Firelight and snowfall churned together in the main road, turning Nan Pass into a flickering corridor of orange glare and black smoke. The slush underfoot steamed where Yukan’s earlier flames had passed, and every footprint filled with dirty meltwater that froze again at the edges. The ring of fire that burst from Yukan’s spear on his renewed thrusts didn’t spread wild, not with his control—rather it lashed outward in disciplined arcs, searing through the nearest raiders who tried to close. One man with a spear stumbled back with his cloak aflame, batting at it in panic; another collapsed to his knees clutching a smoking chestplate. The heat forced the tight circle around him to break, their confidence cracking as they realized he wasn’t just “one defender,” he was a moving blaze line they couldn’t comfortably cross. But the village did not quiet. On the eastern side, Moo hit the kidnappers like a runaway cart. Her charge tore through the slush and scattered two raiders off their feet; one slammed shoulder-first into a woodpile, another skidded across the packed snow and dropped his chain with a shout. The villagers they’d been yanking free stumbled away, wide-eyed and scrambling, some falling, some crawling, all of them surging toward the alleys and the tree line as if the forest itself had become the only door left open. The moment Moo’s horns and fists were among them, the soldiers’ neat cruelty turned into messy survival—boots slipping, weapons swinging too wide, men barking at each other to “hold the line” while they plainly could not. At the headmans hut, the charred and barely standing woman wheezed a desperate and manic laugh. Her chant reached its cadence, the red glow of the seven-pointed coin did not spread outward indiscriminately, it latched. Every body that had fallen in the snow during this fight, human and beastkin alike, shuddered as if tugged by invisible hooks. A raider Yukan had just dropped moments ago twitched where he lay, charred armor scraping against stone. His fingers curled. His spine arched. Blue light flooded his eyes as he rose again, jaw hanging slack, spear lifting with a dull inevitability. Near Moo’s path of destruction, a beastkin who had died buying time for fleeing villagers dragged himself upright, chest crushed inward, breath no longer required. The chains that had bound him clattered loose as he turned — not in rage, not in pain — but in obedience. All across the village, the same thing happened. The dead stood up. Julia staggered once as the magic pulled at her, blood spotting the snow at her feet, but she laughed through it — a cracked, exultant sound. Her free hand braced against the railing as the coin burned hotter, thorns glowing like embers pressed into flesh. “See?” she rasped, voice carrying unnaturally far. “You kill them… and they still serve me.” Around Yukan, the ring of combat tightened in a new, horrifying way. Every fallen enemy was no longer removed — they were reclaimed. Burned soldiers rose again with half-melted armor fused to bone. Those struck down by blades staggered upright with weapons still lodged in their bodies, blue fire leaking from their wounds. Tsukiko swore under her breath, snapping a talisman onto the forehead of one such corpse and shoving her clawed flat hand put in a sharp jab. knocking it over. She moved with caution, but little by little she made her way to Yukan. "Are you the Clan leader of the Koyake Clan? An Alliance seems unavoidable now." She growled, pointing towards Julia. "She is a slaver that has sent poachers and hunters to these mountains for years. And a necromancer by the looks of it. She must be exterminated." As she pointed her claws came out to strike at one of the fighters eyes. Tsukiko’s strike sent the undead fighter crashing backward into the slush, its skull snapping sideways with a wet crack. Blue light sputtered in its eyes as it flailed, clawing at the ground to rise again. It never got the chance. From the edge of the village, the mist answered. At first it looked like the fog was simply thickening—rolling down from the treeline in heavy banks, swallowing lantern light and dulling sound. Snowflakes vanished into it mid-fall, hissing faintly as they touched something warm and alive. Then shapes moved within the white. Not men. Not beasts as the raiders understood them. The first howl tore through Nan Pass like a blade. Deep. Resonant. Not a cry of fear or rage—but a declaration. Out of the mist burst a massive white wolf, larger than any mundane creature, its fur glowing faintly as if dusted with moonlight. One eye burned a clear, piercing blue. The other shone molten gold. Snow exploded beneath its paws as it hit the street at full speed, jaws already open. It slammed into a freshly risen undead soldier and crushed him bodily to the ground, snapping spine and skull in a single, brutal motion. The blue light in the corpse’s eyes went out like a guttered flame—and this time, it did not rise again. The wolf did not slow. Behind it came the forest. Great shapes surged out of the mist in a crashing wave—beastkin in their true forms and half-shifted war-shapes, spirits layered over muscle and bone. Antlers crowned with frost. Claws trailing pale light. Massive feline silhouettes whose breath steamed like smoke from a forge. Some moved on four legs, others on two, but all of them carried the same purpose. They hit the undead ranks from the flanks and rear, tearing them apart with savage precision. Where a normal blow left a corpse to be reclaimed, these strikes ended things. Limbs were ripped free and hurled across the street. Torsos were crushed until nothing recognizable remained. Heads vanished into jaws or shattered under hooves and claws. The necromantic threads Julia had woven snapped again and again, recoiling uselessly as there was nothing left to bind. A towering bear-shape plowed through three shambling corpses in a single charge, pulverizing them into a smear of ash and bone fragments. A serpent-like spirit coiled around another undead fighter, constricting until the blue glow burst out of its eye sockets and faded. The village roared back to life with the sound of battle—real battle—steel ringing, beasts snarling, snow churning under massed movement. Julia’s laughter faltered. Her chant wavered, just for a heartbeat, as she watched her reclaimed dead torn apart faster than she could replace them. The coin in her hand flared brighter, pulsing erratically, the thorns biting deeper into her palm as blood dripped freely onto the stone steps. “No—” she hissed, coughing hard, crimson splattering the snow. “No, you don’t get to take them from me—” Another howl cut her off. The great white wolf pivoted mid-stride, skidding through slush and blood as it turned its mismatched gaze toward the headman’s hut. Its lips peeled back from fangs stained dark, breath fogging the air in heavy bursts. Mean while, back in the misty forest. The tree did not answer Yume. Not with words. Not with thoughts she could seize or unravel. When she had pressed her forehead to the pale bark, the cold eased—not warmth exactly, but a gentler absence of pain, like snow settling instead of biting. The hum beneath the roots deepened, slow and vast, a rhythm closer to breath than heartbeat. Her magic brushed outward—and met resistance. Not a wall. A depth. Something immense lay beneath the surface of the tree, layered so deeply that even her telepathy slid across it like fingers over still water. She could not enter it. Could not pull anything free. But something noticed her. The roots beneath her palm stirred. Not physically—there was no movement she could point to—but the sensation of being acknowledged pressed gently against her awareness, the way one feels eyes on them without ever seeing the watcher. Images surfaced. Not memories. Invitations. A forest path at dawn, mist clinging low to the ground. A pale clearing where roots rose like ribs around a shrine. An annoyingly familiar young blondes face. And beneath it all—absence. A hollow where someone should have been. The hum shifted, growing almost… wistful. Yume might feel the sense of waiting—not impatience, not demand, but something enduring and patient in a way only the dead ever truly master. The feeling was not aimed at her, but brushed past her like a sleeve, leaving behind a single, fragile impression: Someone is lost. Someone who once belonged here, Someone who could belong here. The roots warmed faintly under Yume’s hand. Another impression followed, softer still—so faint it might have been her own thought if not for how foreign it felt. A star reflected in water. A voice singing without sound. A daughter-shaped absence the forest could not fill on its own. Then, gently, firmly, the connection receded. The tree did not push her away. It simply closed—like an eye returning to rest. The cold returned. The hum settled back into silence. Snow continued to fall. Yume was left alone beneath the pale branches, with only the lingering certainty that whatever slept within those roots was not finished waiting.