Chapter 12: The First Thrall
As more undead funneled in from the cemetery’s far reaches, some came bearing offerings—ranging from scrawny squirrels and mangled rats to half-eaten wolves with blood still dripping from their jaws.
The graveyard stirred with a strange, swelling energy. The undead presence grew not only in numbers but in sheer size—shambling corpses swollen with undeath, some towering over the rest like grotesque monuments to rot.
Low moans and guttural groans echoed through the night like a choir of the damned, rattling through broken tombstones and twisted trees.
"That should be all of them, right?" Corven muttered under his breath, narrowing his glowing crimson eyes.
He quickly tallied a rough estimate—at least two hundred undead. All clawed from the soil of the very town’s graveyard.
A realization struck him.
This village must have existed for a very long time to have buried this many bodies. Centuries, perhaps. A legacy of the dead, all now standing before him like unwilling soldiers.
Eventually, the undead began to form a square-shaped gathering in the center of the graveyard. A primitive show of order. In front of Corven, the creatures deposited their prizes—a collection of corpses, most barely recognizable as animals. Squirrels with snapped necks, rats bloated with rot, wolves whose eyes still twitched.
An offering.
It looked more like a compost heap than a tribute.
Corven let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. Disbelief curled across his face.
While the idea of commanding an army sounded appealing in theory...