Darkness swallowed Val whole, then spat him back into consciousness.

  He gasped, the air filling his lungs sweet and clean in a way he couldn't remember experiencing before. His eyes snapped open to a sky so vibrantly blue it seemed painted rather than real. Clouds drifted lazily overhead, their edges gilded with sunlight, forming shapes that shifted and melted into one another as he watched.

  Val blinked, disoriented. The last thing he remembered was the Shadowbinder's attack, the searing pain as his aether nexus collapsed, then... nothing.

  Am I dead?

  He sat up slowly, expecting pain that never came. Beneath his palms, soft grass cushioned his weight, each blade perfect and unmarred. A gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and pine, mingling with something else… woodsmoke and freshly turned earth.

  Val pushed himself to his feet, turning in a slow circle to take in his surroundings. He stood on a grassy knoll overlooking a small village nestled in a valley that seemed eerily familiar yet wrong. The ring of mountains in the distance mirrored those surrounding Yelden Valley, their snow capped peaks piercing the sky in the way he'd known since childhood. But where Oakspire should dominate the landscape, the massive tree visible from every corner of the valley, there was nothing but open sky.

  "What is this place?" he murmured, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, both present and distant.

  The village below hummed with activity. From his vantage point, Val saw people moving through a central square. Children darted between adults carrying baskets or pushing handcarts. A group of workers labored at the edge of the settlement, erecting the frame of a new building with practiced efficiency.

  Val descended the hill toward the village, his feet carrying him forward almost of their own accord. As he approached, details sharpened into focus, the thatched roofs of modest homes, the carefully tended gardens that surrounded them, the well at the center of the square where women gathered with clay vessels.

  The people themselves caught his attention next. Their clothing bore no resemblance to anything he'd seen in Oakspire or the outlying settlements. The men wore loose fitting tunics belted at the waist, their legs wrapped in cloth bindings rather than trousers. Women dressed in simple shifts layered with intricately embroidered vests, their hair either braided tightly against their scalps or covered with squares of fabric tied at the back.

  Val reached the edge of the village and paused, waiting for someone to challenge his presence or at least acknowledge him. When no one did, he ventured further into the settlement. He passed within arm's reach of a burly man stacking firewood, then directly through the path of a young woman balancing a basket of apples on her hip.

  Neither reacted to his presence. Not even a flicker of awareness crossed their features.

  Val wandered deeper into the village, observing details with growing fascination. Despite the seemingly primitive construction of the buildings, he noticed subtle evidence of advanced knowledge. The well had been positioned to take advantage of natural water flow from the nearby hills. The new building under construction incorporated load bearing techniques.

  Most intriguing of all were the gardens. Every home, no matter how humble, maintained a plot of herbs and vegetables that seemed to thrive beyond natural possibility. Plants that shouldn't grow alongside one another flourished in harmony, leaves vibrant and unblemished by pests or disease.

  A burst of childish laughter drew Val's attention to a small clearing between houses where a group of children played. Most engaged in a game involving a rock shaped like a ball and an elaborate system of rules Val couldn't decipher, but one child sat apart from the others.

  A little girl, no more than six or seven years old, knelt in a patch of bare earth, intent on her solitary activity. Long black hair fell forward, obscuring her face as she worked, her small hands moving with deliberate care.

  Val found himself drawn to her, crossing the distance before he consciously decided to move. As he approached, he saw she was digging a small hole in the dirt with a stick worn smooth from handling. Her movements were precise, almost ritualistic.

  When the hole reached a depth that satisfied her, she set the stick aside and reached into a pouch tied to her belt. From it, she withdrew a single seed, holding it in her palm with an expression of such reverence that Val found himself holding his breath.

  The girl placed the seed gently into the hole, then covered it with soil, her fingertips patting the earth with delicate pressure. From a clay cup beside her, she poured a careful measure of water over the spot, her lips moving in what appeared to be a whispered incantation or prayer.

  Val leaned closer, straining to hear her words, but they remained just beyond his comprehension; a melody without lyrics, a rhythm without sound.

  "She's asking the seed to remember what it's meant to become."

  The voice, so close that Val felt the words as much as heard them, sent him stumbling backward in surprise. He whirled around to find an elderly woman standing beside him, watching the little girl with an expression of profound tenderness.

  Unlike the villagers, her eyes met his directly, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She wore simple robes of undyed linen that seemed to shimmer faintly at the edges, as if not quite solid. Her silver hair hung loose down her back, threaded with what appeared to be tiny flowers and leaves.

  "Who are you?" Val demanded, instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. "What is this place?"

  The woman's smile deepened, creasing her weathered face with lines of remembered joy. "My name is Lyraelle," she said, her voice carrying the cadence of leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. "As for what this place is, it is memory, Valtha Hearne. A memory preserved in time, waiting for the one who could access it."

  Val stared at her, processing her words. "Lyraelle," he repeated.

  Val glanced back at the little girl, who continued her planting, unaware of their presence or conversation. "Is that you?" he asked. "As a child?"

  Lyraelle laughed again, shaking her head. "No, not me. I came to Mother Arden much later, already a young woman fleeing the destruction of my village." Her expression sobered. "What you're seeing now are my memories from her, given to me to safeguard."

  Val's gaze snapped back to the little girl, really seeing her for the first time. Her features, partially obscured by her hair, showed a quiet determination beyond her years. As he watched, she sat back on her heels, surveying her work with critical assessment.

  "That's Mother Arden?" Val whispered, unable to reconcile this small, ordinary looking child with the near deity described in Oakspire's tales.

  "Before she was Mother Arden, she was simply Arden," Lyraelle confirmed, her eyes never leaving the girl. "Daughter of a woodcutter and midwife, born with an affinity for life that manifested earlier than anyone had seen before. What you're witnessing happened nearly three thousand years ago, in the early days of the Atilean Empire's expansion."

  As if summoned by Lyraelle's words, a shout echoed across the village square. A woman approached, her steps hurried but not panicked, calling the girl's name. Young Arden looked up, pushing her hair back from her face to reveal intelligent green eyes and a stubborn set to her jaw.

  "Arden! There you are," the woman said, coming to a stop beside the girl. "Your father needs help with the kindling, and you've been gone half the morning." Her tone held exasperation tinged with fondness.

  The girl stood, brushing dirt from her simple dress. "I was planting, Mother," she said, her voice higher and clearer than Val had expected. "The earth told me it wanted a rowan tree here."

  The woman sighed, placing a gentle hand on her daughter's shoulder. "And I'm sure it will grow beautifully, as all your plantings do. But your father needs you now, not the earth."

  Young Arden nodded, casting one last look at the spot where she'd planted the seed before allowing herself to be led away. As they walked, Val noticed something he'd missed before; a faint, almost imperceptible glow surrounding the girl, visible only when shadows fell across her path.

  "She's already using aether," he observed. "At that age."

  Lyraelle nodded. "From her earliest moments, Arden could sense the flow of life aether around her, could direct it without training or conscious effort. To her, it was as natural as breathing." The elder woman turned to face Val fully. "But I haven't brought you here merely to witness her childhood. There is much you need to understand."

  "Why me?" Val asked, the question that had haunted him since his abilities first manifested. "Why am I seeing this? Why am I... whatever I am?"

  Lyraelle's expression grew solemn. "Because the time of need has come again, Valtha Hearne. Because the darkness that Mother Arden sacrificed herself to contain is rising once more, and Yelden Valley requires a champion to defend it." She gestured to the village around them. "I am but memory now, an echo preserved in aether to guide whoever might follow in her footsteps, I had thought, after so many centuries, that no one would ever come. But then I felt your aether signature, like a beacon in darkness."

  "I will show you what you need to know," Lyraelle continued, moving toward the clearing. "Not all at once, your mind couldn't contain it. But piece by piece, memory by memory, until you understand what Mother Arden discovered, what she created, and what she sacrificed to save us all."

  Then everything blurred, and darkness claimed him once more.

  Blood painted the ground like spilled wine. Toren felt the familiar hot spray across his face as he yanked his blade from the ghoul's throat, the creature's eyes still twitching with unnatural animation even as black ichor pulsed from the fatal wound. It collapsed in a heap of rotting flesh and bone, joining three others that lay scattered around him.

  "More coming from the left!" Jens called from somewhere behind.

  Toren pivoted, his thinning gray hair plastered to his skull with sweat despite the mountain chill. His left leg, never quite healed from Willow Creek, protested with a sharp stab of pain. He ignored it. Thirty odd years of service had taught him that pain was just another voice in the chorus; acknowledge it, then silence it.

  The ghouls burst from the treeline thirty paces away, once human features twisted into a mockery of life. Female, or had been. The tattered remains of a blue dress clung to desiccated flesh. Its eyes locked on him with predatory focus, mouth opening to reveal blackened teeth and a rasping howl that echoed across the rocky shoreline.

  Toren didn't waste breath on speech. He simply raised his recurve bow, that unique dark wood warm beneath his calloused fingers, nocked, and loosed in one fluid motion. The arrow struck true, punching through the ghoul's eye socket with a wet sound that carried across the unnatural stillness of the lake. The creature dropped mid stride, momentum carrying it forward in a tumble of limbs before it lay still.

  "Clear?" he called, voice barely raised. Loud shouts attracted the dead. Everyone in his squad knew this.

  "Clear east," Kitra responded from her perch on a boulder twenty paces to his right, her auburn hair catching the late afternoon sun.

  "Clear north," Jens confirmed, moving up to Toren's position.

  "Clear west," Dara added, her breathing slightly elevated as she scanned the treeline with narrowed eyes.

  He turned south, where Lake Clarity stretched before them like shattered glass beneath the waning sunlight. Its waters lapped gently against the rocky shore, peaceful in stark contrast to the violence that had erupted moments before. Nothing moved on that glassy surface except the gentle ripples caused by an occasional breeze.

  "Clear south," he muttered, mostly to himself.

  Toren lowered his bow, feeling the familiar ache in his shoulder. Age was a persistent enemy, one that couldn't be killed with arrows or blades. He rolled the joint carefully, working out the stiffness while surveying the carnage. Seven ghouls dispatched, plus the wight that had been directing them, that one had taken Mara's entire squad to bring down.

  Speaking of which...

  "Mara!" he called, keeping his voice low but projecting it toward the stand of pines where her squad had cornered the wight.

  "Here," came the response, followed by the sergeant herself emerging from the trees. Blood, her own, worryingly, streaked one side of her face, but her step was steady. Behind her, Farran and Selene supported Gareth between them, the ranger's face ashen beneath his beard. A dark stain spread across his leather armor just below the ribs.

  Toren's eyes narrowed. "How bad?"

  "Cracked ribs, maybe broken," Mara answered, her salt and pepper hair falling loose from its usual tight binding. "Damned wight caught him with its shield before we put it down. Dara?"

  The healer was already moving, her hands dropping to the pouches at her belt. "Bring him here," she directed, gesturing to a relatively flat portion of shoreline. "Kitra, keep watch."

  Toren observed as Dara examined Gareth, her experienced hands probing the injury with gentle precision. Gareth hissed through clenched teeth but remained stoic otherwise. Dara's hands took on the subtle glow as she used her meager life aether abilities to heal the wounded man.

  "The wight?" Toren asked Mara as she joined him, wiping blood from her cheek with a grimace.

  "Down. Harder than usual, this one had full armor and shield. It was strong, and quick" She paused, scanning the horizon. "They're getting better, Toren. Smarter. That was an ambush, plain and simple."

  He knew she was right. The ghouls had come at them from multiple directions simultaneously, herding them toward the wight lying in wait. Coordination like that didn't happen by accident. And this far from the main force...

  "Scouts," he said, the word bitter on his tongue. "They're scouting the mountain passes too, not just maintaining the siege line."

  Mara nodded grimly. "No escape route is going to go unnoticed."

  Toren turned to survey the mountains rising behind them, their peaks disappearing into low-hanging clouds. Somewhere up there, they hoped to find a path, any path, that would allow Clearwater's civilians to evacuate if the walls fell. Captain Alfen had been explicit in his orders: find a route or confirm none existed.

  "Gareth's ribs are cracked, not broken," Dara announced, returning to them while wiping blood from her hands. "I've bound them and given him something for the pain, but he needs proper treatment back at Clearwater."

  "Can he move?" Toren asked, already knowing the answer. They moved or they died.

  "He can move," Dara confirmed with the grim certainty of one who had patched up worse in worse conditions.

  Toren nodded, decision made. "We'll make camp at the base of the eastern ridge. Get what rest we can, then start our survey at first light." He turned to Kitra, still maintaining her watchful perch. "Any movement?"

  "Nothing human," she responded, eyes never leaving the treeline. "Two ravens circling beyond the pines. Been there since the fighting stopped."

  Toren felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mountain air. Ravens had once been allies to the rangers, carrying messages across vast distances. Now they served a darker master, their once keen eyes clouded with the pale film of undeath, their wings beating with unnatural rhythm as they carried intelligence back to the necromancer.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  "We move now," he ordered, reaching for his pack. "Stay low, stay quiet. We need to be off this shore before those birds bring friends."

  As they gathered their gear, Toren cast one final glance across Lake Clarity toward the distant silhouette of Clearwater's walls. From this distance, the city still appeared untouched, a bastion of civilization against the encroaching darkness. Only those who had been inside knew the truth: that behind those walls, fear and hunger were becoming as dangerous as any undead.

  One more day, he thought, shouldering his pack with a grimace as his leg protested. One more day to find a way out for them.

  With that silent promise, he led his rangers into the deepening shadows of the mountain's embrace.

  The eastern ridge offered marginal protection at best. A natural outcropping of rock created a shallow overhang, enough to break the wind but little else. Still, Toren had seen worse camps, and the position afforded them clear sightlines in three directions, with the sheer rock face guarding their backs.

  Darkness fell quickly in the mountains, the sun vanishing behind the western peaks and plunging them into premature night. The temperature dropped accordingly, the comfortable autumn day giving way to a biting chill that penetrated even Toren's well worn leathers.

  "Rations," Mara announced, distributing their evening meal. Each of them received the same: a strip of salted venison, a handful of dried berries, and a piece of hard bread that could have doubled as a weapon in desperate times. Water came from canteens filled earlier at a mountain stream, each drop precious in these uncertain days.

  Toren accepted his portion with a nod of thanks, settling on a flat rock slightly removed from the main group. Old habit. His eyes never stopped moving, scanning the darkening landscape for threats while his hands automatically broke the bread into smaller, more manageable pieces.

  Jens approached, moving with the careful quiet that had kept him alive through two years of ranging. The young scout held out a small cloth packet. "Willow bark, sir. Dara thought your leg might be paining you."

  Toren almost smiled. Almost. "Tell Dara to save her supplies for those who need them."

  "She said you'd say that," Jens replied, unfazed. "Also said to tell you that a ranger with a seized up leg isn't much use to anyone tomorrow."

  This time, Toren did allow himself the ghost of a smile. "Did she, now?"

  Jens simply placed the packet on the rock beside him and retreated, knowing better than to press the issue. The lad had good instincts, too good to waste on a stubborn old man's pride.

  After he'd gone, Toren glanced at the willow bark, then at his leg, which throbbed with dull persistence. With a resigned sigh, he picked up the packet and tucked it into his cheek, allowing the bitter medicine to slowly dissolve. Pride was a luxury he couldn't afford, not anymore.

  The night deepened around them as they ate in silence. Clouds obscured the stars, leaving only the faintest silver glow to indicate the moon's position. In the darkness, Lake Clarity became a void, its surface invisible except where the occasional ripple caught what little light remained.

  Toren finished his meager meal and washed it down with a careful sip of water. His thoughts turned to the task ahead, mapping out possible routes through the mountains in his mind. The eastern pass was the obvious choice, a well established trail that merchants had used in generations past to bring goods into Clearwater from the mountain communities. But obvious meant watched, and the dead would have that route well covered.

  The western approach offered steeper terrain but potentially less resistance. The cliffs there were treacherous, though, especially for civilians unused to mountain travel. Women, children, the elderly... many wouldn't make it, even without the threat of attack.

  That left the northern ridge, a series of high passes that were snow covered most of the year. In autumn, they might still be passable, if barely. It was their best chance, assuming the dead hadn't already claimed those heights as well.

  "Toren."

  Mara's voice pulled him from his strategic reverie. She stood several paces away, her silhouette barely visible in the darkness.

  "First watch is set," she reported. "Two-hour rotations, double sentries. Gareth's resting as comfortably as can be expected. Dara says he'll be fit to move come morning."

  "Good," Toren acknowledged. "And you?"

  "Looks worse than it is." She touched the dried blood on her temple. "You should rest while you can. I'll take first watch with Kitra."

  Toren considered arguing but decided against it. Mara was right; sleep was another resource to be managed carefully. "Wake me for third watch," he said instead.

  "Of course," she agreed, though they both knew she might not. Mara had her own ideas about preserving valuable resources, and in her calculation, his experience outweighed her need for rest.

  As she moved away, Toren shifted to find a slightly less uncomfortable position against the rock wall. His bow rested across his knees, an arrow already nocked. Old habits. His eyes remained open, watching the darkness beyond their small camp, but he allowed his mind to drift into a state that wasn't quite sleep but wasn't fully alert either, a subtle rest, snatched in moments between dangers.

  The willow bark gradually numbed the worst of his leg's complaints, and the familiar night sounds of the mountains, wind through pine needles, the distant cry of some nocturnal bird not yet claimed by the dead, created a backdrop that might almost have been peaceful in different times.

  But peace was another luxury rangers could ill afford. Even as his body rested, Toren's mind remained vigilant, cataloging each sound, each shift in the air. The dead moved at night. Everyone knew that. And somewhere on these slopes, they were watching, waiting for the rangers to make a mistake.

  Toren was determined not to give them the satisfaction.

  Dawn arrived with reluctant gray light filtering through the cloud cover. Toren had indeed taken the third watch despite Mara's intentions, relieving Farran and Selene. Now, as the world slowly emerged from shadow, he surveyed their surroundings with the critical eye of a man who had spent a lifetime reading landscapes.

  The eastern ridge sloped upward into a series of increasingly steep switchbacks, eventually disappearing into the low hanging clouds. To the north, the terrain was more varied, rocky outcroppings interspersed with dense stands of pine, creating natural chokepoints that could be either advantage or death trap, depending on who controlled them.

  "Movement, northeast," Kitra reported quietly, appearing at his side with the silence that made her such an effective scout. She nodded toward a distant copse of trees. "Two figures, possibly three. Not trying to hide."

  Toren followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing as he spotted what she'd seen. Humanoid shapes moving with the telltale stiffness of the recently turned, their path taking them along the lower ridge in a pattern that suggested patrol rather than random wandering.

  "More ghouls," he murmured.

  "Orders?" Kitra asked, her bow already half raised in anticipation.

  Toren considered their options. Engaging would alert the enemy to their presence, potentially bringing larger forces down on them. Avoiding contact meant more dead remained to threaten any evacuation route they might discover.

  "We observe for now," he decided. "Our mission is reconnaissance, not elimination. If they move to intercept us, we deal with them. Otherwise, we proceed as planned."

  Kitra nodded, lowering her bow with visible reluctance. Like most of them, she'd developed a personal hatred for the dead, one that sometimes clouded tactical judgment. Toren couldn't blame her; they'd all lost friends, family, whole settlements to this relentless tide of death.

  "Wake the others," he instructed. "Cold breakfast, then we move out. I want to reach the high pass by midday."

  "They're creating a perimeter," Mara said, materializing beside him with a veteran's stealth. Her face was drawn with fatigue, the wound on her temple now a cruel-looking scab. "Blocking escape routes."

  "That's my read," Toren agreed grimly. "Question is, are they reacting to us specifically, or is this part of a larger strategy?"

  "Does it matter?" Mara's tone was pragmatic. "Either way, they're between us and any viable evacuation route."

  Toren didn't answer immediately, his eyes tracking the undead as they disappeared behind a rocky outcropping. "It matters for what comes next," he said finally. "If they're just reacting to our presence, we can draw them away, create an opening. If not…"

  He left the implication hanging. Both of them knew what it meant if the dead were systematically closing off all escape routes from Clearwater; the Shadowbinder wasn't planning on a siege, but total annihilation.

  The camp came alive around them as rangers packed their meager belongings. Gareth moved stiffly but under his own power, his face pale but determined. Dara checked his bandages one final time, her experienced hands gentle but quick.

  Toren gathered the squad leaders for a brief council, using a stick to sketch a rough map in the dirt. "We split into two teams," he explained, marking points on the improvised map. "Mara, your squad takes the eastern pass, the merchant route. Likely heavily watched, but we need to confirm."

  Mara nodded, her expression neutral despite being assigned the most dangerous route.

  "My squad will investigate the northern approach," Toren continued. "The high passes. If there's any route the dead haven't fully secured, it'll be there."

  "And the western cliffs?" Farran asked, his massive frame casting a shadow across their dirt map.

  "Too treacherous for a civilian evacuation," Toren replied.

  That settled, he erased their map with a sweep of his boot. No sense leaving intelligence for the enemy, even in such crude form. "We rendezvous at the lakeshore camp by nightfall. If any group fails to return, the others proceed back to Clearwater with the boat at first light. Questions?"

  There were none. These were veteran rangers who understood both their mission and the risks it entailed.

  "Move out," Toren ordered, shouldering his pack. "And remember, we need information more than we need dead enemies. Avoid engagement where possible."

  Toren nodded, casting one final glance toward Lake Clarity and the distant walls of Clearwater before turning to face the northern slopes. "Move out," he ordered. "Keep low, keep quiet. Eyes sharp."

  With that, they melted into the pine forest, beginning their ascent toward the high passes and whatever fate awaited them there.

  The northern approach grew steeper with each passing hour, the relatively gentle slopes of the lower mountain giving way to increasingly treacherous terrain. Loose shale slid beneath their boots, threatening to send the unwary tumbling down the mountainside. Stands of pine provided intermittent cover, but the higher they climbed, the more sparse the vegetation became.

  Toren led from the front, his weathered face set in lines of concentration as he picked their path. His leg ached persistently, the willow bark's effects long since faded, but he pushed the pain aside with the practiced discipline of a man who had endured far worse over his years of service.

  Behind him, Gareth moved with stubborn determination, each labored breath a testament to his injury yet also to his resilience. Kitra ranged ahead and to the sides, while Jens brought up the rear, periodically checking their back trail for pursuit.

  They had been climbing for nearly three hours when Toren called a brief halt in the shelter of a granite outcropping. The air had grown noticeably thinner, carrying the bite of approaching winter despite the autumn season below. From their elevated position, Lake Clarity spread out beneath them like a mirror, its surface catching the midday sun in dazzling reflection.

  "Water," Toren instructed, though he kept his own canteen closed. "Small sips. We don't know when we'll find another stream."

  As the others drank sparingly, he surveyed the path ahead. The high pass was visible now, a narrow gap between two towering peaks, its approach a treacherous scramble across exposed rock face. No cover to speak of, they would be completely exposed for the final ascent.

  "Thoughts?" he asked quietly as Kitra joined him, her sharp eyes following his gaze to the pass.

  "Defensible," she responded after a moment's consideration. "A small force could hold that narrow point against many. But..." She frowned, squinting into the distance. "How could the citizens climb this route? It would take weeks and we would lose so many…"

  Toren nodded, having reached the same conclusion. "We scout it regardless, Captain Alfen and the others will decide the best route."

  Kitra considered, then pointed slightly east of their position. "There's a ridge there, runs parallel to our route. More cover, but steeper climb. Might give us a better vantage point to observe the pass without being spotted."

  "Good eye," Toren acknowledged, already adjusting their route mentally. "We'll take the ridge. Gareth, how are your ribs holding up?"

  The injured ranger straightened from his resting position against the rock, masking a wince. "Serviceable," he replied, echoing the standard ranger response to any injury that wasn't immediately fatal. "I can make the climb."

  Toren studied him critically. Gareth's face had taken on an ashen quality, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air. The man was pushing himself to his limits, and they still had the return journey to consider.

  "Stay with Jens," Toren decided. "Maintain position here as our fallback point. Kitra and I will scout the ridge and observe the pass."

  For a moment, it seemed Gareth might protest, pride warring with practicality. Then he gave a curt nod, accepting the order with stoic discipline. "We'll secure this position," he agreed, one hand unconsciously moving to his bandaged ribs.

  "Two hours," Toren told them. "If we're not back by then, return to the rendezvous point. Don't wait for us."

  With a final nod to his team, Toren gestured for Kitra to take point, and they began their ascent toward the ridge. The path, if it could be called that, was little more than a series of rocky outcroppings and narrow ledges, demanding complete concentration with each step. One misstep meant a fall that no ranger, regardless of experience, could survive.

  Kitra moved with the sure footed grace of a mountain goat, her slight frame an advantage on the precarious climb. Toren followed more deliberately, his older bones protesting each jarring step, his injured leg occasionally threatening to buckle beneath him. He ignored these complaints, keeping pace through sheer force of will.

  They had almost reached the ridge when Kitra suddenly froze, dropping into a crouch so quickly that Toren nearly collided with her. He immediately mimicked her posture, one hand going to the hilt of his knife as his eyes scanned for the threat she'd spotted.

  "Movement," she whispered, so softly he barely caught the word. "On the pass. Three, no, four figures."

  Toren followed her gaze, his experienced eyes picking out what she'd seen. Silhouetted against the gray sky, four humanoid shapes moved with unnatural coordination along the very pass they'd been planning to scout. Even at this distance, their nature was unmistakable, the stiff gait, the occasional jerky movement as desiccated muscles responded to their dark master's will. Two larger figures walked evenly behind the group.

  "Wights?" he asked, noting the gleam of what appeared to be armor on at least two of the figures.

  Kitra nodded grimly. "Armed, too. Looks like they're patrolling the pass itself, not just the approach."

  Toren processed this information with the cool calculation of a veteran tactician. Wights were dangerous opponents, stronger, faster, and more intelligent than common ghouls. Often retaining combat skills from their living days, they made formidable sentries.

  "We need a closer look," he decided. "That ridge should give us better vantage without exposing us."

  They resumed their climb with redoubled caution, moving from cover to cover with the patience of hunters who understood that sometimes stillness was more important than speed. The ridge, when they reached it, offered a natural observation point, a shelf of rock protected on three sides by larger boulders, with a clear line of sight to the pass while remaining hidden from casual observation.

  Kitra produced a small spyglass from her pack, a rare and valuable tool that she'd salvaged from a merchant's caravan months earlier. She extended it carefully, the brass catching a brief glint of sunlight before she angled it into shadow.

  "What do you see?" Toren asked, his own eyes straining to make out details at this distance.

  "Definitely wights," she confirmed after a moment's observation. "Armed for a fight, swords, shields, partial plate armor." She frowned, adjusting the spyglass slightly. "There are more of them beyond the pass. And..." Her voice faltered.

  "And?" Toren prompted, tension creeping into his tone.

  "Ravens," Kitra replied, her voice flat. "At least a dozen, perched on rocks throughout the pass. They're watching the approaches from all angles. No one could move through there without being spotted."

  Toren felt a cold weight settle in his gut. "Let me see," he requested, and Kitra handed over the spyglass without comment.

  What he saw confirmed her assessment and deepened his concern. The wights had established not just a patrol but a proper military checkpoint, complete with overlapping fields of observation and defensible positions. This wasn't random undead wandering; this was strategic deployment by an intelligence that understood both tactics and terrain.

  Beyond the pass, partially obscured by distance and the uneven ground, he could make out additional movement, more undead, establishing a secondary defensive line. The ravens, meanwhile, maintained their silent vigil, black eyes occasionally reflecting sunlight with unnatural intensity as they surveyed the surrounding mountains.

  Toren lowered the spyglass, his expression grim. "The pass is sealed," he stated flatly. "No civilian evacuation possible through this route, not without overwhelming force to clear it first."

  Kitra nodded, her face set in hard lines. "And even if we had the force, those ravens would alert the main army long before we could push through."

  They sat in silence for a moment, the implications settling heavily between them. One more potential escape route eliminated. One more door closed to Clearwater's desperate population.

  "We should check the eastern approach," Kitra suggested, though her tone held little hope. "Maybe Mara's group found something we missed."

  Toren shook his head. "If this pass is this heavily guarded, the eastern route will be worse. It's more accessible, better known." He glanced at the position of the sun, now past its zenith and beginning its descent toward the western peaks. "We've seen what we came to see. Time to rejoin the others and return to the rendezvous."

  As they began their careful descent back toward where Gareth and Jens waited, Toren's mind worked, analyzing what they'd discovered and its implications for Clearwater's defense. The question that troubled him most was why. The dead had numbers enough to overwhelm Clearwater's walls if they committed to a full assault. Why this methodical containment instead? What was the necromancer waiting for?

  Whatever the answer, Toren knew it boded ill for those trapped within Clearwater's walls. And with each escape route they eliminated from consideration, the rangers' mission shifted imperceptibly from finding a way out to simply confirming that none existed.

  It was a bitter truth to bring back to Captain Alfen. Bitterer still to contemplate what it meant for the thousands of civilians who looked to them for salvation.

  But truth, however harsh, was the currency of survival in these dark days. And Toren had spent too many years in the wilderness to trade in false hope.

  The setting sun painted Lake Clarity's surface in shades of blood and amber as Toren's squad emerged from the tree line. Movement caught his eye, Mara's team materializing from the shadows like wraiths.

  One look at her face told him everything. The eastern pass had yielded the same bitter fruit as the northern route.

  "Wights?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  Mara nodded, the scab on her temple dark against her pale skin. "And worse. They've got a bone knight commanding the checkpoint. Full plate, death magic. Lost Selene getting close enough to confirm it."

  The words hit Toren like physical blows. Selene had been one of their best, quiet as mountain mist and twice as clever. He filed her death away with the others, another name to remember when the wine flowed and the night grew long.

  They made camp in the same hollow as before, though "camp" was generous, they simply found positions with clear lines of sight and settled in to wait. No fire, no talk above whispers. The dead owned the night now.

  Toren took first watch, his dark bow across his knees as he studied the lake's surface. Somewhere out there, a fishing boat would come for them, assuming the ravens hadn't reported their position. His fingers absently traced the unique grain of his bow's wood, its familiar texture grounding him as his mind churned through implications.

  Three passes blocked. The western cliffs impossible for civilians. The noose was tightening around Clearwater's neck, and they were running out of options to slip it. He hoped Kaelen and his team had found better news.

  Dawn crept in with gray reluctance. Toren spotted the boat first, a small fishing vessel running without lights, hugging the shoreline's shadows. The crew worked with in silence, guiding the boat into the shallow water as rangers quickly boarded.

  The return journey passed in tense silence. Toren dismissed his squad with a nod. He and Mara climbed the steps to the guard tower where Captain Alfen waited, their boots leaving wet prints on worn stone.

  Alfen stood at the window, his rangy frame silhouetted against the brightening sky. He turned as they entered, and Toren saw the hope die in his captain's eyes before either of them spoke a word.

  "Tell me," Alfen said simply.

  Toren did, his report precise and unvarnished. The northern pass sealed by wights and ravens. No possible route for civilian evacuation. Mara followed with her own grim testimony, the eastern approach even more heavily guarded, Selene's death, and the Death Knight's presence.

  When they finished, silence filled the room like smoke. Alfen turned back to the window, his shoulders bearing the weight of command decisions yet to come.

  They parted ways in the gray morning light, each carrying their own dark thoughts toward whatever rest they could find. Above them, ravens circled Clearwater's walls, their shadows falling like omens across the trapped city.