Nemira turned round.

  Yellow eyes met the orc woman's gaze. The troll woman blinked—surprised but unafraid.

  Banarka froze. The axe hung suspended mid-swing.

  Something didn't add up.

  She peered into Nemira's face. Looked closer. Drove away the panic, forced it from her head through sheer will.

  The same clumsy troll woman. The same one who'd stumbled over roots. The same one who'd fled without looking back.

  No threat. No power. Simply a frightened girl who'd found a crown and was examining her discovery.

  Nemira smiled. Uncertainly, guiltily.

  'Look what I've found,' her expression seemed to say.

  The voice in the orc woman's head weakened. Didn't vanish—quietened. Hissed at the back of consciousness, demanded, but without its former force.

  Banarka lowered the axe. Exhaled—long, through clenched teeth.

  'What the hell?'

  The question spun in her head, but there was no answer. Only a vague sense that the crown was not simply metal. That it did something to those nearby. Evoked desires. Fears. Bent will in the necessary direction.

  But on Nemira, it seemed, it had no effect. Or the troll woman was too thick to grasp the danger.

  The orc woman stepped closer. Slowly. Gripped the axe tight, just in case.

  "Put that down."

  Her voice came out hoarse. Banarka cleared her throat, repeated louder.

  "Put the crown back where you took it from. Right now."

  Nemira blinked. Looked at the crown in her hand, then back at the orc woman.

  "Why?" The question sounded somehow na?ve, childlike.

  Banarka clenched her teeth.

  "Because it's cursed, you fool! Put it down!"

  The troll woman frowned. But lowered her hand. Slowly, reluctantly.

  The crown hung suspended between them—black, heavy, with traces of blood on its spikes.

  The voice in the orc woman's head howled one last time—demanding, furious. Then fell silent completely.

  Nemira set the crown down beside a skull.

  Metal clanged against stone. The echo rolled through the temple's vaults—dull, deathly.

  Banarka exhaled. Only now realised she'd been holding her breath.

  "Let's go. Quickly."

  The orc woman wheeled and strode towards the exit. She gripped the axe ready—just in case.

  Nemira trudged after her. Cast a final glance at the crown. It lay motionless, black against the grey stone. Nothing special. Simply a piece of metal.

  But in her chest remained a strange emptiness. As though something important had slipped from her grasp. And not by her will at that.

  The troll woman shook her head. Driving away the delusion.

  They walked quickly, almost running. Walls pressed in. Stone faces watched with empty sockets. Light from the torches in the gods' hands didn't burn—which in itself was a strange and frightening sight for Banarka.

  Light ahead. The exit.

  The orc woman quickened her pace. A few more steps—and they'd burst outside.

  She froze on the threshold.

  The square before the temple swarmed with the dead.

  They filled every scrap of space. Stood swaying. Turned their heads at the creak of the door. Hundreds of pairs of eyes—cloudy, whitish, unseeing.

  Trolls were the most numerous. Blue skin had turned dirty grey, in places collapsed, exposing blackened muscles. Arms dragged along the ground—too long for sagging bodies. One had a jaw hanging by a scrap of sinew, swinging with every step. Another dragged its guts behind—coil after coil, leaving trails in the dust.

  Orcs loomed behind, massive even in death. Skin had cracked like burnt clay. Fangs jutted from decomposed gums. One corpse was missing half its skull—the brain had long dried, transformed into black crust.

  Humans darted between the larger carcasses—hunched, with sunken stomachs. Ribs protruded through decayed skin. Fingers broken, twisted at unnatural angles.

  And one elf woman.

  She stood closer than the rest. Her once-elegant face now resembled a wax mask. Skin had tightened, grew translucent, stretched over the skull. Pointed ears sagged, blackened at the edges. Long hair torn out in places along with patches of scalp. Her dress had rotted—rags clung to the desiccated body. Hands gnarled, nails grown into claws.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  She turned her head.

  Cloudy eyes fixed on the living.

  Her mouth opened. Had dried so thoroughly the lips cracked, black liquid spurted.

  A moan rolled across the square.

  The dead moved towards them.

  Banarka swore. Curtly, pithily, in every dialect she knew.

  Nemira froze nearby. Stared at the advancing crowd with wide eyes. Mouth half-open. Fingers trembling.

  "Shit!" The orc woman wheeled, slammed her palm into the troll woman's chest. "Back!"

  Nemira stumbled, flew back into the temple. Crashed onto the stone floor.

  Banarka stepped into the doorway. The axe soared in her hands—smoothly, in a practised movement.

  The dead came faster. Unevenly, jerkily. Legs dragged, arms stretched forward.

  The smell crashed over her in a wave. Rot. Decay. The cloying stench of putrid meat.

  The orc woman squeezed her eyes shut for a second. Her stomach twisted. Bile rose to her throat.

  She swallowed. Spat.

  Her eyes opened just in time.

  A troll about ten feet away. One hand hung limp, tendons severed, but the other reached out. Its jaw hung loose, swinging. Eyes cloudy, white.

  The axe described an arc.

  The blade entered the neck—there, where muscles should have been. Met resistance. Not bone—something viscous, dense.

  The head jerked backwards. Didn't come off. Held by a scrap of skin and the spine.

  The corpse kept walking.

  A hand seized Banarka by the shoulder. Fingers dug in—cold, rigid.

  "Just die already!"

  The orc woman wrenched the axe free, swung again. The blow landed in the same spot.

  This time the head flew off. Rolled across the stones—dully, unevenly.

  The body crashed down after it. Didn't fall still, but kept trying to grab Banarka by the legs.

  She didn't manage to finish off the first; the rest were already here.

  An orc bore down from the left. Massive, reeking. Skin had collapsed over the ribs, exposed bone. Maw gaping—teeth missing, gums blackened.

  Banarka interposed the axe haft. The corpse crashed into it, doubled over.

  She shoved it away with her knee. The wood cracked. Another blow—the axe entered the skull. Broke through the thinned bone.

  Black ooze sprayed onto her hands. Warm, sticky.

  The orc woman vomited. Straight onto the stone floor, onto the protruding spine and shoulders of the first troll.

  The axe stuck fast.

  She jerked—once, twice. Wouldn't budge.

  Another from the right. A human. Small but quick. Arms flung forward, fingers clawed. Nails yellow, broken.

  Banarka dropped the axe. Seized the corpse by the wrists.

  Skin burst beneath her fingers. Exposed dry muscles, protruding bones.

  The smell struck her nose—so thick it stole her breath.

  She hurled the body aside. It flew into the crowd, knocked down two more.

  Somewhere behind, Nemira was emptying the contents of her stomach onto the floor. The girl knelt on all fours, unable even to think of resistance.

  The elf woman squeezed between the others. Moved more smoothly—almost gracefully. Face impassive, waxy. Lips cracked, oozing blackness.

  Hands reached for the orc woman's throat.

  Banarka caught them. Squeezed. Bones crunched—thin, brittle.

  The elf woman didn't even flinch. Simply stared with dead eyes. Her mouth opened slightly. The tongue—blackened, swollen—stirred.

  A moan tore from her throat. So close—straight into Banarka's face, washing her with the stench.

  The orc woman shoved her away. With all her strength. Wheeled, grabbed the axe.

  Jerked—the blade tore from the orc's skull. Spatters of black filth settled on her face, got in her eyes.

  The world swam. Banarka blinked, trying to wipe away the ooze.

  Something latched onto her leg. Clamped her calf in a death grip.

  She looked down.

  The headless troll. Its fingers dug into her muscle with rigor mortis.

  The axe descended. Severed the hand in one blow.

  The fingers remained. Clenched tight, even detached from the body.

  Banarka squeezed her eyes shut. Roared something inarticulate—fury, despair and fear mixed into one howl.

  She hacked. Again and again.

  The dead kept coming. Endless. Reeking. Cold.

  Nemira wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The taste of bile corroded her tongue. Her stomach still contracted, turned inside out.

  Banarka was hacking the dead in the doorway. The axe described arcs—short, desperate. Black ooze flew in all directions, settled on walls, on the floor, on the orc woman herself.

  The troll woman rose to her knees. Her hands trembled. Her legs wouldn't hold.

  Fear clenched her throat. Familiar, icy. The same that had driven her through the forest. The same that had made her hide in her parents' shadow all her life. But they were gone now; there was no one to protect her.

  Banarka retreated a step. Then another.

  The dead were breaking into the temple. Three, four. They spread the stench of rot and decay. Arms stretched forward—greedy, unstoppable.

  The orc woman hacked, but there were too many of them.

  Nemira stared at her trembling hands. At the blue skin covered in vomit and others' blood.

  Weak. Useless. A burden.

  She'd always been like this. Had hidden behind her parents' backs. Had wept into her pillow when they were gone. Had been afraid to leave her studio on the thirtieth floor.

  Fear burnt from within—transformed into something else. Hot. Acrid.

  Fury.

  At herself. At her pathetic existence. At the weakness that sat in her bones, had eaten into her flesh.

  Nemira clenched her fists. Nails dug into palms—till pain, till blood.

  "Enough!"

  The word tore free hoarsely. Barely audible.

  But something inside responded.

  Deep. Somewhere behind her ribs, behind her heart. There, where ancestral memory was stored in blood.

  Her pulse quickened. Beat in her temples, her wrists, her throat.

  Blood boiled. Ran faster—searing her veins from within.

  Something ancient stirred in the depths. Awoke from long sleep. Reached for the surface—greedily, hungrily.

  Twelve souls. Twelve ancestors. They lived in her veins, had slumbered for generations.

  Now they woke.

  Nemira felt them. Not with her mind—with her skin, her bones, her very essence.

  Primordial fury. Thirst for blood. The desire to rend, break, kill.

  It overflowed her chest, strained her ribs. Wanted to burst outside—to tear through skin, through flesh.

  The troll woman rose. Her legs held firm. Her hands no longer trembled.

  Heat pulsed in her veins. Each heartbeat drove it further—through arms, through legs, into her head.

  The world tinged red. Not metaphorically—literally. The edges of her vision flooded with bloody radiance.

  Banarka retreated another step. Her back almost pressed against Nemira.

  The dead were climbing through the door. Trampling the fallen. Arms reached out, grasped at air.

  Nemira stepped forward.

  Something inside tore loose.

  Blood boiled so fiercely it stole her breath. Heat struck her veins—a searing, unbearable wave.

  Her skin tightened. Muscles swelled, filled with power. Fingers bent—wanting to clench, crush, tear.

  A growl built in her throat. Low, bestial. It tore from her chest, from her very core.

  Her eyes blazed. The yellow colour grew brighter, more intense. Pupils narrowed to slits.

  Ancestors screamed in her blood. Demanded. Hungered.

  And for the first time, Nemira didn't resist.

  Let it.

  Let it burst outside.

  Let it sweep everything away.

  The growl tore from her lips—so loud the echo rolled through the temple's vaults.

  The dead froze. For a second. No more.

  Then moved again.

  And Nemira smiled. Wide, baring her teeth.

  Something primordial looked from her eyes.

  Banarka turned round. Froze.

  "What the hell?"

  But the troll woman was already running forward. Straight at the dead. Weaponless. Fearless.

  With a wild, bestial roar.