Uttar greeted them with silence.Not the usual kind, not when everyone is still sleeping or just busy. But the kind where not even the birds on the rooftops chirp, and dogs don't bark around corners. The air was damp, as if it had rained all morning, though the sky was clear. The ground underfoot was viscous, soft, as if something had recently been dug up and then buried again.
The scouts—Yaren and Ellie—were the first to stop. Without looking back, she raised her hand: a signal.
– The alleys are clear, – he whispered. – But… they're too clear. No carts. No children. Not even the smell of food. I don't like it.
Sala, the priestess, moved a little further ahead and stopped.
– There was death here, – she said calmly. – Strong. Recent. But it left no scent. Only… cold.
Henn, as if he hadn't heard, headed straight for the village center, testing the weight of his axe on his back as he walked. Lydia clutched her staff to her chest, looking around anxiously, murmuring something—maybe a prayer.
– We split into pairs, – Henn said quietly when he returned. – We check the manor. It's past the northern street. We circle it, come in from both sides.
– I'll go with Yaren, – Sala nodded.
– Ellie and Lydia, you're with me, – he added, not waiting for confirmation.
Everyone nodded. They parted quickly, without fuss.
As they made their way to the northern entrance, Ellie managed to notice:In every window she looked at, the curtain shifted. But not a single face appeared.The people here hadn't died. But they weren't living.
At the manor gate, Henn raised a fist. The entrance was ajar. Inside, the darkness soaked up daylight like a sponge. The air was too thick. Ellie realized she was breathing deeper than needed. Her heart was steady, but cold crept up from her fingertips.
– Not just undead, – Henn said almost soundlessly. – They know we're here.
When both groups entered, Sala stopped and pressed her palm to the wall. Her fingers trembled.
– There's definitely undead here, but… something's off, – she said.
Everyone looked at her.
– I feel flesh… but it's like an energy spirit. Looks like an ordinary corpse, but… it doesn't rot. It waits. It listens. And if you're scared, if you panic, it comes.
– So don't be afraid, – Lydia muttered.
Sala looked at her seriously, not as a teacher, but as an equal.
– You can be afraid. But silence is most important. It hunts by sound.
The manor wasn't that old. The floorboards didn't creak. The windows were intact, only covered with dark cloth. The air was heavy, as if it had stood still for too long and soaked up too much silence. It smelled of damp wood and candle wax.
– First hall—we clear it, then the second, – Henn said. He spoke quietly, as always. Clear. He kept the group steady with his voice alone.
Sala stayed in the center, the back of her hand resting on her pendant. Lydia kept close, her staff's gentle glow lighting the space. Ellie and Yaren moved along the edges, almost soundlessly. Ellie looked around carefully. Everything was too… tidy. As if someone knew they were coming. And prepared.
– Empty, – Yaren muttered. – Not even flies.
Sala frowned slightly.
– That's not normal. Even the undead leave traces.
In the far corner of the hall stood a wardrobe. Ordinary, wooden, carved. Yaren was the first to approach, pulling the door. Click. Yank. A body.
It fell to the floor like a sack. Dry. Twisted. But whole. A man of average height. Eyes closed. Mouth slightly open. Clothes almost clean. As if he'd just been put there.
Henn approached first, standing over the body, sword lowered. Sala knelt beside it, pressed her palm to his chest, then quickly pulled away.
– Not alive. But not dead, either.
– Maybe just fresh, – Yaren muttered. – Only just died.
Sala shook her head.
– No. It's something else.
Ellie didn't move. Just watched. Something about the tilt of the neck, the position of the hand. Too… precise. She stepped forward, hand reaching for her bag to write a note—and then the body inhaled.
Not in a jerk. Slowly. As if savoring it. They froze.
The man—or what had been a man—opened his eyes. They were cloudy gray. Not rotten, but unfocused.He didn't scream. Didn't snarl.He simply stood up, as if his joints hadn't decayed at all. Reached out a hand.
Henn, in one movement, chopped it off. The hand fell. But the body didn't stop. Sala quickly stood, clutching her amulet to her chest.
– That's not a corpse. That's a Moroi.
– Back, – Henn said curtly.
He struck again, this time at the legs. The creature fell. Then began to crawl. Ellie watched it crawl—smiling.
– He doesn't see us, – she whispered. – He… senses warmth.
Lydia, with trembling fingers, raised her staff and whispered something from a prayer; the light flared in the room.
The Moroi froze. Then howled. Not a scream, but as if something was burning it from within.
It collapsed, the body splitting at the seam like old cloth. Inside—a black mass, like ash, scattered in the air. Silence returned.
They all breathed heavily, but silently.Ellie stood unmoving, then slowly exhaled.
They didn't immediately realize they were off-plan.After the first hall, they decided to move on: sweep the corridor, then go up to the second floor. The team split as needed. Ellie and Lydia stayed downstairs; Sala, Henn, and Yaren went up.
– If we're not back in fifteen minutes—signal, – Sala said.
– All by the clock, – Yaren confirmed, checking the strap on his dagger.
– Try not to breathe loudly, – Lydia added.
– I'm planning not to breathe at all, – he replied, winking, and disappeared around the corner.
Ellie sat by the wall, took out her journal, and wrote one word: "Deeper."
Lydia approached, crouched beside her, looked around.
– Do you think it really was a Moroi?
– I don't know. But he died too calmly.
Lydia nodded, something uneasy flickering in her eyes.
– I also don't know when it got so cold.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Then twenty-five.
Ellie stood, looked down the corridor. Silence. Lydia's light was dimming.
– Are they having tea up there? – Lydia tried to smile, but it came out uncertain.
Ellie whistled as quietly as she could. Silence. They didn't call out again. Just moved forward—softly. Ellie led, Lydia behind, lighting the wall, marking small notches Yaren had left. There were tracks.But no voices.
Climbing the stairs, they entered a narrow corridor. Doors closed. Light fell in thin stripes through cracks in the walls. Ellie touched the wall. It was… warm.
– Wait, – Lydia whispered. – Do you see?
One of the doors was ajar. There was movement. A shadow. They froze.
Ellie stepped forward, kicked the door open.
Empty. Dust. A broken cup. And the shadow was gone.
– That wasn't a shadow, – Lydia whispered. – It… was watching.
They went further. And then it happened.
– Sala? – Ellie called. – Yaren?
No answer. But the door at the end of the corridor opened on its own. Slowly. On the floor, a stain. Like moisture, but black. No one. No belongings, no footsteps.
Henn stood in the doorway, his back to them. He didn't move.
– Henn?
He didn't turn.
– That's not him, – Lydia whispered. – Ellie, that's not him.
Ellie slowly reached for a dagger. Took a step forward. Henn… disappeared. Didn't step, didn't run. Vanished, as if he'd fallen through the floor, leaving only darkness. And then they heard a moan. Quiet.
Stifled.
And more silence. Long, like a chasm.
"Something in this house walks under someone else's skin. And until it chooses its next, we're still counted among the living."
– I'll check the far room, – Lydia said, peering down the hall.
– Only together, – Ellie answered shortly. She didn't like decisions like that, but there was no way to go alone now.
The room at the end of the corridor was narrow, shut-in. No windows. Dry air. Faint smell of oil.
On the floor by the wall, a body.
Yaren.
He lay peacefully. As if he'd just lain down to rest for a moment. Hands folded on his chest, as after a rite. Eyes closed. Mouth slightly open. No wounds. No blood. No sign of struggle.
Lydia froze in the doorway. Ellie approached first, slowly knelt. Checked for a pulse. Nothing.
– He's still warm, – she whispered.
– What..?
– Just now… – she checked his dagger; everything was there, untouched. – It's as if… as if he was snuffed out.
And then she saw a detail she hadn't been ready for. On Yaren's cheek, a thin, fresh tear.
Small, as if someone was afraid to truly cry.
Lydia fell to her knees.
– Ellie… he was just alive… with us…
– I know.
– I didn't hear anything, we were right below… What happened…
The silence was deafening. Even their breath made no noise. Ellie closed his eyes. Her hand trembled.
When Ellie and Lydia made it back to the main hall, they were almost moving by touch. The walls seemed to press in from all sides. Somewhere deep in the house, their other companions might still be, but footsteps echoed with dull emptiness.
At the hall doors, in a shaft of dim light, stood Sala—alone. She looked tense, almost hunted. Her gaze darted, as if she'd just emerged from a long, dark room.
At some point, they really had lost each other: while exploring the southern corridor, Sala had gone ahead with two fighters, but inside there were more forks than the plans showed. The walls drifted apart, the torchlight jumped aside, and then—just echoing footsteps and a strange shudder in the air. Ellie noticed the passage behind slowly narrowing, closing in with shadow.
In panic, no one screamed—they just quickened their pace, trying to get back. In one side passage, Sala turned to realize no one was behind her: her companions had gone another way, and she, as if in a loop, ended up again at the hall entrance.
She didn't know how much time had passed before she saw familiar faces again. She didn't explain—just nodded quickly, as if marking to herself that the others, though not all, had still made it.
Lydia ran to her, hugged her, looked in her eyes, nodded. Her lips trembled. Ellie simply raised her hand and showed three fingers, then one.
Sala understood. She didn't ask questions.
– Where?
– Last room of the corridor, and in the east room. By the wall. Intact.
– Traces?
– Not a single one.
Sala nodded tersely and went. She performed a short, quiet rite. Ellie caught a glimpse of her pausing as she touched Yaren's forehead. There was no pain on her face. Only exhaustion. Deep, like a pit. When she returned, she squatted by the wall, saying nothing. Lydia stood, clutching her staff.
Ellie sat beside her and began to write—not because she wanted to, but because she couldn't not write.
"No one screamed. No one cried. But something between us has changed.A squad that moved as one is now a group of people afraid to be the last left alive."