Chapter 95: Lost Town

They stepped down the ridge in silence, each footfall stirring black dust from the cracked shale road. Darius took the lead, Liam and Emerius flanking him to either side. Red and Annie were behind them, while Charon was in the rear, his eyes constantly flicking to the shadow following them. ’Is this thing just going to keep following and watching me? Blink! Do something! I don’t need a stalker at this point in my life!’ The town below waited, silent and still, its buildings clearer with every step. Not a single curtain waved in the windows, no flowing breeze touched the black wooden shingles, and no doors swung open to greet them. Charon’s summons walked around them like a bubble, their hollow eyes watching every inch for a flicker of movement. The air grew heavier the closer they came. Not colder, but thicker. Like it had more weight than it should, pressing against their skin and slowing their thoughts. Annie whispered something under her breath, but it was too soft to catch. Red’s eyes never stopped moving, darting from rooftop to alley to shadow as if she could keep the silence at bay just by watching it. They passed the first building, a bakery, if the faded wooden sign with the half-burned loaf meant anything. No scent or warmth emanated from the wooden corpse. Just the outline of forgotten life, sealed in gray rot. Charon spoke, glancing toward Emerius. "Anything moving?" The swordsman had stopped, blades at the ready. He didn’t look back. "There are three now. One to the East, one on that rooftop, and the last is in the alley we passed. They are not moving, but they are... watching." Charon felt his heart knock against his ribs. He turned, just enough to glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, past the broken railing of a second story walkway stood a figure, just barely defined by the fog. Just like the first one, it didn’t move, standing perfectly still as if frozen in time. No one suggested turning back, the risk of having to cross through again too terrifying. Liam moved ahead and kicked open the door to a tavern. The wood splintered, from both age and dryness, like the building had simply stopped wanting to stand. It flew back into the building, colliding with a table and shattering both on impact. Inside, chairs sat where they normally would. Drinks were left untouched, the glasses dry but still upright. A ledger rested on the counter, the last entry scribbled half a sentence in. Charon peered at it, frowning. He couldn’t make out the language. Not because it was foreign, but because his brain refused to read it. His eyes moved across the lines and came away empty. ’What the hell? Is this mind magic?’ He reached to grab the Mask of the Jester hanging from his belt when Red tapped his shoulder. Turning to face her with a confused glance, she simply shook her head and walked away, the intent clear. ’She doesn’t want me to wear the mask here.’ They moved on. The streets were narrow, the buildings oddly tall. Doors leaned ajar, some swinging slightly in the nonexistent breeze. Shadows crept between alleyways and chimneys, never moving when watched but always shifting when eyes passed. Another figure appeared near the church. Then one beside a cart half-sunk in the road. Another atop a balcony. Emerius called out their placements with military efficiency, but even he sounded unsure. The silhouettes didn’t advance nor attack, they just grew more numerous. A growing crowd, waiting for their entertainment to reveal itself. ’The Dead Lands are earning their name today.’ Annie reached into her pack and drew out a small crystal. It flickered faintly before going dark in her palm. She shared a look with Darius. "No compass, it’s like we aren’t on the known map anymore." Darius stopped at a fountain in the center square. It was made of carved obsidian, with the shape of a weeping woman bent over an hourglass. The sand within was still, the kind of still that wasn’t just frozen or unmoving, but the kind that made it feel like it had never even heard of the idea of motion. He touched the rim, then pulled his hand back sharply. "Too cold, colder than it should be." Charon approached the church. Its doors were wide open, inviting without comfort. He felt the weight of the building before he crossed the threshold emotionally, like stepping into a memory that didn’t belong to him. Inside, the pews were unbroken, but each bore signs of long use. Scratches here, scraps there, even a handprint, blackened and scorched into the wood. At the front of the altar stood a robed statue, faceless and tall. Its hands were open, palms up. The robes were sculpted to suggest wind that had never blown. Dust clung to every inch of it, except the eyes. Those were clean, almost polished. He turned away. Red wandered toward the far corner, running her fingers along the walls. She touched a sconce and stopped, staring into the stone. Charon followed her. There, just behind the wall, was another silhouette. Pressed against the glass of a long-broken stained window. Its head tilted slightly as if it heard something they couldn’t. Then, slowly, it backed away into the mist. Liam’s voice rang out from outside the church. "We’ve got movement!" They burst through the doors, weapons drawn. A ripple of golden light enveloped Darius’ sword, as if the sun were returning, albeit dimmed. The figures hadn’t advanced. They had merely repositioned, their forms unchanging. Twenty now, maybe more, spread across rooftops, alleyways, porches, and fences. One stood on the bell tower, another on a lamp post. One directly at the town’s edge, standing alone on the road out. None moved, nor spoke. None blinked. Charon wiped his brow and tried to count them again. ’Thirty now. How many are there? Hundreds? Thousands? If they turn hostile, we are doomed!’ They kept appearing when no one weren’t looking. Charon whispered under his breath, the sentence coming from somewhere he didn’t know existed. "We shouldn’t be here." Darius nodded, scanning the horizon. "We will move out through the north gate. I do not care if this was not the route; we need to leave." They broke into a fast walk, Liam covering the back with his axe raised. Red stayed in the middle, close to Charon. The skeletons stayed wide again, but even they seemed slower now, as if the fog had crept into their bones. By the time they reached the gate, they were more outnumbered than before. Forty shapes. All distant. All unmoving. Charon felt the words form in his throat before he could stop them. "Why are they just standing there?" As if waiting for that exact moment, the fog churned. The wind stilled. And a voice called out. It was neither loud nor soft, comforting nor threatening, young nor old. It echoed through the buildings and the sky, rolling off walls like thunder whispered through glass. "Why are you still walking?" Everyone froze. It came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, an impossible contradiction that refused to explain itself. Darius stepped forward, his sword out, ready for a response. "Who’s there?" No answer. Just another figure at the edge of the square, this one clearer. And Closer Half a head taller than the rest, with longer arms and a thicker frame. No face, just more fog where one should have been. Liam raised his axe. "Alright, I’m sick of being watched. Say something else, or let us get to the fightin’!" The voice didn’t come from the figure; instead, it came from everywhere else, as if the world were his speaker. "You don’t belong." This time, it wasn’t a question. Charon felt something in the air twitch with the announcement, like a strange vibration. He knew it was without trying. ’Mana! It is using the mana to speak and move!’ The group drew in closer, the skeletons forming a rough wall around them. Annie whispered a few sentences no one could hear, her hand reaching out as if to grab something from the air. Darius glanced at her, challenge in his eyes that vanished with every second. Emerius stepped forward, eyes locked on the largest figure. "Then tell us where we are to go and we shall leave. We never sought to disturb this place." The fog thickened as the voice responded. "You all belong nowhere." The words carried no malice. No hatred. It was a fact, pronounced and pressed upon them like a stamp on stone. Charon looked around, counting fifty now, each in a different spot. Fifty individual silhouettes, watching them from every angle. Every rooftop, every alley, every window, every crack in the stone walls or dead hedges. They were all the same, mirror images of each other as if they had lost individuality alongside their substance, forced to be wraiths of equal measure in every way. Only one stood apart from the rest, his form impossible to ignore, no matter how hard Charon tried. Then, from the corners of his mind, he heard the Warden’s voice boom out in a mixture of glee and triumph, as if he had won an award. ’Friend.’