Chapter 7

  Tivric tended to Skorval’s injuries, waiting until the other grimtails breathing steadied into sleep. Only then did he turn back to Vaeyra to finish his story, his voice low and unwavering as he recounted the day the dead first entered the burrows.

  “It started without warning,” he said. “Two skeletons, wandering aimlessly through our tunnels. They didn’t attack; they weren’t even hostile. The tunnelers found them near the outer edges and simply let them pass. It was reported to the warrenlord, but the warning fell on deaf ears.”

  He paused, the silence of the forest pressing in on them.

  “Before long, the numbers grew. First five at a time, then ten. They were always moving, always silent. Then the reports started trickling down from the surface—Hearthrun, Embercross, and the hamlets surrounding Karr’s Bastion. Brutal raids. Stables torched in the night. Caravans vanished without a trace.”

  Vaeyra’s grip tightened on her shield strap. “They were using your tunnels.”

  “Yes,” Tivric said. “The undead we allowed through the burrows were using them to strike the surface. Surprise attacks. And we had let it happen.”

  “Yes,” Tivric admitted, the weight of the confession heavy in the air. “The things we allowed to pass were using our home as a back door to the surface. And we had stood by and watched it happen.” He exhaled slowly, his eyes dark.

  “A Grimtail messenger was finally sent to the nearest town after a particularly bloodthirsty raid—one that left dozens dead and a schoolhouse in ashes. Children were among the slain. He went to warn them that the amount of undead were rising, and that the dead were coming from underground.”

  Tivric exhaled slowly.

  Tivric exhaled slowly, the weight of the memory hanging in the air. “The people were livid. They blamed us for the very existence of the tunnels. Our messenger barely escaped with his life; a mob tried to kill him the moment the warning left his lips.”

  Vaeyra shook her head. “That’s narrow-minded,” she said, her voice tight. “By that logic, you might as well blame the stonemason or the carpenter every time an army marches across a bridge.”

  “Logic didn't matter. Hearthrun turned its back on the Grimtails that day.” Tivric leaned back slightly, his gaze fixed on the flickering light. “A few weeks later, a team of tunnelers was working on a new drainway to redirect the surface runoff. That’s when it happened. A host of skeletal undead, heavily armored and moving with the precision of a legion, descended into the deep. They were unlike anything we had seen before.”

  He tightened his grip on his knees. “The guilt was still fresh. The anger, too. When the skeletons drew near, one rat stepped forward and barred their path—our current warrenlord, Marn Hollowtooth.”

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  The battle that followed was a slaughter.

  “The tunnelers were never meant for a front-line war; they wore nothing but light leather and work gear,” Tivric said. “Marn ordered a full retreat, but most refused to run. They vanished into the side-crevices, striking from the dark and disappearing before the undead could even swing a blade.”

  He leaned forward, the firelight catching the scars on his paws. “That clash became known as the First Latch Run—a bit of a lie, as we didn't yet have the gates or latches we use now. Back then, there were only open tunnels and desperate rats.”

  Tivric’s expression darkened. “The losses were staggering, and grief turned to bitterness almost overnight. Many fueled their anger toward Marn, blaming his leadership for the carnage that day. Others stood by him, believing the surface dwellers had already bled enough because of our inaction. In their eyes, it didn't matter if the claws were bone or fur—the blood was on our hands.”

  He took a slow breath. “Everything changed after that. We stopped being mere excavators. We began rerouting tunnels into dead ends and reinforcing every passage. From that day on, any undead that stepped into the burrows never stepped out.”

  “The surface folk still hated us—centuries of raids and bloodshed aren't easily forgotten—and they continued to treat us like vermin. But we couldn't sit by and let them die for our mistakes,” Tivric said. “Marn Hollowtooth started something that day. That was the day the Grimtails chose to fight back.”

  Vaeyra remained quiet for a long moment before finally speaking. “Your people didn’t even know what the undead were doing,” she said. “And now they blame you for things that happened before most of them were even born.”

  Skorval’s breathing had deepened; he was still fast asleep.

  “That first Latch Run—when Marn stood his ground to protect the surface—it cost us dearly,” Tivric whispered. “Among the many who died that day were Skorval’s parents.”

  Vaeyra went cold, the words leaving her speechless.

  The next morning, they mounted up with the intent to reach Embercross and find a healer for Skorval. It was the next village along the road to Solcaris.

  They rode for another full day. Skorval was clearly injured—wincing with every gallop of the horse—but he managed to stay upright in the saddle through sheer will.

  Despite sleeping more than the others, Skorval was irritable and exhausted. Tivric was no doctor and couldn’t say exactly what the injury was, but the signs were obvious—Skorval’s breathing was shallow, labored, and wrong.

  They reached the gates of Embercross by midday. After dismounting, they led their mounts forward on foot.

  The gate itself was formidable, but it was nothing compared to Karr’s Bastion. Where Karr’s Bastion loomed behind stone walls and ironbound gates, Embercross was ringed by a tall palisade—sharpened timbers lashed together into a wooden barricade, its gate thick, weathered, and wary rather than grand.

  They approached the gate with heavy, measured steps. “Halt,” one of the guards commanded, his voice tight. “Keep your blades sheathed—and don’t cause any trouble,” the other added, his eyes darting between them.

  The heavy timber gates creaked open with a groan. As they moved into Embercross, the guards’ hushed, bewildered whispers followed them. The men stared openly, their eyes fixed on the jagged, massive wounds Skorval and Vaeyra bore—injuries that spoke of a fight no ordinary traveler should have survived.

  Embercross was a modest settlement. A single cobblestone spine ran through its heart, with narrow dirt paths branching off like veins toward clusters of timber homes and sagging barns. After stabling their horses, the group set off on foot toward the center of town, the weight of the villagers' stares pressing in on them.