Spartan reached the point where Michael's own footprints scuffed the dew-damp cobbles—wide strides, a trail of crushed grass and splintered boards from when he'd crashed bodily through the gates.
Beyond lay the grand entrance hall, lit by lanterns.
Spartan, he projected, letting his mind sink fully into the undead's perception, enter.
The armored figure stepped forward without pause, passing through the threshold.
He crossed the wide vestibule.
Everywhere Michael looked, people were frozen in place.
And then, one after another, five other armored figures appeared behind Spartan.
The rest of Michael's undead had arrived—moving in perfect silence, their heavy boots leaving no mark on the immaculate marble floor.
For a moment, Michael simply let them stand there, arrayed in a loose semicircle.
He could feel the weight of their attention—an emptiness waiting to be filled with command.
