The dead had no right to move.
Yet they did.
Steel groaned as the dead rose. Flesh decayed. Bones visible.
The echoes wielded shortswords and donned ragged cloaks.
Lucien didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Darky, almost whispering, "Uh… we might wanna run."
Luna, already summoning her blade again, sighed, almost as if she'd been asked to clean up someone else's mess.
A grim smile formed on Lucien's face. "Running's not gonna work, is it?"
Luna shrugged casually. "It never does."
The undead lunged forward. Then, chaos erupted.
Lucien summoned his newly acquired blade. 'At least 50, dammit!'
Despite the gravity of the situation, a grin crept up Lucien's smug face.
'At least I'll get to try it out.'
The Echoes surrounded them, slowly marching forward. Inevitable.
However, Lucien took charge, maybe out of instinct, or maybe he simply wanted to.
Luna stepped in gracefully. Lucien, viciously.
'This should get me a nice haul of shadows,' he thought to himself.
An all-too-familiar scoff resounded in the back of his head: "That is, if you live."
Lucien didn't wait for them to close the distance.
He charged.
Vowcleaver arced cleanly—cutting through the air—meeting the first Echo head-on. A flash of steel, a crack of bone. The Echo crumpled. Blood painted the snow and stone.
Lucien pivoted, the blade swinging to his side.
Another undead lunged at him, the shortsword flashing for his throat. He ducked low, then drove his sword upward, piercing the Echo's chest.
It twitched, attempting to eliminate Lucien with the last of its life.
Lucien effortlessly pulled the blade out, and in one swift movement, cleaved off its head.
There was no time for repose; another Echo was already upon him.
Luna danced beside him.
Her katana glinted once, twice—each movement precise. No wasted momentum. No wasted breath.
A perfect contrast to Lucien's brutality.
More rose from the graves. On the ground, bones crunching with each step taken, tainted crimson with blood.
Lucien gritted his teeth. His breath was misty. Ragged.
'Fifty? It's gonna feel like a hundred at this rate.'
One of the undead slammed into him. Lucien staggered back and barely managed to raise his blade to counter another undead slashing downwards.
Vowcleaver shrieked under the pressure.
The undead pushed harder, its face expressionless.
Lucien snarled and twisted, using momentum to his favor. He stepped aside, ripping his blade free, and slammed the pommel into the undead's partially exposed skull.
It cracked. The Echo dropped.
Lucien didn't pause. He couldn't.
Another three closed in.
Luna moved to cover him, her katana carving clean arcs through the air.
A head flew, then another, simultaneously crashing into the snow.
The remaining Echo turned its attention to her, charging low, blade stretched out.
Lucien cut it down from behind before it could even retaliate.
More graves cracked open, more Echoes poured out.
Lucien dodged a wild swing, rolling away, then came up swinging. His sword cut through a knee joint, sending the undead sprawling. He finished it with one thrust to the back.
He turned to Luna, breathing hard.
"We're getting surrounded," he said.
"No," she said, her voice sharp. "We already are."
They pressed on.
Luna carved a bloody line through the ranks, graceful and terrifying, while Lucien rampaged forward with relentless momentum.
For every Echo they dismantled, two more seemed to take its place.
But they couldn't slow.
A hand latched onto Lucien's ankle.
He looked down—an Echo half buried, dragging itself forward.
Lucien snarled, kicking the thing off.
Too late.
Its rusted blade lashed up, biting deep into his calf.
Pain flared. Blood splattered on the snow, a vivid stain against the dull white.
The momentum halted.
Every battle turned hectic, like wading through water. Every movement cost more. Every swing took longer.
The Echoes closed in—tighter, hungrier.
Luna shifted in an attempt to cover him.
One Echo lunged.
It was intercepted by Luna, but another slipped past.
Lucien caught it on his blade, parrying and splitting it at the waist.
'Don't fall,' he told himself.
The snow faded into a blackened slurry of broken Echoes.
It became less a fight, more a slaughter.
No finesse.
Just survival. And murder.
Finally, the last Echo fell, crumbling into silence and ash.
Lucien stood hunched—leaning on Vowcleaver—panting, as blood trickled down his shin.
Luna stood upright, wary, chest heaving, face pale.
For a moment, nothing but the sound of their breathing and the wind.
Without saying a word, Lucien turned to a pile of Echoes.
He placed his fist on one of the corpses.
His Mark lit up.
[---Echo Slain: Ironfallen Penitent---]
[Bound by their own trembling hands, they wander broken halls, dragging prayers worn thin by time. Each step stirs rusted chains, each swing a hollow plea to absent gods. Their wounds have long scarred over, but still they chase forgiveness lost beyond the veil.]
'Forgiveness? Death's the only prayer that gets answered.' Lucien smirked, then, in a hushed tone, 'And I'm its heir.'
'I wonder if this will work.'
The corpses were piled up closely together. Their shadows all interlocked.
Lucien flexed his palm. Then, he willed the shadows to enter the splotch.
The Mark flared with cold darkness. Then—
Nothing.
'How does this thing even work? Why couldn't the Gods just leave a manual?'
With a sigh, he started peeling away.
But then suddenly—
The amalgamation of shadows started writhing. Almost as if they had been brought back to life by a higher being.
A deity. Something… Primordial.
The mass resisted for a moment, but then quivered, and obeyed. They slithered forward, slow and dreadful, not by gravity, not by momentum, but rather, by inevitability—drawn like moths to a star.
Slowly, the mass of darkness made its way over to Lucien.
Then—
The shadows rushed into him.
He could feel it; the sinister power inside his mindscape grew stronger.
Then it hit him.
The pain—
Cold. Cold as if a thousand shards of ice had pierced his head, as if the world itself had cracked wide open and flooded him with frozen darkness. The power wasn't gentle. It didn't comfort him. It demanded strength from its wielder. After all, this power was meant for a God.
Every heartbeat was a scream.
Every breath a betrayal.
It felt like his head was being filled with ice and nails.
It was as if his skull had turned to frozen glass — ready to splinter, to shatter under the strain.
He gasped—short, ugly, feral.
The pain wasn't immediate. It was gradual, but its arrival was nothing short of catastrophic.
His vision swam. His legs trembled as though his very muscles were no longer his own, as if some ancient power was trying to tear him apart from the inside.
The ground beneath him tilted. He took a step back, his legs faltering, before he collapsed.
His teeth ground together. His hands curled to fists. His nails bit into his palms.
A guttural gasp tore from his throat.
He pressed his hands into the dirt, the pain so overwhelming, even the thought of lifting his hand made him experience vertigo.
From the corner of his vision, he noticed Luna.
She was watching him—no panic, no unfounded concern—but her gaze was sharp. Her stance didn't waver, yet there was tension in how she stood. As if she was prepared to step in.
Lucien tried to focus, to push away the pain. Impossible. The shadows' power was cold and inhuman.
His head bowed, the pain overwhelming everything else.
"Lucien—" Luna called out, her voice steady, but laced with a hint of concern, her eyes betraying a flicker of worry. She took a cautious step forward and said something.
But the pain surged once more, and Lucien's vision faded, his last thought spiraling into oblivion. 'I should've known—'