The wind bit at her lips, pushing her smile wider. The cruel expression had taken up occupancy long enough for her gums to dry and crack. It was only a matter of time before her enemies in the distance were delivered their justice. That ticking clock mimicked her heart as she waited for her moment to come.

Pillars of dust rose toward the sky like a clear marker of their disdain for her strength. The players operated without guile, with no attempts at stealth for the main force, camping within easy sight of her walls. Not even a shred of respect to attempt deception among the whole lot. Though she wasn’t foolish enough to believe they wouldn’t have scouts and glory seekers closer to her lines, the apparent lack of concern was… insulting.

“Mistress, they are waiting.”

Cobalt’s raspy intrusion brought a scowl to her face. He knew how she enjoyed watching her enemies. The anticipation of what was to come. Was he being disrespectful? Hemlock slid her tongue across her teeth and cracked lips.

No…

She needed to tear her eyes away, force her mind and attention into the present. There was work to be done.

“Let them wait,” she spat. “I don’t answer to their call. A battle is coming with rewards beyond their petty dreams. Their shortsighted power struggles don’t concern me.”

Cobalt couldn’t smile. His head, a bony skull free of flesh, didn’t “emote.” But she could feel his amusement nonetheless.

“As you say, Mistress. Though they could be useful in the coming battle, could they not? Flies with honey and vinegar as they say.”

“You catch the most flies with shit, Cobalt.” She wrinkled her nose at the idea. “Though, they do have their purpose to serve. Check the preparations again. I will not permit failure today.”

Cobalt bent low as she exited, his unblinking gaze watching her every move.

***

Annoyance flashed through her before her “allies” even spoke. Their hushed whispers before she entered the chamber were a clear indicator of how today’s lines were drawn. She was to believe they were here to advise her; to provide their wisdom in her campaign and support her with the backing of the undying lands.

Lies. They were here to spy.

They were here to watch for weakness and exploit what they could.

Glowering, she stood next to her seat at the head of the table, unwilling to even commit to sitting.

The gesture did not go unnoticed.

“Won’t you join us, Hemlock?” a deep rolling voice asked, amusement underlying the request.

“I am here, Shiver. I have no intention of staying.”

The impossibly tall skeleton leaned forward, placing its elbows on the table and steepling its boney fingers. The single bloodshot eye, sitting lidless in its skull, locked on Hemlock. The few pieces of skin clinging to its jaw betrayed the slightest hint of a sneer.

“We are here at the behest of our lord, as you well know. Decorum suggests courtesy between us in the least.”

“You are here for your own ends, bone sack, and I have no interest in decorum.”

“We are seeking only to assist,” a snake-like voice added to her left.

“I’m sure,” Hemlock responded, her nose wrinkled in distaste.

Just the presence of Skurge was enough to bring bile to her throat and murder to her mind. Pale white skin stretched over-taught across an elongated skull. Blood red lips, thin as the edge of paper, slid over stake-like teeth. Though the least threatening of her so-called guests, the unnaturally thin Akhkhazu was an abomination even to those who spent their time with the undead.

“Such hostility from one so young,” Shiver chuckled. “Do you really think yourself so wise? Without need of counsel? You hold sway over many resources, child.”

“I steward those resources. Dedicated in full to my guiding hand by our lord. And I am no child, dead thing.”

“As you say,” an impossibly old woman said, sitting to Hemlock’s right, a tick tick tick coming from her hands.

Lightning-fast knitting needles flew through their patterns, human hair twisting, twirling, slowly taking form. The Yaga looked up at Hemlock, giving her pause as she looked into the onyx pits of the crone’s eyes.

“Is it so much to share your thoughts with your allies? With those who would suffer from your loss?” the old woman asked.

Hemlock’s gaze drifted between the three, each awaiting an answer.

They think they can push me. They sit here under the guise of peaceful conversation, thinking I don’t recognize the threat. Envy colors their tone. Each of them poisoned by jealousy that I took this city. They don’t care about the traps I’ve laid or the battle to come. They want to break my will. Break it by the tiniest sliver so they can break it by another sliver tomorrow.

This will not do.

“You are a group of snakes. You come under our lord’s banner, claiming to be guests and offering the protection of allies. You seek to use that place to further your own ends. You’re not here to provide aid, you’re here to bully. You don’t seek to lend wisdom. You seek to infect me with a need for your counsel. You, who have been defeated by the pestilence of those beyond my walls again and again. How dare you step into my city, taken by my hand, and make demands of me.”

“You would do well to control yourself, young one,” the Yaga replied calmly, having resumed her knitting.

“You would do well to remember your place. You do not sit in the chamber of a subordinate.” Hemlock’s voice fairly dripped with venom.

“Enough!” Shiver bellowed, crashing his hand on the table and a boom like a train crash reverberated through the room.

Hemlock started at the noise, forgetting herself for the slightest moment.

Flashes of a perfectly ordered living room and kitchen, a home, went through her mind. Endless days of yoga, errands, dinner, television until sleep repeated hundreds of times in a single heartbeat. Endless days alone, even when she wasn’t alone.

The silence. The loneliness. The solitude.

It terrified her.

She retreated back into the darkness, back into the rage and purpose. Shielding herself from the weakness of those memories with wrath and brutality.

“You will not speak to us in such a way, you little insect,” Skurge hissed, standing from his seat. “We have served long before you came to this world and will remain long after you have finished with your playthings.”

Hemlock turned a cool glare on the red-lipped fiend. Ice and warning thick in that gaze.

“Do you hear me, human?” Skurge continued, ignoring her silent threat, getting close enough for her to smell the rot on his breath. “You will respect our—”

A tendril of darkness lashed from the ground, wrapping around the Akhkhazu’s throat. She smiled at the shock on his face as five more lashings erupted from the floor, binding his arms, legs, and waist. Liquid shadows crawled up the tendrils, congealing like tar onto Skurge, covering his body in thick, sticky darkness. His eyes grew wild and manic, the darkness spreading to his lips, thickening further as it flowed down his throat. Hemlock stared into the baby eater’s frightened eyes. Unblinking. Merciless.

“I have lived helpless,” she said softly. “I have had the power to see my will done. Of the two, I very much prefer the latter. You will not come to my city and make demands of me.”

“Careful, Shadow, that is an ally under your paw,” Shiver rumbled, eyes locked on the altercation.

“Killing another vassal would make your allegiances questionable. It would give me the right to leave with our lord’s troops,” the Yaga said noncommittally, not pausing in her knitting.

Coldness spread through Hemlock as she regarded the old crone. The tick tick tick of the needles causing her eye to twitch.

“You would take from me the very strength that stands to defend this city from the threat outside its walls?”

The Yaga did not answer, nor look up, the tick tick tick of her knitting needles uninterrupted.

With a slight nod, Hemlock began to withdraw the shadows, releasing the Akhkhazu’s throat.

Deep gasps erupted as his windpipe opened again, air reaching his deprived lungs. Wracking coughs shook his thin body, his glaring hatred at her unhinged. She was genuinely surprised when he spit at her feet. “You will learn your place, hum—”

Blood erupted across the room.

One moment the Akhkhazu stood before her, and the next Hemlock flexed, her shadows tearing him into bloody mist. The blood was pulled so quickly it was aerosolized, and the surfaces in the room took on a crimson hue.

With a sigh, the Yaga wrung the blood from her knitting with her withered hands and put it away.

“I do believe that completes our chat,” she said. Standing, she pushed her chair into place beneath the table, yellow chicken legs a stark contrast to the old woman’s body. Looking up at Hemlock, the crone smiled, winked, and faded away.

Shiver smiled openly now, his chin resting on his hand. “With the Yaga taking your forces, you can’t hope to keep this stronghold, human. Even with Cobalt by your side. You will be returning to us shortly, tail between your legs.”

Shiver stood, eight feet tall and covered in black plate armor, a shivering sounding as the pieces collided.

He paused when he passed her, whispering into her ear, “And then, with you properly cowed, I’ll take this city for my own.”

His footsteps faded behind her.

With a disgusted look, Hemlock flicked the blood from her hands.

“The preparations are ready, m’lady,” Cobalt said as Hemlock exited the chamber.

“Good. It won’t be long now.”

The sky was beginning to lighten in the east. A new day literally dawning.

She made her way to her favorite place atop the burned-out alchemist shop. It was where she watched the growing player menace these past few days, and where she would watch them fall.

Behind her, the skeletons in her forces were marching into a spinning tunnel of darkness, mud and dirt clinging to their filthy bodies. Her troops were heading back to the dying lands and her lord’s direct control.

She suppressed rage at the treacherous turn of her allies. And then smiled at their gullibility.

The fools played right into her hands.

***

The air was thick with candle smoke in the command tent. Carthage didn’t mind the smoke, his Toughness long since having hit levels where smoke in the air was no longer an inconvenience, and now just provided a nice atmosphere.

“We need to surround the town!” Fanghorn said, pounding his fist on the table. “If we don’t cut off their retreat, they can just duck back into the dying lands and be a continued danger to our border. We can’t let that happen!”

“We can be ready for them if they come back again,” Karn said, his shirtless barrel chest heaving. “That damn monster cheated me, Fang! I beat her in her single combat and she took the town anyway. Took our town! I filed a ticket with support and you know what they said? “Working as expected.” Working as expected! Let them come back after we route them. Hero’s Haven will not fall a second time!”

Karn clearly hadn’t taken losing the city well. It was easy to understand. Karn and Fanghorn had been some of the original founders of the player city. Laying the cornerstone, getting NPCs to migrate, convincing a player base to settle… it’d taken them years of in-game time before the system recognized Hero’s Haven.

The first player-founded city in Interius was a symbol of how they could affect the game.

“The city hasn’t been incorporated into the dying lands yet, Karn. It’s still player territory,” Fanghorn said. “This isn’t like when Shiver took the Black Keep. There must be content coming we haven’t seen yet!”

“Then we deal with the content when it’s released. Do you see how many players we have in this camp? There hasn’t been a mobilization like this in years,” Karn said.

“And we can totally take the city!” Carthage said. “Seriously, I mean, I understand the tactics thing, Fang, but we have twice as many players as the largest raid in the game. And they’re all geared up, ready to go! No way we don’t take the town!”

After three days of this same argument, it was beginning to rub a bit raw. Carthage was all for caution, but it was starting to feel like they would never mount the attack. And he really wanted to get into the city. It felt like ages since new content had been released, and like everyone else here, he was thirsty for it.

He’d been one of the first into nearly every new dungeon, raid, and battle since he started playing three real-world years before. It was part of what gave his guild their status. New content? Ominous Latin Name would be there, ready to fight. Carthage loved to be one of the first. The notoriety, seeing everything for the first time, not to mention no spoilers in the forums. He had to be there when the city was retaken. He wouldn’t allow it any other way.

“I agree with Carth,” Karn said. “We have more than enough forces here to take it. Especially with OLN’s recent Level up. I say we march on the city.”

“But how many are going to stay?” Fanghorn asked, getting exasperated. “You both know better than to expect those filthy casuals to stay after we take the city back. None of them will be here for the boring part where we hold the city. I say we wait for more. Enough that we can have a reasonable garrison after the battle and the log outs.”

“We can worry about defending the place after we get it back under our control! Why are you so worried about this?” Karn asked, annoyed.

“I don’t know! Something is just really weird about this expansion. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like the game itself is setting some sort of trap. Why would they take a city and then not—”

“Karn!” A young elvish player shouted, bursting through the tent flaps. “Karn! They’re leaving. The troops are leaving!”

“What?” Carthage shouted, dismayed. If the enemy were retreating, they may have run out of time. Did they miss out on the content? Was there some sort of timer? Could they re-trigger the event?

“Are you sure?” Karn asked, approaching the messenger.

“Def, no cap. Caught sight while sneaking lookin’ for some easy murder-kill XP. All of ’em just lining up and walking through a big black vortex thing.”

With a grin, Karn turned to Fanghorn. “Now is the time! They are literally retreating from our forces. If we’re going to take the place, now is the time!”

“You aren’t concerned it sounds like a trap? I feel like I just said it felt like a trap,” Fanghorn said.

“Dude, Fang. Grow a pair, damnit,” Karn snapped, turning and heading toward the tent flap. “With them in retreat, we can take the city with or without the Hobo’s.” And he walked out.

“Idiot,” Fanghorn cursed before looking at Carthage. “What about OLN?”

“You know me, I’m excited about the content. The troops leaving has me worried we missed some kind of window. But if nothing else, Hero’s Haven will be easier to take with all of us.”

Fanghorn nodded, taking a deep breath. “So be it.”

***

Jolts of anticipation pulsed through Carthage’s veins as their forces crept closer to the city walls. Even his annoyingly loud armor was silent in the predawn glow, dampened by the layered stealth spells of the gathered guilds most powerful mages.

None were fool enough to believe they would make it all the way to the city under the deception, but every foot counted in a battle like this.

Everyone’s senses were on high alert, eyes dashing back and forth in preparation for the inevitable sentry. That lone figure on the walls that would spot their hidden forces and raise the alarm.

Steadily they crept, each moment another victory and another torture in waiting to be found out.

They passed the outer rampart, glee building as the walls got closer and closer.

A small pebble tumbled down the wall to the right, drawing a collective pause. The entire force held their breath, every eye on the empty crenelations above.

They remained, as yet, undiscovered.

“We’re gonna crush them!” DerrickNotDerrick whispered, bringing smiles from those nearby as they registered just how close they were to the city. This was quickly followed by several death glares for speaking while stealthing.

Karn: Alright, on my signal.

The party message brought a communal tightening as everyone prepared.

And then Karn’s deep voice screamed a challenge, “We come for you, monster! For Hero’s Haven!”

And pandemonium erupted.

Carthage’s mouth hurt from how wide he was smiling as the might of two-hundred top tier, geared out, high-level players charged the city walls. A boom so deep he could feel it in his chest reverberated, and a section of the city walls crumbled.

Like a demolition from the old videos, the wall collapsed straight down on top of itself, opening a gap forty feet wide. Screams of triumph rang out, and even Fanghorn had a smile at the success of his spell.

The army didn’t slow in their charge through the gap, the sound of hundreds of feet driving them faster, the clang of armor and cries of bloodlust from their friends bringing them to near madness.

They sought for opposition, maintaining a single pressing force just like they’d been briefed, waiting for the unavoidable resistance.

Karn: Keep pressing! We caught them completely off guard! Try to get to town center, it’s defensible and we can move out from there!

Cries erupted from more throats at the small victory, and the column of battle-ready players surged through the town. Pressing to gain ground.

Steel on steel echoed from ahead, drawing the army with increased fury.

“Geomancers! I want a low wall here, now!” Carthage yelled as they entered the town square, making the executive decision to start the fortifications.

Several mages stepped forward, lifting their hands, pulling stone from the earth and erecting a small barricade for the army’s use. The action was mirrored throughout the square as the last stragglers of the army vaulted the new wall.

The sound of clashing steel continued to echo around the players. They looked left and right, seeking the source of the battle.

Confusion and worry began to invade Carthage’s confidence. Something wasn’t right.

The army looked from their hastily erected fortifications out on an empty city. Not a single enemy showed itself. Nothing charged their fortifications.

And then, with a horrible sound mimicking an old vinyl record scratching, the sounds of battle stopped.

“What the hell?” Asked Karn.

“Shiiiit,” Fanghorn said.

Carthage agreed. “Everyone, form up! Be ready.”

The troops tightened their ranks, anticipation turning to suspicion and the beginnings of fear amongst the group.

Moments went by with silence weighing on the town square, marred only by the shifting of armor and occasional cough. A fog began to form between the buildings, pulling the players’ attention.

A single figure stepped out of the rolling mist. The skeleton, bones bright blue with embossed runes and symbols, was well known to the player population. Several tightened their grips on their weapons.

Cobalt silently judged the players before him in the pre-morning.

“We come to take back our city, filth!” Karn shouted, bringing a cheer from the players behind him.

Cobalt did not respond. Did not move.

The cheers died down in the face of that impassive visage. And then the skeleton started to laugh.

It began quietly, a low chuckle you had to strain to hear, slowly growing in its intensity.

Carthage exchanged glances with Fanghorn, worry creeping deeper into their expressions.

“Karn! Are you seeing this?” a player shouted, indicating the fog.

Confused, Carthage focused on the fog, realizing it was purposefully creeping closer to the army.

Inspection – Success!

– Death Mist – Poison This deadly poison is created by the careless, near-suicidal mixing of incredible amounts of alchemical elements. You do not breathe this and live.

“Poison cloud!” Fanghorn yelled as Carthage was finishing his Inspection.

Cobalt’s laughter grew louder and louder as the troops started to backpedal away from the mist, fighting against panic in their attempts to escape the threat.

“Everybody back! Put distance but leave room for exit tactics,” Carthage shouted, trying to control his people. “Fanghorn, can you have one of your mages get a portal up?”

Mages, overhearing, started to try to open portals across the square, but each time the shimmering discs went up, they collapsed, shooting sparks into the crowd around them.

“Portals won’t work here! We built the city so you couldn’t portal into the town center,” Fanghorn shouted.

“It was a safety precaution,” Karn contributed. “In retrospect, should have had it run all the way to the walls.”

“I’m taking suggestions!” Carthage shouted back.

With a curse, Fanghorn lifted his arms, his gesture pulling thick tree roots out of the ground.

The roots coiled around each other, wiggling and writhing as they pulled themselves free of the earth, forming into a circle. The circle began to deepen, a hole forming as the dirt moved away from the circle’s center, creating a tunnel that disappeared into the ground.

Carthage had seen his friend open a root tunnel many times. It was an excellent way to get into a castle or out of a trap. But it was slow. It would deepen steadily, as long as the magus continued his channel, but there wasn’t enough time. The mist was encroaching quicker now, and as Carthage watched, the first players began to fall.

It was horrifying. Unlike most of the game’s content, there was no spectacle to the deaths. They didn’t disintegrate. They didn’t shrivel or explode. Their skin blackened slightly with veins of darkness running from their mouths down their throats and simply fell over. Dead. Their loot gems glittering on the ground around them.

The cold, merciless, almost matter-of-fact killing was chilling to behold. The players’ lives were snuffed out unemotionally. As if done by a machine.

“Any way to speed that up!” Carthage called, wracking his brain as players climbed over each other in full, desperate panic to escape.

Fanghorn didn’t respond, sweat beading on his brow as he concentrated on his conjuring.

“Any great ideas?” Carthage called, shooting a pointed look at Karn, who simply glowered, pressing his mouth into a thin line.

“Clearly, thinking isn’t my strong suit,” Karn said.

A few spells flew into the mist, a light beam, an earthen mound trying to tunnel through the poison. Each was ineffective, like sparks against a tsunami. Other players tried air bubbles, billowing winds, and varying spells to clear the air and at the very least keep it clean around themselves. Cobalt killed these.

Almost casually, the skeleton walked back and forth through the mist, his massive sword cleaving through the protections the players raised, his laughter rolling across the square. Occasionally someone would engage the monster, but a single prick would break any conjured bubble. A simple advance forcing a retreat away from the encroaching fog.

“Deep enough!” Fanghorn cried, letting his channeling go. “A portal can go up at the bottom of the tunnel. We need a Magus over—”

Carthage turned to find Fanghorn’s body twitching, the head missing. Cobalt’s massive sword stuck out of the wall, still vibrating from the throw.

“Fanghorn!” Karn shouted, rushing to his friend, pulling a res stone from his Inventory.

But it was too late. Without a head, there was nothing left to res.

Hope fled as the tunnel collapsed on itself, the sides sliding in until there was only a small indention to show it had been there.

He vaguely heard Karn scream for vengeance as he charged Cobalt, but he wasn’t really paying attention beyond registering when the players’ shouts turned to gurgles. His focus on their last hope for escape closed up below him.

The mist fully consumed the players after that, leaving only silent corpses and loot gems behind.

Carthage was one of the last to fall and the eerie stillness was disturbing. Only the occasional gurgle or shifting armor echoed through the square now. The quiet was at odds with the level of death he’d just seen.

They’d lost. Completely. Even as the poison flowed down his throat, he was shocked. His last thought before respawn was a simple, “How?”

***

For twenty minutes more, the mist hung over the town center, long past the final kicks of the remaining players. And then it began to dissipate.

Hemlock smiled, nodding to Cobalt as she walked into the clearing, a shifting shade amid the sea of glimmering loot gems.

She didn’t bother speaking while surveying the bodies, appraising their corpses and taking in the moment of her victory.

Hemlock raised her hand to the sky.

Nothing happened for a long moment. Then tendrils of darkness sprouted like writhing tentacles from her hand, snaking their way down her arms, circling her body. The snake-like streamers of shadow flowed across the ground, hungrily seeking the eyes and mouths of corpses.

Through it all, Hemlock remained motionless, her mad smile turned toward the sky.

“Rise,” she whispered, her words floating onto the wind from her dry lips.

The players’ bodies started to move. One by one, they stood, the pain still etched on their faces, their visages locked in the grimace of death.

“Gather your things.”

And they did. Hundreds of corpses plucked up the loot crystal their body had left in death, and her new minions equipped their top tier gear. They swung weapons of legend, brandished in enchanted armor worth a king’s ransom.

“That will do nicely.”

Her undead player-army thumped their chests as one, the resounding boom echoing off into the night.

“Nobody will cow me again.”