The dead did not sleep.

  That simple, terrible fact gnawed at Rhalla as he stood atop Clearwater's northern wall, fingers gripping the rough stone until his knuckles whitened. Dawn's weak light crept reluctantly across the valley, illuminating what had become an all too familiar sight; row upon row of motionless figures, stretching to the horizon like some grotesque parody of a standing army.

  One month. One full month since they'd fled through the gates with the Shadowbinder's power nipping at their heels. One month of waiting for an attack that never came. One month of watching Valtha Hearne waste away in the temple below, his aetheric presence snuffed out like a candle in a storm.

  "They're just standing there," muttered a young militiaman to Rhalla's right, his knuckles white on his spear. "Why don't they attack? Why just... stand there?"

  "Waiting for reinforcements, I reckon," replied his companion, an older man with a permanent squint and a patchy beard. "Gathering more bodies for the horde."

  "For a month? There can't be that many fresh corpses left in the valley."

  The older guard spat over the wall's edge. "Don't need to be fresh. Them skeletons must've been in the ground fifty years."

  A third guard cut in, leaning on his bow. "They're starving us out. Why waste bodies when hunger will do the work for you?"

  "The dead don't think like that," the young one protested. "They're mindless."

  Rhalla almost laughed at that, but the sound died in his throat. If only it were that simple. If only they faced mindless, shambling corpses instead of... whatever this was.

  "You think it's mindless out there?" The archer jerked his head toward the distant darkness that marked the Shadowbinder's command pavilion. "That thing killed half the Fourth Company with a thought. It's toying with us. Waiting for us to get comfortable. Let our guard down."

  The debate continued behind him, but Rhalla tuned it out, focusing instead on extending his aetheric senses beyond the wall. As a master of life and growth aether, he could feel the land itself, sense the delicate balance of energy that sustained all living things. What he felt now made his stomach turn.

  Death aether saturated the ground beneath the undead army, seeping deeper with each passing day. The corruption spread outward from the horde like a stain, blackening the soil, withering the grass, killing everything down to the smallest microorganisms. Where once fertile earth had supported a complex ecosystem, now only barren wasteland remained, hostile to all life.

  For a growth mage who had dedicated his existence to nurturing living things, the sensation was physically painful. Rhalla had spent decades coaxing reluctant seeds to germinate, healing blighted crops, developing hardier strains of medicinal herbs. He had poured his life into understanding the intricate dance of growth and renewal that sustained the world.

  Now he watched helplessly as death consumed the land he loved, one acre at a time.

  They were trapped, cut off from the outside world, with no way of knowing whether Oakspire even realized their plight.

  "Master Rhalla?"

  He turned to find Jeduh, the militia captain, standing at attention. The man looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes betraying too many sleepless nights. Yet he stood straight, his weathered face set in determined lines.

  "Captain," Rhalla acknowledged with a nod. "Any changes?"

  Jeduh shook his head. "Same as yesterday. And the day before. The dead don't move unless we provoke them, and even then, they withdraw after minimal engagement." His gaze shifted to the blighted landscape. "But the corruption spreads."

  Rhalla stared out at the horde again, trying to discern some pattern, some purpose in their silent vigil. What game was the Shadowbinder playing? Why surround the city only to wait? Why not press the advantage while the defenders were weakest?

  With a respectful nod, Jeduh departed, leaving Rhalla alone with his thoughts and the oppressive presence of the dead beyond the wall. A sharp wind cut across the battlements, carrying the faint scent of decay. Even the air felt wrong, tainted by the unnatural aether emanating from the horde.

  He'd stayed long enough. With one final glance at the blighted landscape, Rhalla turned away, descending the stone steps that led down from the wall. His daily routine had become almost ritualistic: dawn on the wall, observing the enemy; then to the temple, checking on Val; afternoons in council meetings or assisting with the city's preparations; evenings spent in research, seeking some solution in the few botanical texts the city's small library contained.

  The streets of Clearwater bore little resemblance to the bustling trade hub that had greeted them upon arrival. The outer districts stood abandoned, their occupants crowded into the inner city for protection. Markets that once overflowed with goods now operated under strict rationing, with guards supervising the distribution of essential supplies. Children no longer played in the open, instead kept close to home by parents who jumped at every shadow.

  A commotion near the central square drew his attention. A group of citizens had gathered around a weathered man who stood atop an overturned crate, his voice rising above the murmurs of the crowd.

  "—judgment upon us all!" the man proclaimed, his gaunt face flushed with fervor. "The Leafs of the Golden Tree warned us! When we turned from Mother Arden's teachings, when we put profit above reverence, the balance was broken!"

  Rhalla paused at the edge of the gathering. Religious zealotry was the last thing they needed right now, thoughhe couldn't deny that the man's words resonated with some truth. The balance had been broken, just perhaps not in the way the street preacher imagined.

  "The dead rise because we have forgotten how to live!" the man continued, his fingers tracing the outline of an oak leaf pendant hanging from his neck. "Only by returning to the old ways, by honoring the Oakspire as our ancestors did, can we hope to survive this judgment!"

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. People desperate for answers would grasp at any explanation, no matter how simplistic. Rhalla considered intervening, but what could he offer instead?

  The Temple of Clarity stood at the heart of the inner city, its white stone walls gleaming in the morning light. Unlike the more elaborate religious structures of Oakspire, Clearwater's temple embraced simplicity, its clean lines and unadorned surfaces reflecting the city's practical nature. There was a beauty in its functionality, the way sunlight streamed through cleverly positioned windows, the acoustic design that carried whispered prayers to every corner, the garden courtyard where medicinal herbs grew in concentric circles.

  Under normal circumstances, the temple served as both a place of worship and a center for healing, with practitioners drawing upon both traditional medicine and aetheric techniques to tend the sick and injured. Now it had been transformed into a field hospital, its serene halls filled with the wounded from earlier skirmishes and those who had fallen ill in the increasingly crowded city.

  Rhalla approached the main entrance, nodding to the temple guards who had come to recognize him over the past month. They returned his greeting with solemn respect, stepping aside to allow him passage without question.

  Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs and burning sage, an attempt to mask the underlying odors of blood and sickness. Healers moved purposefully between pallets, their white robes marked with the blue wave symbol of the local Order of Clarity. Despite the crowded conditions, the temple maintained an atmosphere of quiet dignity, with soft voices and gentle hands offering comfort to those in pain.

  A young woman approached, her novice healer's robe marked with a single blue crescent rather than the full wave of a fully trained practitioner. Rhalla recognized her from previous visits, Ulina, a local girl who had shown promising sensitivity to life aether.

  "Master Rhalla," she greeted him with a respectful bow. "You've come to see Ranger Hearne?"

  "As always," he confirmed with a gentle smile. "Any change today?"

  The hope in his voice must have been clear to see, Mira's expression softened with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Master. His condition remains unchanged."

  Though Rhalla had expected nothing different the confirmation still stung. "And Ranger Elara? Is she still...?"

  "Yes, she maintains her vigil." Ulina gestured toward the inner chambers. "She refused the morning meal again. Perhaps you might convince her to rest? The healers worry for her health."

  "I'll try," Rhalla promised, though he doubted his success. Elara's devotion to Val had grown far beyond professional duty weeks ago, evolving into something deeper and more personal.

  Ulina led him through the main hall, past rows of patients in various stages of recovery. Most suffered from minor injuries or common illnesses, but a few bore the distinctive necrotic wounds inflicted by undead attacks. Those cases were quarantined in a separate section, their conditions closely monitored.

  They proceeded down a corridor to the private chambers reserved for special cases or high ranking officials. At the end of the hall, a single door stood ajar, soft light spilling out into the corridor.

  "Here we are," Ulina murmured, though Rhalla needed no guidance after so many visits. "Call if you need anything."

  With a grateful nod, he dismissed her, then paused at the threshold, gathering himself before entering.

  The room beyond was small but well appointed, with a single bed positioned beneath a window that captured the morning light. Fresh flowers sat in a simple vase on the bedside table, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the room's occupant.

  Valtha Hearne lay motionless on the bed, his once powerful frame now diminished by weeks of immobility. His skin had taken on a pallid, almost translucent look, with blue veins visible beneath the surface. Dark circles shadowed his closed eyes, and his cheeks had hollowed, giving his face a gaunt appearance that Rhalla found deeply troubling.

  Beside the bed sat Elara, her posture vigilant despite the exhaustion evident in every line of her body. Her robes hung loose on her frame, suggesting significant weight loss, and her dark hair had lost its usual luster. Yet her hands remained steady as they worked, carefully applying a fragrant salve to Val's arms and chest, her movements gentle but methodical.

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  She looked up at Rhalla's entrance, a brief smile ghosting across her lips before fading. "Good morning, Master Rhalla."

  "Elara," he greeted her, crossing the room to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. "How is he today?"

  She sighed, setting aside her salve. "Physically, his condition is stable. The healing poultices prevent muscle atrophy, and we've managed to provide adequate nutrition through herbal broths." Her professional assessment gave way to frustration. "But he simply won't wake. It's as if... as if he's not there anymore."

  Rhalla understood her meaning all too well. Physically, Val lived, his heart beat, his lungs drew breath, his body sustained itself with assistance. But the vital spark that had made him who he was, the extraordinary aetheric presence that had made him unique, remained stubbornly absent.

  "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward Val's still form.

  At Elara's nod, Rhalla moved closer, placing his palm gently on Val's forehead. He extended his aether sense, searching for any trace of the ranger's once vibrant core.

  Nothing. Just as in all his previous attempts, Rhalla encountered only emptiness. The ranger's body functioned, but the core that had once channeled such extraordinary power lay silent and still, like a well run dry.

  "No change," he confirmed softly, withdrawing his hand.

  Elara's shoulders slumped momentarily before she caught herself, straightening with visible effort. "I didn't expect any. But thank you for checking."

  Rhalla pulled up a chair beside her, noting the dark circles beneath her eyes, the tension in her jaw. "Have you slept at all?"

  "Enough," she replied dismissively, though they both knew it was a lie. "The healers here have been kind, bringing me tea with valerian root when they think I'm not looking." A ghost of a smile touched her lips.

  "And?" he pressed gently. "Ulina mentioned you refused breakfast."

  "I wasn't hungry." She turned back to Val, adjusting his blanket unnecessarily. "Tell me about the city. Any change in our... situation?"

  Rhalla recognized the deflection but allowed it, understanding her need to focus on something other than her own exhaustion and worry. "No change in the undead lines. They maintain their positions, neither advancing nor retreating." He hesitated, then added, "But the corruption spreads. The death aether is seeping into the soil, killing everything in its path."

  "How long until it reaches the lake?"

  "Two weeks, at the current rate. Maybe less."

  Elara absorbed this with a healer's clinical detachment, but Rhalla could see the fear behind her composure. "And once it does?"

  "I don't know," he admitted. "Water usually resists corruption better than soil, but with this concentration of death aether..." He shook his head. "The Meryan remained confident."

  Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken concerns. The temple's tranquility seemed fragile, a thin veneer of peace over an abyss of uncertainty.

  "The council meets at midday," Rhalla offered after a moment. "They're considering options."

  "What options?" Elara's voice held a bitter edge. "We can't fight our way out. We can't send for help. We can't even flee." She looked up at him, her professional mask slipping to reveal raw desperation. "What options do we have left?"

  Rhalla had no answer that wouldn't sound like empty platitudes. Instead, he reached out, covering her hand with his own in a gesture of solidarity. To his surprise, she turned her palm upward, gripping his fingers with unexpected strength.

  "I keep thinking," she said softly, her gaze returning to Val's still form, "about what he would do. Val always found a way, even when the situation seemed hopeless."

  "He did," Rhalla agreed, memories of their brief but intense collaboration flashing through his mind. Val's determination, his resourcefulness, his uncanny ability to inspire those around him, all qualities they sorely needed now.

  Their conversation turned to other matters then, the city's dwindling supplies, the increasingly crowded conditions in the inner district, the morale of the defenders. Rhalla shared what news he could, careful to balance honesty with hope, while Elara updated him on the temple's situation and the health of the other rangers.

  An hour passed in this manner, their quiet dialogue punctuated by the temple's ambient sounds; distant prayers, soft footsteps, the occasional cry of pain quickly hushed. Throughout it all, Val remained motionless, his chest rising and falling in shallow, regular breaths that gave no indication of the vibrant man trapped within.

  Eventually, the temple bells chimed the approaching noon hour, signaling that Rhalla's time grew short. He rose reluctantly, knowing the council would be gathering soon.

  "I should go," he said, stretching stiff muscles. "The council won't wait."

  Elara nodded, though her attention had already returned to Val. She reached for a fresh cloth, dipping it in a basin of herb infused water before gently bathing his face.

  "Elara," Rhalla said softly, "you need rest. Proper rest, not just stolen moments in that chair. Mira or another healer could watch over him for a few hours while you sleep."

  "I know," she acknowledged without looking up. "Perhaps tonight. After the evening treatment."

  It was the same answer she gave every day, and they both knew she would find another reason to delay when evening came. Still, Rhalla didn't press the issue. Elara's vigil was more than professional duty; it was an act of devotion, a refusal to abandon hope when all else seemed lost.

  "I'll return after the council meeting," he promised. "Try to eat something before then, even if you're not hungry."

  She glanced up with a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, Master Rhalla."

  With a final concerned look, he departed, retracing his steps through the temple's hushed corridors. Outside, the midday sun struggled to penetrate the unnatural gloom that had settled over Clearwater, casting the city in perpetual twilight. The air felt heavy, oppressive, as if the very atmosphere had become saturated with the Shadowbinder's malevolent presence.

  Rhalla made his way toward the Reeve's Hall, where the council would be meeting. He passed groups of citizens going about their daily tasks with subdued efficiency, their conversations muted, their expressions guarded. Children, once boisterous in play, now stayed close to their parents, their games quieter, their laughter rare.

  The marketplace, normally a riot of color and sound even in times of rationing, operated with mechanical precision. Guards supervised the distribution of food and essential supplies, ensuring fair allocation according to the council's directives. Craftspeople continued their work, though many had turned from luxury goods to practical items; weapons, armor, tools for reinforcing defenses.

  Through it all ran an undercurrent of tension, a collective holding of breath as the city waited for the next assault. Rhalla felt it in every face he passed, in every conversation that faltered at his approach. The waiting had become its own form of torture, wearing down resolve and feeding fear in ways that direct combat never could.

  By the time he reached the Reeve's Hall, a modest stone building that served as Clearwater's administrative center, Rhalla's mood had darkened considerably. He nodded to the guards flanking the entrance, noting their grim expressions as they recognized him and stepped aside.

  The council chamber lay at the heart of the building, a circular room with a domed ceiling that amplified voices for better communication. Around a large oak table sat Clearwater's leadership: Reeve Lakewind at the head; Captain Jeduh representing the militia; Captain Farrah of the Fourth Company; Amortta speaking for the Meryan; various guild masters and district representatives; and Captain Alfen for the rangers.

  Rhalla took his designated seat, acknowledging the others with a respectful nod. The discussion was already underway, focused on the latest reports from the wall.

  "—no change in their positioning," Jeduh was saying, his finger tracing a line on the map spread before them. "But the corruption advances approximately fifty yards per day. At this rate—"

  "We know the rate," interrupted a heavyset man whom Rhalla recognized as the head of the Fishers' Guild. "What we need are solutions, not more measurements of our doom."

  "Salt," Amortta said suddenly, her guttural accent making the word sound almost ceremonial. "Lake salt. Old magic. Barrier between worlds."

  All eyes turned to the Meryan war leader, whose scaled face remained impassive despite the attention.

  "You believe salt might create an effective barrier?" Reeve Lakewind asked, his tone respectful rather than dismissive.

  Amortta made a fluid gesture with webbed fingers. "Salt from deep lake. Spirit salt. Different from cooking salt. Ancestors use against death magic. Not stop forever, but slow. Give time."

  Rhalla considered this with growing interest, before nodding slowly. "It's worth investigating."

  "The Meryan can harvest deep salt," Amortta continued. "Bring to surface. Need many hands to place barrier."

  "We have the hands," Captain Jeduh affirmed. "The militia stands ready."

  The discussion continued, evolving into a tentative plan to create a salt barrier between the corrupted land and the lake. It wasn't a solution to their overall predicament, but it might buy them precious time, time to develop more comprehensive strategies, time to pray for intervention from Oakspire, time for Val to recover.

  As the council debated logistics, Rhalla found his mind wandering back to the still figure in the temple. Val's condition and the city's plight were inextricably linked, though few understood the full extent of that connection. If Val could be restored, if his remarkable aetheric abilities could be reactivated...

  But that remained a monumental "if," one that had thus far resisted all attempts at resolution.

  The council meeting stretched into the afternoon, covering not only the salt barrier proposal but also updates on food rationing, water purification, defense rotations, and a dozen other logistical concerns. By the time they adjourned, twilight had fallen over the city, the unnatural darkness deepening with the setting sun.

  Rhalla departed the Reeve's Hall with a splitting headache, his mind overflowing with problems that seemed increasingly insurmountable. He had promised to return to the temple after the meeting, but found himself wanting, needing, a moment of solitude first.

  Instead of taking the direct route, he made his way toward the barracks where the rangers and mages had been housed since the siege began. The building stood near the inner wall, a sturdy stone structure originally designed as a training center for Clearwater's militia. Now it served as living quarters for the defenders, with space allocated according to rank and function.

  As a master mage from the Academy, Rhalla had been granted a small private room, a luxury in the crowded city. He nodded to the guards at the barracks entrance, then made his way through the common area where off duty rangers and soldiers gathered around simple meals or games of chance.

  He noted Kaelen at one table, the grizzled veteran cleaning his massive axe with while younger rangers looked on in respectful silence. In another corner, Aric sat alone, staring into a cup of what might have been wine or might have been water, his expression distant. The young ranger had taken Val's condition particularly hard.

  Rhalla passed without engaging, lacking the energy for conversation. His room lay at the end of a narrow corridor, a simple chamber with a bed, a desk, a chair, and a small window overlooking the inner courtyard. It wasn't much, but it offered privacy, a rare commodity in a besieged city.

  Closing the door behind him, Rhalla sank into the chair with a weary sigh. The day's observations weighed heavily on him: the advancing corruption, the dwindling supplies, the fraying nerves of Clearwater's inhabitants. How much longer could they hold out? How much longer before the Shadowbinder tired of his waiting game and launched a full assault?

  From his pocket, Rhalla withdrew a small object. A golden orb no larger than a marble, its surface inscribed with intricate patterns that caught the fading light. The device represented months of collaborative work between himself and Grandmaster Linden, a means of secure communication that utilized life aether's unique resonance patterns.

  The orb glowed softly in response, pulsing once with emerald light before fading back to its usual golden hue. Rhalla stared at it for a long moment, imagining Linden receiving the message, imagining the Academy mobilizing to their aid, imagining a future beyond this siege.

  With a sigh, he returned the orb to his pocket and buried his face in his hands. The headache that had begun during the council meeting now pounded behind his eyes, a relentless drumbeat that matched the rhythm of his troubled thoughts.

  Outside his window, darkness settled over Clearwater like a shroud, broken only by the flickering torches along the walls and the faint, eerie glow emanating from the undead horde beyond.

  The dead did not sleep. And tonight, Rhalla suspected, neither would he.

  Linden's weathered fingers traced delicate patterns through the air above the ancient orb. Its soft golden glow cast dancing shadows across the chamber walls, carved with intricate patterns of vines and leaves unseen by any eyes but his for decades.

  "The signs are there, aren't they?" His voice barely disturbed the sacred silence. "His core burns like yours once did."

  The orb's light pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly. But Linden noticed, he always noticed. Eighty seven years of watching, waiting, hoping had honed his sensitivity to the smallest fluctuations in the artifact's energy.

  His joints protested as he lowered himself onto the worn stone bench beside the pedestal. The chamber's chill seeped through his robes, but he barely noticed anymore. This hidden sanctuary beneath the roots of the Oakspire had become as familiar as his own quarters above.

  "I know I shouldn't doubt." He reached into his robe and withdrew a small golden sphere. Its dim glow matched the larger orb's perfectly, his apprentice was still alive, he had that to be grateful for, at least. "But I am so tired, so very tired."

  Grandmaster Linden of the Aether Academy of Oakspire leaned back and rested his head on the wall, crafted from the roots of the great tree itself. This was it, he could feel it, deep in his soul. The last stand of Yelden Valley, the last stand of the Oakspire itself. One way or the other, his burden would soon be lifted.