Deus Necros

“Let’s pack it up,” Timur said, his voice low and steady as he straightened the straps of his gear, the faint creak of worn leather following the motion. The air was still damp from the night mist, heavy with the scent of trampled soil and dried blood. Around them, the scattered remnants of battle had begun to cool. Broken branches, split shields, and the occasional glint of steel half-buried in the muck.

Without another word, the group moved to board the carriage that waited just off the road, its dark lacquered wood dulled by a thin coat of forest dust. Horses snorted and shifted, their hooves striking the ground in anxious intervals, sensing the tension that hadn’t yet left the air.

Robin lingered by the wheel, his dark hood casting a long shadow over his cheekbones. “I’ll stay up top,” he said, motioning toward the roof with a tilt of his chin. “Someone needs to keep an eye on the trail ahead.” he added.

“You’ll be good by yourself there?” Ludwig asked, his tone neutral but with a touch of weight beneath it. He leaned slightly out from the carriage door, fingers brushing the edge of the frame, half-turning toward Robin.

“I have good vision,” Robin replied, his eyes not leaving the treeline. “We’ll need that. Just be careful of that guy.” A slight motion of his hand indicated the unconscious figure being gently lifted into the inside of the carriage by Gorak. “At the end of the day, he is a bandit.”

Ludwig followed the motion, his gaze passing over Redd’s bloodied form, but didn’t linger there. Instead, his attention shifted to the figure clinging to the red-haired youth, an ethereal shape hunched protectively around his frame. The Skinwalker. Only he, Thomas, and the Knight King could perceive it. Her form flickered faintly, like moonlight caught on rushing water, and her grasp around Redd’s frame was oddly tender, as if shielding something sacred. “Don’t worry about him,” Ludwig said finally, his voice low. “He won’t be moving anytime soon. Not with that much injury.” He didn’t wait for a reply as he drew the door closed behind him with a firm click, sealing them in.

He chose the seat closest to the exit, not out of paranoia, but just in case he needed to act. The interior of the carriage was quiet, the muted clatter of hooves beginning to replace the earlier silence. Wooden wheels rolled over uneven stone and loose gravel, jostling them ever so slightly in their seats. With the spellwork that expanded the cabin space subtly humming, the walls shimmered faintly whenever the lantern swung. Faint sigils etched into the ceiling flickered with arcane light, the dull blue hue lending a soft, sickly glow to the faces within.

Ludwig’s eyes drifted across the space, his gaze briefly touching Redd’s unmoving figure before moving on. Then, as if drawn by some tether, his attention settled on Celine. Where once her posture had slumped in unnatural slumber, now she sat upright, back against the carriage wall, eyes open. The familiar green hue had returned to her irises, though they held no warmth, only a flat, vacant shine, like polished stone. She blinked once, slowly, but said nothing. Ludwig watched her in silence, trying to read what little emotion might still flicker behind that hollow gaze. She did not seem hostile, merely distant. Somewhere between waking and still dreaming.

Timur, perhaps sensing the rising tension, broke the silence with the rustle of cloth. He reached into his side pouch and pulled out a compact satchel, thick and dented with use. With a twist, he unfastened the flap and retrieved several compressed packets wrapped in wax paper and twine. The smell of dried meat and grain wafted faintly into the space. “Get some food in ya,” he said, tossing one of the packets toward Ludwig with casual aim. “You probably haven’t had anything since you came back from that cursed island.”

Ludwig caught it easily, turning it over in his hands. The packet felt warm where Timur’s palm had pressed it. He didn’t open it, merely stared at it for a moment, thumb tracing along the rough twine.

For an undead like Ludwig, food meant nothing to him, and eating this would simply mean that another person would be without food.

“I’m not hungry,” he said at length, before reaching across the cabin space and extending it toward Celine. “You can have mine.”

Her gaze drifted toward him, then to the offering. For a moment she didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge him beyond that single glance. Then, slowly, she raised her hand and took the packet, her fingers brushing against his briefly, cold, smooth, and too still to be natural. She cradled it loosely in her lap, as though unsure what to do with it.

“You’ll probably have better odds at making a dragon give up its hoard than feeding a Noble True Vampire rations meant for foot soldiers,” Timur muttered, slouching back in his seat and chewing idly on a strip of jerky. “No offense to either of you.”

But before anyone could laugh or rebut, Celine’s fingers twitched. With a strangely precise motion, she unwrapped the wax paper and raised the jerky to her lips. Her teeth sank into it slowly, the sinewy strip tearing with a faint snap. She chewed, silently, as if the act itself was detached from appetite. It was a gesture more symbolic than necessary.

Ludwig allowed himself a faint smile, lips barely tilting. He shot Timur a sidelong glance.

The older man cleared his throat. “I suppose… I could be wrong sometimes.”

Celine continued eating, unfazed by the attention or conversation, her eyes still void of expression.

The carriage pressed on, the tempo of hooves shifting now and then as the terrain changed. Outside, trees swayed gently beneath an overcast sky, and the scent of wet pine seeped through the wooden panels in slow, earthy wafts. The road narrowed, twisted, then widened again. Hours passed, or perhaps only minutes, it was difficult to tell, lulled as they were by the soft creak of wood and the low murmurs of arcane reinforcement runes.

Eventually, a new sound disrupted the lull: breathing. Harsh, uneven, wheezing through clenched teeth. Redd’s chest began to rise and fall in steadier rhythm, though his body remained limp. The worst had passed. Or so they thought.

Then the Skinwalker hissed. Something only Ludwig could hear, fear was clear in her eyes, and her wolf ears drooped to the side. More of worry than fear.

Then a sharp sound, wet, like the rasp of torn silk dragged through water. It came from outside the carriage and echoed through the magical space with unnatural clarity, making everyone stiffen. Even Celine stopped chewing. Her head turned, not abruptly, but with eerie slowness, toward the narrow window on her side of the carriage.

Ludwig felt the chill before the words left Thomas’s mouth.

“Looks like trouble,” tThomas said, hovering near the cabin roof, his spectral form flickering nervously.

Ludwig’s eyes narrowed, and in one fluid motion, he turned toward the door and muttered, “We have company.”

Above, Robin’s voice shattered the tense silence. “BRACE FOR IMPACT!”