The world returned in fragments. First came the smell of burning tallow and old parchment, then the harsh, unyielding bite of woodsmoke against raw lungs. Ronan’s eyes fluttered open to the vaulted timber ceiling of the village chapel. The modest stone and timber sanctuary, usually reserved for quiet prayers and Sunday tithes, now smelled like a butcher's shop mixed with medicinal herbs. He lay flat on a wooden bench, his chest wrapped tight in blood-stiffened linen bandages.
A sharp, stabbing ache radiated through his ribs every time he drew a breath.
Panic seized him, shoving aside the heavy haze of pain. Mother.
Ronan tried to push himself up, his lanky arms shaking violently under the strain. "Mother?" he rasped, his voice a dry scrape of sandpaper.
"Lie still, boy. You'll tear the stitches open," a weary voice murmured.
At the edge of his vision, Padraig, an older monk-healer dressed in a soot-stained woolen robe, leaned over a wooden basin, washing a crimson rag. Padraig's hands were trembling, his eyes bloodshot and hollow from days of tending to the dead.
Before Ronan could demand answers, heavy footfalls echoed on the flagstones near the chapel entrance. Ronan turned his head, wincing as the movement pulled at his torn flesh.
Standing in the doorway was Sir Cormac, the Castellan, of the local noble’s retinue, his chainmail dented and crusted with dried gore. Two weary castle soldiers stood behind him, their shields scarred from frantic combat. Sir Cormac looked down at Ronan, his face lined with deep, bitter exhaustion.
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"Sorry we came late," Sir Cormac said flatly, his voice devoid of any real comfort, just the heavy burden of a lord who had arrived long after the slaughter was finished. "Take your rest, boy. The worst has passed."
Before Ronan could speak, before he could ask where his parents were, the crushing weight of exhaustion dragged him under again. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, and he slipped back into the dark.
Outside the heavy oak doors of the chapel, the cold mountain wind whipped through the ruined lanes of the village.
Sir Cormac, his face scarred and weathered like aged oak, stood with his arms crossed over a light chainmail shirt, staring down at the massive pyres smoking in the center of the square.
"Burn all the bodies," Sir Cormac instructed, his voice low and hard. "Every last one of them. And dig the pit deep before the ground freezes solid. We don't need tomorrow's problems crawling out of the dirt."
Padraig stepped out from the chapel doorway, pulling his robes tight against the draft. He looked exhausted, rubbing his temples with stained fingers.
"The dead are tended to," Padraig said quietly. "But we should monitor the child inside."
Sir Cormac raised a graying eyebrow. "Why? If a man is bitten by an undead, he joins them. If he is cut down by their rusted blades, the rot takes his blood, and he rises with the horde. It is an old, cruel law of the frontier."
"I know the law," Padraig replied, his voice dropping to a nervous whisper. "It has been days since the attack. By all rights, his flesh should have turned black, his eyes milky, his heart stopped hours ago. Yet... when I dressed his wound, I sensed a flicker of shadow clinging to his spirit."
Sir Cormac stared at him for a long moment, his pale eyes narrowing. "Did you try using light magic or your church relic?"
"I did," Padraig said, shaking his head. "The holy water burned, the prayers were spoken, but... maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was just a lingering taint of corruption before it was purged entirely by his youth."
"He is a lucky bastard, then," Sir Cormac muttered, turning his gaze back toward the smoking pyres. "Or a delayed one."
"Keep monitoring him," Padraig urged.
"Just monitor him," Sir Cormac replied coldly, resting his hand on the pommel of his longsword. "If he turns, kill the child."