Chapter 4: Chapter 4: Skeletons and Siblings

The scent of charcoal and damp moss clung to the evening breeze as he squinted from atop his undead ant, peering through the dense treeline. Up ahead, nestled between mossy hills and guarded by twisted blackened trees, stood a village. Or to be precise, what was left of one.

Wooden huts leaned like tired drinkers. Some had collapsed entirely. Fences were half-buried in mud, and a broken windmill creaked in the wind like it was still trying to finish a job it started a century ago.

This place looked like it had been forgotten by time, mercy, breather of the living, and perhaps basic architectural standards.

“Well boys,” Abraham muttered, shading his eyes, “looks like we missed the welcome parade, ey.”

The undead ant made a soft clacking sound, its mandibles twitching in mild disapproval. Meanwhile, the undead beastlings crouched beside him as if terrified by what will come. Something Abraham couldn't see.

The ant stepped lightly through the brush, careful not to crush anything unnecessary. Except, perhaps, Abraham’s remaining sliver of confidence.

Its carapace gleamed faintly in the dying light, polished in places where Abraham’s boots had rubbed during their long trek.

They passed through the cracked gates of the village. Eerie. Even the crows gave this place a wide berth, and crows were usually all too happy to loiter where bones might be found.

And then...

“STOP RIGHT THERE, CORPSE LOVER!”

Abraham yelped and nearly fell off his mount, flailing in what could generously be called a combat pose and less generously be called a panicked spider impersonation.

From behind a burned-out cottage, a figure burst into view; tattered cloak, rusty sword, and fire in her eyes. She was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, with long wavy black hair, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, a sword in her hand, and strangely angry expression.

“Identify yourself, necromancer scum!” she shouted.

“Abraham Ludacris! Former librarian, current confused soul, part-time corpse juggler!” he blurted.

She blinked. “What?”

“I mean, I’m not here to hurt anyone. This ant is mine, this beastlings, …wait. Where are they? Anyway, they kind of dumb. We're friendly. Mostly. And you are...?”

The girl hesitated. “Tess. Tess Arlin. Last survivor of my abandoned village.”

Abraham slowly raised both hands. “Last? What happened?”

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Tess’s grip on the sword tightened. “Raiders. Cultists. The thing emitting rot. Some savage beastling tribes. Take your pick. One day they came from the west. The ground split open. Screaming. Fire. People ran. I didn’t.”

His expression softened. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m gonna kill every last one of them. Starting with skeletons like yours.” She pointed her blade at the ant.

“Okay, rude,” Abraham said. “First of all, not a skeleton, this is an undead insect. Totally different taxonomic family. Ant. Formicidae. Not even a femur in there.”

“Still dead.”

“Yes, but in a charming, misunderstood kind of way. He’s got personality. Loyalty. A mandible-to-mandible smile that could melt glaciers.”

Tess didn’t laugh, but her sword did waver slightly.

“I’m not your enemy,” Abraham said. “I don’t even know how to be an enemy. I tried making a threatening speech to a raccoon earlier and it stole my rations.”

Tess’s eyebrow rose. “You’re an idiot.”

“Correct. Some kind of it. But a well-meaning one.”

A long silence passed between them. Finally, she lowered the blade.

“I’ve been alone for weeks,” she said. “If you try anything..."

“You’ll kill me, raise me, and make me wash your socks. Something like that, right? Understood.”

Tess smirked. Just a little. It felt like a small miracle.

They explored the ruins together, Abraham riding his ant like a mildly terrified circus act while Tess led the way with practiced ease. Despite her youth, she moved like someone who’d had to grow up very fast.

The village was in worse shape than it looked from the outside. Most of the homes were gutted. Burned skeletons littered the corners. Abraham didn’t try to raise them. Even he had limits.

“Everyone gone?” he asked.

Tess nodded. “All except the coward who ran east. Said something about ‘avoiding the rot or something.’ I hope he chokes on it.”

The rot. That phrase echoed like a chill in Abraham’s spine. It sounded like a typical natural phenomenon, but more thrilling in a way. And he didn't even know why.

They found supplies; old tools, some barely edible rations, a few usable bandages, and a tattered map showing the surrounding regions with word "The Barren Death" in the center. Half the landmarks had ominous labels like “The Maw,” "the scattered insanity", “The Bleeding Grove,” or “Here Be Regrets.”

“This one looks promising,” Abraham said, pointing to a ruin marked with a spiral. “Do you like danger?”

“No.”

“Perfect. We’ll get along great.”

That night, they camped beside a ruined fountain overgrown with vines. Abraham set a simple bone ward around their perimeter using leftover femurs, while Tess practiced sword magic.

She moved with a blend of grace and raw fury, muttering foreign words under her breath; names of the fallen, perhaps family, perhaps friends. Or maybe just a spell Abraham didn't recognize.

Abraham didn't know. And didn't want to know. One wrong question an she burned him alive, or struck him with lightning. Which was the worse way to die.

The ant stood guard, its head swiveling like a living sentry turret. Occasionally, it scratched at the ground with one leg, as if marking territory. Abraham patted its side, whispering, “You’re doing great, buddy. Just don’t eat anyone. Unless they attack us. Then chomp responsibly.”

As stars peeked out from behind the clouds, Abraham rolled onto his back and stared at the sky.

“You ever think we’re just background characters in someone else’s story?” he asked.

Tess glanced over. “If we are, I hope they’re rooting for us,” she staggered. "I mean, look at me. The only survivor of a ruined village? That will need a comforting support."

A pause.

“Agree,” he added. “A scared necromancer, a sword-magic-swinging orphan, a zombie insect that probably used to be queen of the bug prom, or a king, and some dumb beastlings undead who flee out of nowhere. Sounds like a support cast if I’ve ever heard one.”

“You talk too much.”

“I do. It’s kind of trauma response.”

Another pause. Then Tess chuckled. Quietly.

It felt like winning the lottery.

Out of boredom, or maybe in action to impress Tess, Abraham reached for a stick and began sketching spell symbols in the dirt, refining the glyphs he’d seen earlier in the mausoleum.

The shard he’d collected hummed softly at his side. The ant leaned down curiously, antennae twitching at the lines.

“You think this’ll work?” Abraham asked.

The ant clicked once.

“I’ll take that as a maybe.”

Tess looked over the symbols. “You need symmetry. That lower quadrant’s too heavy.”

He blinked. “You know glyph theory?”

“I'm yielding magic with my sword, didn't you saw it?" she paused. "And also, my brother was a scribe. Taught me a little before everything became shits like this.”

Abraham smiled. “Looks like we make a decent team. Unspoken fate, probably?”

She looked away. “Don’t get used to it.”

But she didn’t sound like she meant it.

Tomorrow, they would head toward the spiral ruin. 'Cause what's else they gonna do?

To face gods-only-knew what.

But tonight, under a fractured sky, a reluctant alliance was forming. A necromancer, a magic swordswoman, and a loyal undead ant. It wasn’t much of a fellowship.

But it was a solid beginning.

Perhaps.

***