It was a good-sized tree. A relatively sturdy pine, it looked like it’d been growing near to the graveyard for a good many years. It grew forty feet high at least, and there were several low-laying branches draped across the needle-coated ground.

Harrin knelt next to it. If he had been in possession of his lungs, he would have taken a deep breath, but it wasn’t an option at the moment.

Whatever had happened with the zombie… that hadn’t been normal. His memories may have been a blur, but he was confident that at no point in time had he been capable of such an easy decapitation. Was it possible that dying actually improved his strength?

In some heinous, detached type of warped logic, it almost made sense. There were no muscles to strain for effort and no tearing tendons to gradually heal into a stronger, denser flesh. There was only bone and magic. And eight times out of ten, magic was greater than muscle.

Harrin glanced back to make sure that no more of the undead had tried to approach the girl. None of them were close, so he returned his attention to the branches below his feet.

The question at hand was a simple one; that he was stronger than before was clear, but by how much? What were his new limits?

Reaching down, he lifted one of the pine tree’s branches. It resisted briefly, its twigs buried part-way beneath dirt, and then came up. It was about half an inch thick, still with a little green at the tips where needles had not yet fallen.

Wrapping his hand around it in a better grip, Harrin squeezed. A quiet groan echoed hollowly across the fog-laden graveyard as the stick compressed, splinters rising around Harrin’s hand. He tightened his grip, and an odd pop resonated from the twig as it halved.

Harrin stood, gazing at his sap-glazed hand with no small amount of surprise. He’d barely had to exert himself, and yet the result was so definite.

Looking further up the tree, he seized one of the larger limbs, perhaps an inch and a half across. Changing his stance, he put one foot forward and the other back, held his free hand behind him, and yanked.

A pained crack rang out as the limb was torn from the tree, ripped from the trunk like the arm of a badly-made doll with a child. Harrin stared at the removed branch in blank amazement. Certainly, a better stance made a difference, but such an action would have been impossible by the standards of nearly any man.

He slowly raised his skull to look at the trunk of the tree. It was a foot and a half across, with fierce nubs poking out on all sides.

No, he decided. It would be arrogance to assume he could do any damage to such a tree, especially without a blade. Tossing the tree branch aside, he paced back to the necromancer’s side, only pausing to glance back at the pine.

Well, not yet, anyway.

Harrin could feel his feet sink into the soft dirt as he strode over to the necromancer. She was trembling, eyes squeezed tightly shut as she grasped at the ground, soil and dirt tumbling through her fingers. Her breathing was ragged.

Alarmed, Harrin rushed closer, placing a hand on her shoulder and shaking her awake. She jolted as she returned to consciousness, rolling away and staggering to her feet, staring at everything haggardly. When she recognized Harrin, her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and she turned around.

Harrin patiently waited for her to collect herself as she wiped at her eyes. When she was done, she turned around and stubbornly told him, “I wasn’t crying.”

He simply nodded his acquiescense. There was no reason to argue with a child of her age.

She almost looked startled by the simple agreement, but went on ahead as though nothing had happened. Breaking eye contact, she gave an uncertain bow and said, “I’m Senna.” She paused, suddenly looking unsure of herself. “Do you have a name?”

Harrin nodded once again, and her expression brightened. “Wh-what is it?”

Turning, Harrin paced over to the grave he’d risen from, crouched next to it, and indicated his name written across the top. Senna walked over and inspected it with a squint. “Harrin?” She turned to look up at him. “Your name is Harrin?”

He nodded confirmation, and she smiled. “It’s nice to - oh!” Giving him a hasty curtsy, she finished, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Harrin dug through his memory and found little in the way of etiquette. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure how to address the necromancer. Was there some sort of title he was supposed to call her by? Granted, he couldn’t speak at the moment, but ‘master’ felt just… wrong.

He gave her a slight bow in response, and she giggled nervously. “I didn’t know that necromancy was this…” Senna fell silent, and even as Harrin watched, the happiness and anxiety and excitement drained out of her face, leaving her pale. He reached a hand out to steady her, but she simply stared at it. The nervousness of first-time introduction was gone from her blank expression, and it slowly twisted into near-disgust. “You’re dead,” she said dully, and Harrin almost recoiled. She looked up into his empty sockets, and her eyes began welling up with tears. “They’re dead.”

Worried, Harrin reached a hand out for her shoulder, but paused before he could make contact. He didn’t know anything about Senna yet and had no idea whether she was alright with… a hug, or something. He was a warrior, not a therapist! What was he supposed to do when he didn’t know what to do?!

How he wished he could say something. That he could say anything to make the situation better. But he didn’t know what the problem was, and he couldn’t say a word even if he wanted to.

Sniffling, Senna dried her eyes with her sleeve and stared hard at Harrin. It looked like she was trying not to cry more. “I need you to fight someone for me.”

Harrin straightened, enormously relieved for the change in topic. He’d rather fight an army instead of having to deal with… feelings. Reaching down for his sword, he yanked it from its scabbard and held it aloft.

They both stared at the broken piece of metal protruding from the crossguard. Harrin awkwardly put what was left of his sword back in its sheath. Senna buried her face in her hands, crouching. Alarmed, Harrin dropped to his toes, carefully balancing in front of her at a safe distance.

Her voice was muffled as she spoke, not looking up from her hands. “We can’t win.”

Instead of attempting to comfort her again, Harrin simply thought for a moment. He didn’t know what exactly she was fighting against, and a single glance around the graveyard proved that none of the other undead were particularly interested in helping Senna. Which… now that he thought about it, was rather worrying. Just how little control did she have over those she raised?

Pushing the concern away for the time being, Harrin patted Senna’s shoulder and walked over to the tree he’d been experimenting with earlier. He noticed her watching him out of the corner of where his eyes might’ve been, and quietly hoped he wouldn’t embarrass himself. Granted, she might find it amusing, and that would indirectly be helpful. So… whichever way this went, it wouldn’t be bad.

Standing before the tree, he eyed a section that was more or less open and readied himself. Ideally, he’d have a much better sword at hand to commit the deed with, but this would do for now. He just hoped his hand wouldn’t break - would it even heal if it did?

Before he could overthink it, he tightened his hand into a fist, took a step forward, grounded his back foot, and punched the tree as hard as he could. He heard a loud crack and felt a sharp sting of pain, but the result was immediate.

A chunk of wood disappeared from the tree in a cloud of splinters, leaving a sizable gash through the side of the trunk. Harrin stared at it in surprise. Certainly, he’d been expecting a dent, but not that.

Senna stood from her position and walked over, tracing the jagged strike with a finger. Looking up at Harrin, she hesitantly asked, “Do you - could you do that to--” She paused, staring at the ground somberly. When she looked back up, there was steel in her gaze. “Do you think you could do that to a person?”

Harrin nodded without hesitation. Without a sword, he’d been worrying about his capacity to perform as a knight. Granted, a sword would be much cleaner, and he had far more experience with blades than with his hands, but with this kind of strength, he doubted inexperience would matter all that much.

Senna took a deep breath, looking around at the milling undead. Harrin watched as she clenched her hand into a fist. A violet pulse shot from her heart to her fist, and she splayed her hand out in a sudden motion.

The remaining undead dropped like puppets whose strings had been cut, a series of dull thumps following the sound. Harrin couldn’t help but feel a chill run up his rather exposed spine, and reassessed his opinion of Senna. Clearly she knew more about necromancy than he’d initially believed. Which wasn’t to say he didn’t think she still needed his help.

It just meant he would have to keep an eye on her.