The forest held its breath, darkness cloaking Marcus and his hunters like a shroud. He knelt in the damp loam, knuckles white around his blade's hilt as he studied the distant campfire flickering between the trees. A cold weight hung from his neck—an ancient amulet that hummed with power, its price still fresh in his nightmares. Beside him crouched five others, their faces hollow-eyed and grim beneath war paint and scars. Once, they'd been simple villagers; now, they were something harder, forged in the crucible of humanity's desperate fight for survival. Each carried the same amulet—their protection, their shame.

  "They're down there," whispered Elara, her voice barely disturbing the early morning air. "Three of them, just like the scout said."

  Marcus nodded, memories of charred ruins flashing behind his eyes. Some time had passed since the messenger had staggered into their village, clothes still reeking of smoke, eyes wild with horror. The tale he'd brought—of Mountain View and two neighboring settlements reduced to ash by a red-haired witch and her undead companions—had spread like wildfire. Some dismissed it as an exaggeration, but Marcus saw the truth in the messenger's haunted stare. One hundred and seventy-three dead, they said. Children among them. The story had swelled with each retelling until the witch had become a demon in human skin, capable of raising the dead and commanding the very earth.

  "I can't believe she's real," Tomas muttered, the newest recruit fingering his amulet nervously. His voice carried the edge of someone still adjusting to the weight of what they'd become.

  Marcus turned, the wooden beads woven into his beard—symbols of his authority as war chief—clicking softly. "Real enough to leave three villages burning," he said, the memory of his bargain twisting in his gut.

  Four villagers he'd selected himself handed over to the hooded figures at the ancient crossroads. Their screams still echoed in his dreams. But the amulets had been worth it—technology from the old world that masked their life signatures from undead senses. How did they get to the demons? Why did they want to part with them? That was besides his knowledge. But he had already tested the devices. And they worked. Now, they would test them in real action.

  "The stories weren't exaggerated, Tomas," Marcus said. "I've seen what's left of Mountain View. Nothing grows there now—not even weeds."

  "Do you think we have a chance?" another asked. "I mean, the people of Mountain View said she used magic, real magic, to bring someone back from the dead."

  Marcus took a deep breath. He had heard the same stories, the rumors of a woman with red hair who had the power to control the very earth beneath her feet. A woman who wielded magic in ways no human should be able to. And yet, here they were, preparing to ambush her during the dawn.

  "Magic! Bah! They are just undead. The witch is not invincible," Marcus said firmly. "She was human. She bleeds like the rest of us."

  He didn't mention the gnawing doubt that had taken root in his chest. The thought that perhaps the tales were true. That the undead had special powers. Not just that never-ending hunger for the human flesh from the old stories. But he couldn't let that fear show. They had a mission, a duty passed down through generations: to keep humanity safe from the undead menace.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The undead had plagued their lands for centuries, a constant threat lurking in the shadows. Even though there hadn't been major conflicts in recent memory, their presence was a blight that couldn't be ignored. Every family had stories of loved ones lost to the undead. Every village had whispered tales of entire communities disappearing overnight, consumed by the darkness.

  The fear ran deep, as did their sense of responsibility.

  "Why do you think we can take her?" Tomas asked again, his voice barely above a whisper. He was the youngest of their group, eager but not yet tempered by the harsh realities of battle.

  Marcus turned to face him, his eyes cold but resolute. "Because we have no choice. If we don't stop her now, who will? If she's allowed to grow stronger, to continue doing… what the undead are doing, more of us will die. She may have killed some of our people, but we are prepared. We have our special arrows. And we have the… amulets. Unlike these poor souls from Mountain View."

  The others nodded, their fear momentarily replaced by determination. It wasn't about bravery—it was about survival. They had seen what happened when the undead were left unchecked, and they couldn't let that happen again. Before them, there were just three undead beasts, not some eldritch horrors, and they had faced worse odds before.

  "Besides," Marcus added, his voice low and fierce, "we have the element of surprise. They won't expect us to strike at first light. No one does."

  Marcus raised his fist—the signal. Six shadows detached from the forest, moving in perfect synchronization. Their footfalls made no sound, thanks to the strips of cloth bound around their boots. The amulets thrummed against their chests, ancient technology disguising their human heartbeats from supernatural senses.

  The distance to the camp closed with agonizing slowness. Fifty paces. Thirty. Twenty. Close enough now to see three distinct figures by the fire. Two grotesquely female figures and one male—all once human before the undead curse claimed them. Their faces were a mockery of the people they'd once been.

  Marcus fought the instinct to rush. They'd drilled this approach for days, planning each movement with the precision of hunters who couldn't afford mistakes. Not after what happened to the first team he'd sent after the witch—their remains found scattered across half a mile of forest, expressions frozen in terror.

  As they approached the camp's edge, Marcus caught his first clear glimpse of the faces of the undead demons. They were so human in so many ways. But it was hard to mistake them. If the brightly glowing eyes weren't a reason enough to be cautious, their strange stillness and silence added to the dark vibe.

  Marcus's chest tightened. Perfect. They were separated, distracted.

  He caught Elara's eye and nodded once. The master archer nocked an arrow tipped with ironroot—the rare herb that paralyzed undead flesh on contact, according to the village elders. She drew back smoothly, aiming for the motionless sentry.

  Marcus raised three fingers. Two. One.

  The arrow hissed through the air just as Marcus and the others erupted from the tree line. Tomas reached one of the women first, pressing his serrated knife against her throat before she could complete her startled movement. The arrow struck the standing figure with a meaty thunk, driving him backward. Elara's second shot followed instantly, pinning him to a tree through the shoulder.

  Marcus himself launched toward the second female demon, sword raised high. Time seemed to slow as her head snapped up, eyes widening with shock, then narrowing with something that looked impossibly like recognition. Too late to stop his momentum, he brought his blade down in a killing arc—