Drako's steps were slow as he left the gates of Carreon, the creaking of his ancient armor echoing softly along the forest path. Behind him, his undead escort followed in perfect silence, not a breath between them.
He didn't speak until the last Carreon scout was far behind.
Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he turned slightly toward one of the figures beside him, a tall, robed corpse wearing a black iron helm that hid its face. No eyes showed, no mouth moved beneath the metal.
"The stage is set," Drako rasped. His voice was low, like dry branches grinding together. "What news from Bishopdown?"
The robed undead answered in a hiss, each word distorted like whispers leaking from a cracked tomb.
"The roots are ready. The corpses stir beneath the sacred ground."
Drako didn't pause.
"And the harvest?"
"Tonight… they rise."
