant, dropping it instantly.
"Hold the line!" he shouted. "Buy Callan time!"
The Duel
Callan rolled to avoid the arcing sweep of the scythe, then struck low. His blade scraped against the Pale Hand's leg—no blood, but the creature faltered for a second.
It was enough.
He surged in, slicing across the figure's chest. Runes flared, burning gold, and for the first time, the Pale Hand made a sound—a hissing, crackling whisper of pain.
"Interesting," the voice echoed in Callan's skull. "You draw on something forgotten."
Callan didn't stop. He drove forward with brutal strikes—left, right, stab, kick—each blow testing, looking for weakness. The Pale Hand blocked most, but his scythe seemed slower now.
"You bleed," Callan growled. "Whatever you are, you're not untouchable."
"Nor are you," the Pale Hand replied.
The creature raised both arms. Black fire exploded outward.
Callan was flung back, his armor scorched, vision spinning. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and came to a stop against a broken fence. Pain bloomed in his ribs—probably cracked—but he pushed himself up.
The Pale Hand stepped closer. "You are worthy of death."
Valmere in Flames
The revenants had broken through the outer barricades. The fighting now spilled into the streets. Civilians ran for the inner keep, protected by hastily organized militias.
Ren retreated step by step, firing arrows between breaths. His quiver was nearly empty, and sweat slicked his brow.
"Fall back to the plaza!" he called. "We make our stand there!"
But even as the defenders regrouped, more revenants poured from the forest—too many. For every one they struck down, two more took its place.
A horn blew. Loud. Commanding.
From the west side of town, mounted riders charged in—mercenaries flying the broken-sun banner of House Varne.
Seris Vayn led them, daggers flashing. "You bastards didn't invite me to the party," she yelled as she slit a revenant's throat. "I hate being left out!"
Ren laughed despite the carnage. "You're late."
"Fashionably," Seris replied, throwing a bottle that erupted into blue fire. The revenants caught in its blast crumbled into ash.
With their arrival, the tide momentarily turned.
The Fire Inside
Callan rose, blood trailing from his mouth. The Pale Hand stood nearby, unmoving.
"You don't belong here," Callan said. "Whatever your Order wants, you'll fail."
The Pale Hand didn't respond. But his scythe lit once more.
Callan's vision dimmed. He was near collapse. Every breath hurt. But something stirred in him.
A heat. Deep. Buried. Old.
He remembered the Thronefire. The agony of it, yes—but also the power. He had rejected it once, fearing what it would make him.
But now?
He opened himself to it.
Flames erupted along his arms—not burning flesh, but embracing it. His blade caught fire, a clear white inferno that pulsed with memory and fury.
The Pale Hand staggered back. "The Emberborn…"
Callan smiled through the pain. "You're damn right."
He charged.
This time, his blade cut deep—into the shoulder, cleaving through dark bone and glowing rune. The Pale Hand let out a soundless scream.
Callan followed through with a flaming punch to the creature's chest. Black flames exploded outward.
The creature stumbled. For the first time, it looked unsure.
Callan didn't give it time to recover.
He drove his blade through the Pale Hand's midsection. "Tell your Prophet," he growled, "I'm not done burning."
With a final roar, he unleashed the fire within.
The Pale Hand was consumed in white flame—shrieking, twisting, disintegrating into glowing ash. The scythe clattered to the ground, molten and broken.
Silence fell.
The bone-tree screamed one last time and collapsed in on itself, crumbling like dead wood.
Across the town, the revenants followed—dropping lifeless as their master fell.
Aftermath
Morning came, quiet and golden.
Valmere stood, barely. Smoke curled into the air. The dead were many—but the town still breathed.
Callan sat on the steps of the keep, shirtless, his wounds being wrapped by Seris. "You nearly got yourself killed, you know," she muttered.
He gave a tired smile. "I tend to do that."
Ren approached, grim but intact. "We need to move fast. The Ashen Order will know what happened here."
Callan nodded. "And they'll come harder next time."
"Then we make sure we're ready."
Callan stood, facing the sunrise. The scythe of the Pale Hand had been shattered, but its pieces still radiated dark heat.
He picked up one fragment and studied it.
A war was coming. A true one.
And he'd be ready for it.