The Road to Gloom

The moon, impossibly bright and unyielding, hung high in the night sky, casting an otherworldly glow across the land. Oliver awoke with a start to the eerie stillness of the night, interrupted only by the rhythmic clanking of bone and the soft shuffling of the Marrow Militia. The skeletal warriors were stirring, their ancient bones clicking and scraping as they prepared to move out. Oliver groaned, stretching out stiff limbs, his body still not accustomed to the unfamiliar weight of armor nor sleeping on the rocky ground.

His eyes flicked to the campfire that had burned low in the center of their circle, now reduced to embers. Fernwyn, ever vigilant, had already packed up her things. Her eyes were sharp as she scanned the darkness, as if sensing something just beyond the reach of sight. Lilith, though, was bent over a small pot, stirring something that sent an odd, pungent scent wafting toward Oliver’s nose. It wasn’t the kind of aroma that invited hunger; more the kind that turned the stomach. But Lilith smiled brightly when she caught his gaze, holding up a small wooden bowl.

“Breakfast,” she said, her voice laced with a playful edge. “You’re hungry, yes?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said pushing himself up to a sitting position. The young man didn’t think he wanted to eat what was going to be offered but he could not be picky. He was in their land now.

You’re the one who wanted to come back, Oliver reminded himself.

“Alright,” he said, leaning forward and taking the bowl from Lilith that she brought over. He hesitated only for a moment before scooping up a spoonful and tasting it.

It was strong, thick, with an aftertaste that burned down his throat but wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It was hard to place the flavor, but it had a peculiar, earthy tang that lingered long after he swallowed.

“Well?”

“It’s…unique,” Oliver said, swallowing more of it.

“Yay! I knew my trophy would like it!”

Fernwyn smiled. “Good. I thought it was a bit much on the root vegetables, but you didn’t run away, so Lilith’s cooking is a success.”

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Oliver asked gesturing towards the pot.

The dryad shook her head and gestured to her bare feet. “I absorb nutrients through the ground. There are a few foods I can eat with my mouth but I don’t really like to do it often.”

Oliver smiled at her, the warm firelight casting a soft glow on her face. For a fleeting moment, he wished they could just stay like this forever, sitting around the fire, free of the constant pressure of looming enemies and world-ending stakes.

But the sound of clattering bones pulled him from the reverie. The Marrow Militia was ready to move. They had a long march ahead of them he had no doubt, and Oliver was beginning to realize how little he truly understood about what was going on, and how even less control he seemed to have over the events unfolding around him.

After tucking the chronal shard securely into the leather bag affixed to his armor, Oliver rose and grabbed his gear, strapping everything in place. He adjusted the weight of the sword, which still felt foreign in his hands. The air was sharp and crisp, the grass dry beneath his boots as he fell into step beside his two compatriots.

The Militia formed in perfect formation, skeletal soldiers falling into ranks with eerie perfection. Their empty eye sockets glowed faintly in the moonlight, and their bones creaked and groaned as they shifted into their march.

For a long while, they walked in silence, the steady rhythm of their footsteps the only sound to break the quiet. Oliver found himself lost in thought, the strange landscapes passing by without much acknowledgment. To their right, the Tortured Forest began to thin, the gnarled, twisted trees giving way to open plains. Far in the distance, jagged peaks of tall mountains loomed, casting long shadows across the land. Between the mountains, a winding stone path stretched as far as the eye could see, cutting through the valley and disappearing into the distance.

On their left, a deep blue river wound lazily through the plains, its surface shimmering in the moonlight. The sight was almost peaceful—beautiful, even—but something in the air felt wrong. He could feel it. The atmosphere was heavy with foreboding, as though the land itself was waiting for something to happen.

Lilith’s voice broke through his thoughts. “We’re nearing the edge of the river,” she said, her eyes scanning the horizon. “I spoke with Chomp, the Militia’s leader. He’s decided we’ll travel along the river, off the path.”

Oliver turned toward her, brow furrowing in confusion. “Chomp?”

Lilith’s lips twitched upward at his confusion. “Sergeant Chomp,” she clarified, as if that explained everything. “He’s the one leading the Marrow Militia.”

Oliver glanced at the skeletal figure near the front of the column. It was difficult to tell, but he thought the skeleton might be giving off some kind of silent orders. Its bones clicked in a rapid, irregular rhythm as it gestured toward the river, then to the mountains, and back again. Lilith seemed to interpret the strange sounds without trouble, her sharp ears catching every clack and clink, translating them into something comprehensible.

“He wants to veer off the path,” Lilith explained. “He anticipates Plague King forces trying to ambush us if we stay on the main road. He thinks they’ll try to use the terrain to their advantage.”

“Great,” Oliver muttered under his breath. “So we’re going to walk straight into an ambush?”

Lilith gave him a reassuring look, though it was tinged with a hint of wariness. “Not necessarily. But we’ve already seen the Plague King’s forces move like shadows in the night. Sergeant Chomp believes it’s safer to follow the river for now. Get closer to Vexmore before we make our move east toward Gloom.”

Oliver blinked, feeling a sense of unease. “And what does he expect me to do about it?”

Lilith raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. “Well, that’s the thing, Oliver, they all seem to think you’re in charge.”

Oliver stopped in his tracks, his heart racing. “What?”

Lilith didn’t respond immediately, only gesturing to the Marrow Militia as they continued marching, their unearthly, skeletal forms unfazed by the difficult terrain.

“I… don’t know how it happened either,” she said quietly. “But when you spoke with the Bone Lord, everyone seems to think you’re in charge.”

Oliver didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. He was no leader. His six months back home proved that. Oliver barely understood what was going on around him, let alone how to make decisions that could determine the fate of a battle or an entire campaign. But the skeletal warriors were already looking to him, awaiting a command, an answer.

He swallowed hard. “Alright. We follow the river,” he said, though his voice lacked any of the confidence he wished he could have mustered.

The march continued, and Oliver walked alongside Lilith, still processing the situation. The thought of being in charge was absurd. He didn’t want this responsibility. He didn’t even understand half of what was going on. But before he could voice his concerns, the pace slowed. Fernwyn, who had been walking at the rear, gestured for the group to halt.

A few of the Militia stopped, their skeletal heads swiveling as they scanned the tall grass ahead. Lilith and Fernwyn exchanged a glance before Fernwyn raised a hand to signal them forward. Oliver’s gut clenched in warning.

Before anyone could react, the ground erupted. Zombies—fast-moving, half-rotten, their limbs jerking in unnatural patterns—leapt from the underbrush, their mouths snapping with hungry desperation. From the shadows, the tanglebeasts emerged, their twisting, vine-like bodies coiling through the air as they crashed into the group.

The world descended into chaos. Bones clattered, shouts echoed, and Oliver barely had time to unsheathe his sword before he was thrown into the fray. The tanglebeasts were fast, their thorn-covered limbs lashing out with brutal precision. The zombies, though slow, were relentless, gnawing and tearing at anything in their path.

Oliver swung the sword wildly, missing his targets, his movements clumsy. His heart pounded in his chest, fear settling into his bones as he struggled to defend himself. His sword seemed as if it were too heavy, too awkward in his hands. He could hear Lilith and Fernwyn shouting orders, their voices cutting through the noise, but Oliver was too focused on surviving to think about anything else.

Then, a tanglebeast lunged at him. Its long, viney tendrils wrapped around his arm, pulling him off balance. He staggered backward, trying to free himself, but the creature was too strong. Its jaws snapped shut around his arm, and with a powerful yank, it pulled him toward the river.

The world blurred as he was dragged through the tall grass, his feet stumbling across the ground, unable to find purchase. His vision darkened at the edges, his breath coming in ragged gasps as the creature’s grip tightened. Before he could make sense of what was happening, he was thrown into the cold, rushing water.

Everything went black.