The mist rolled in like a living beast—slow, suffocating, silver-thick and cold enough to bite bone. It crawled between trees, seeped into roots, slid under doors. By the time the first sentry screamed, it was already too late.
Maria sprinted toward the perimeter wall, her cloak flaring behind her. Joseph and Luca flanked her, both in half-shift—fangs bared, muscles taut. The war bond fire that had sealed their oath still blazed behind them, its light flickering wildly.
Then she saw it.
From the edge of the forest, they emerged.
The Buried Ones.
They were monstrous echoes of wolves, twisted by age and curse. Skeletal muzzles stretched over blackened flesh, bone armor fused with rotting muscle, their eyes glowing with ancient malice. Not dead. Not alive. Unchained.
They howled in unis
