Chapter 9: The Bell

The bells kept ringing.

Norvic's central bell tower only sounded its alarm during military drills—and the Empire had long subsidized this frontier town specifically because of Death City's proximity, though the undead had never mounted a large-scale incursion.

She didn't rush out.

She stood behind the inn's front door, right hand on her hilt, left fingertips pressed against the wood. Footsteps outside—several groups running in different directions. Some ducked into alleys, some ran toward the town center, one stopped to shout something that got swallowed by the bells. Then more footsteps surged forward—heavy boots of adventurers, hard soles of merchants, bare feet slapping the ground from those who'd just been pulled from sleep.

She closed her eyes and listened for about ten seconds.

No dull explosion. No rumble of collapsing buildings. Just shouting, barking, metal clashing—someone had drawn weapons, but no large-scale fighting had started yet.

She opened her eyes, unclipped her scabbard from her belt, and adjusted it to a better draw angle. Then she went upstairs and pushed open the door to their room.

Glaze was fully awake, sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Shoes."

She laced them faster than this morning—fingers moving quick, a knot tight enough to hold. She stood, and the lazy curiosity was gone from her eyes. What replaced it was alert focus. Not nervousness—at least not the kind normal people felt in danger.

The other rooms in the hall were empty. The innkeeper ran up the stairs, lantern in hand, the flame lurching wildly in its glass case. He saw Vaste, stopped to catch his breath, and pointed downstairs with his free hand.

"The hall—the wounded man, he said the crematorium—"

"I know." Vaste cut him off. "Is he still there?"

"Crouching behind the bar. He wouldn't leave—said it was worse outside—"

Vaste was already past him, down the stairs in three long strides.

The common room was a wreck. Tables overturned, chairs scattered, a mess of knocked-over wooden cups spreading dark stains across the floorboards. The bald man with the bandaged arm sat curled in the corner behind the bar, back against a cask, his wound bleeding fresh through the linen. His eyes were wide, pupils contracting, lips trembling—frozen in place by something too big for his mind to hold.

Vaste crouched in front of him.

"Look at me."

His gaze drifted in the air for two seconds before finally focusing on her face.

"What happened."

His voice came out like it wasn't from his throat—more like it was being squeezed from his chest. "I was on night shift at the crematorium. The one in the holding room—the wall mason they brought in this afternoon, the one who fell—he just—sat up—and then the two next to him—"

"How many." Vaste cut through his rambling.

"Wh—what?"

"In the holding room. How many bodies."

"Three—three. No, those three were brought out. There were more inside."

"Anyone alert the city watch?"

"Someone already went. Only two of us on duty tonight, me and the other—"

Vaste stood. She had what she needed.

She walked to the front door and pushed it half-open. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of rot and damp. Across the street, a second-floor light flicked on, then off again. Someone shouted a name, over and over, the voice fading into the distance like they were chasing something. Fires in the distance—scattered torchlight moving toward the wall.

Then she heard it.

A shriek—not human. The sharp ring of metal struck hard, short and piercing, exploding at the end of the street and dying fast. The local adventurers' distress signal—blade against shield or iron. Only used when facing something they couldn't handle alone.

Someone was already fighting.

And it wasn't going well.

Vaste pushed the door fully open and turned to Glaze.

"Stay behind me. No more than three steps."

"Okay."

Vaste stepped out.

---

The street had changed.

The bustling main road from the daytime market now looked like something had torn it open from the inside. An overturned cart lay in the middle of the street, potatoes crushed into the mud. Two guards stood at an intersection, spears in hand, pointing into an alley.

The adventurers had mobilized faster. Leather-armored figures were already emerging from different directions, strapping on sword belts as they ran.

"Don't panic—!" A strong, weathered voice cut through the noise. Vaste glanced—a man in his forties, his voice carrying weight. He wore a faded military coat, a rusted Guild medal pinned to his chest. A dozen adventurers had already gathered around him—someone winding bandages around an arm, someone checking a bowstring, someone running a thumb along a knife edge.

"The crematorium and the infirmary—undead have appeared. We need reinforcements across the city. You'll run into stragglers—don't get bogged down, don't let the group scatter."

When Vaste passed him with Glaze behind her, the veteran's eyes stopped on her for a beat. He didn't say anything. Just went back to assigning the others.

At the intersection, they found more familiar faces.

The one-eyed thief crouched on a rooftop, knives in hand, shouting directions to someone below. The two young swordsmen from the window were coordinating with an archer. An older adventurer passed them and shoved a torch into one of their hands without breaking stride.

Adventurers weren't soldiers. No unified command. No formations. No standard. But the gears were already meshing—a system born from countless chaotic emergencies, crude but effective. No orders needed. Just experience.

Vaste and Glaze moved against the flow. The further they went, the more people ran the other way. A middle-aged man passed them with an injured girl on his shoulder, blood running down his arm. He looked at Vaste.

"Please. Kill them."

---

The crematorium's silhouette appeared at the end of the street. The squat grey building—normally the quietest place in Norvic—now had three adventurers bracing a heavy iron door, holding its bar in place. The door was shaking violently—something slamming from the inside. Not one. Three or four at once. The iron bolt was already warping.

"Hey! Anyone inside?" Vaste's voice carried, flat and clear.

"Alive? Not sure. Dead? Six or seven!" one of them shouted back, his voice high and tight. "We went in—locked what we could—but—"

The iron door bulged outward. The bolt groaned, its weld points starting to crack. The three young adventurers stepped back.

Vaste turned to Glaze. "You do one thing."

"What."

"If anything gets past me. Don't let it touch you. Or anyone else."

Glaze tilted her head, like she wanted to say they won't touch me—but something in Vaste's eyes made her swallow it.

"Use your magic. Just enough."

Glaze's blue eyes blinked. She stepped over to the three young adventurers. They stared at the girl—so calm, so out of place, so young.

Vaste walked past them and drew both blades.

"I don't have time to explain why you can't go all out."

The iron bolt shattered.

Three zombies surged through the doorway first. Then more—but not zombies. Their joints still held the flexibility of the living. Their pupils still carried traces of color. A smear of half-dried saliva hung from one's lip.

Wights. A step above zombies.

These were the people who'd been waiting for the furnace this afternoon—now charging forward in a spasm of dead muscle.

Vaste's long blade took the first zombie's head clean off. The body crumpled forward, collapsing onto the ground.

Her short blade drove into the second zombie's eye socket, twisted once—the hands fell slack, the shovel dropped. Vaste stepped on the shovel head, its shaft kicking up to smash the third zombie's skull apart.

No wasted motion.

The three young adventurers stared, frozen. They'd been holding that door for nearly fifteen minutes, arms shaking, expecting to die. And this woman—who'd barely said a word—had just cut through the front line without breaking stride.

"Don't just stand there. Can you fight?" Vaste's voice carried no emotion. She was looking past them, at the tide still coming through the doorway. Zombies. Wights. Husks. And ghouls moving in the dark behind them.

"There's more coming."