Chapter 4: First Undead
"So... this is the afterlife."
Merek muttered the words beneath his breath, the chill in the air turning each syllable into a wisp of mist that danced before fading. He stood on a lonely cobbled street beneath a sky smeared with ribbons of iridescent color, like oil upon water. Above it all loomed a vast red moon, swollen and watchful.
The air was cold—biting, spectral. It tugged at his bones, nudging him forward with unseen fingers. His gaze rose to the building ahead: a two-storey structure that looked torn from the 14th century, with aged timber walls and a steep gabled roof. Faded paint curled along its edges, and iron-framed windows glimmered dimly in the moonlight.
A wooden signboard hung askew above the entrance, its letters carved deep.
Morrow’s End.
Merek hesitated only a moment before stepping closer. The door creaked open as if anticipating him. The moment he crossed the threshold, the cold withdrew. Warmth met him—not the dry comfort of firelight, but something subtler. Silken. Enveloping. Like slipping into memory.
The interior was spare but deliberate. Several high-backed chairs, crafted of dark wood and deep green velvet, stood arranged in quiet formation—all facing the receptionist’s desk, which gleamed as though it had been lacquered with moonlight.
Behind it sat a woman.
Or something that resembled one.
She was still, poised like a portrait come to life. Her skin was pale, but not lifeless—luminous, like moonlight reflecting off fresh snow. Silver hair, smooth and silken, spilled over her shoulders and down her back, glinting faintly in the soft amber glow of unseen lamps. Her face held a sculpted perfection, too flawless for comfort, as if drawn by the memory of a dream rather than the hand of nature.
Then she lifted her gaze.