The village of Nareth was frozen in morbid peace. No cries. No movement. Only the occasional creak of a beam or a swinging door, as if even the wind no longer dared to enter.

  Garlan, Marenna, and Brenuss walked slowly between the houses. The atmosphere was stifling—worse than in Arcalion’s fortress. Here, death had not come. It had been awaited. On its knees. As an offering.

  They passed doorways left ajar. Everywhere, villagers sat frozen in poses of sleep, prayer, or silence. Their bodies did not move. Their eyes were open. Fixed. No heartbeat. No warmth.

  A runic circle was carved into the center of the square. Perfectly precise. Black blood had pooled there, drawn as if by design. In the middle: an ancient well, ringed with bone fangs.

  Garlan stopped dead.

  — He was here. He waited for us.

  Marenna’s breath caught.

  — All these people… they were sacrificed. Their lives… concentrated to fuel a spell.

  And then the ground pulsed.

  A laugh rose. Low. Hissing. No body moved, but the well darkened. The runes flared to life.

  And at the well’s edge, he stood. Cloaked in shadow, features hidden beneath a shifting hood, his body radiated a presence cold and devouring. He did not need to speak. He simply stared, silently, as though observing a finished masterpiece.

  He had waited for this moment. Every villager had been prepared, bound, drained of essence to feed one single spell. A masterpiece of corruption.

  A jet of shadow lashed out, coiling around Brenuss before anyone could react.

  — No! Marenna screamed.

  But the spell was already cast. The runes were ancient, fed by dozens of souls. There was no battle. Only the stopping of a breath—

  And the violent sound of awakening.

  Brenuss fell to the ground. Motionless. Then… he rose.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  His eyes were empty. His scales blanched, cracked. His wings were nothing but skeletal membranes. A breath of decay escaped his jaws.

  It was no longer Brenuss. It was an abomination.

  And it was their fault.

  The fight began.

  Garlan, in shock, did not react. He stared at Brenuss without seeing, frozen by the impossible. Only when the undead dragon’s tail lashed the air and struck him full force was he torn from his stupor. His body was hurled across the fields, crashing down in an explosion of dirt and stone.

  Marenna, eyes wide, felt something break inside her—between sorrow and rage. She stepped forward. Then again. Her aura became visible, green and blazing. Partial draconic armor formed across her arms, shoulders, part of her face. Shards of scales even bloomed along her spine.

  — You weren’t meant to die… she whispered.

  Then she screamed. Not from pain. From refusal.

  Nature answered. Roots burst from the ground, thick as arms, coiling around the undead dragon’s limbs. She bound him, forced him down. The aura of life pulsed around her like an exposed heartbeat.

  She stretched out her arms toward Brenuss, closing her eyes.

  — Come back… I can still undo this…

  Pure mana gathered, spiraled through the air. Marenna attempted the impossible: to reverse a death spell, to impose life upon corruption.

  She poured every drop of life mana she could muster into the roots. Wave after wave, she gave her energy, her hope, her pain. For long minutes she held the effort, the flow, the intensity.

  But nothing. No shiver. No light. No response.

  Her reserves drained. Her breath grew shallow. Her vision blurred.

  Still, Brenuss stood. Dead.

  She screamed—not to call him back, but in rage. At her helplessness. At the cruelty of the moment.

  That was when Garlan returned, armor in tatters, covered in dirt, his gaze hollow. He saw Marenna kneeling, trembling, her arms still stretched toward what remained of their companion.

  He knelt beside her, wrapped his arms around her, and whispered:

  — Go back to the fortress. Don’t bear the fight that’s coming. Leave this to me.

  Garlan stood alone, facing the twisted dragon. He tried one last thing.

  He closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind.

  — Brenuss… can you hear me?

  Silence.

  He pushed harder, forcing telepathy. Sent impulses. Memories. Images of them together.

  Still nothing.

  Then, another voice—deep, distant—resonated in his mind.

  It was Virellia.

  — No life remains in him. What you see is only a shell. Give him the rest he deserves.

  Garlan did not answer.

  He stepped forward, slowly, toward the body of his fallen brother. Flames rose around him, roaring but contained.

  — Forgive me, brother… for failing to protect you.

  He placed a hand on the skeletal chest of the undead dragon. His fire armor ignited, coiling gently around the corrupted corpse.

  The fire did not rage. It consumed. It released.

  Brenuss dissolved, slowly, into silence.

  When the last fragment of bone turned to dust, Garlan stepped back, tears burning his eyes.

  He turned.

  And walked back alone toward the fortress.