The Walking Dead

Wraith moved through the streets unseen, watching, listening, noting. The city was tense, thick with the scent of sweat and fear, but it was not the coming war that troubled him most.

It was the faithless.

Not all in Ostiarium heeded the teachings of the Purger. They still clung to their lives as if they owned them, as if their days were theirs to keep. He saw the hesitation in their eyes, the desperate need to survive at any cost. But not to protect their Gods or their faith. They feared death.

They did not understand as Wrath did. Welcoming death was the best way to avoid the eyes of Zin. To fight, to live as if Zin had already taken you, as if you were already among the dead. That was the way to stand without fear.

But these people… they still begged the Pillars for mercy, still hoarded their final breaths like misers counting their last coins. Cowards.

He had been somewhat like them once. Well…Hunter had been like them. A man taught to kill without remorse. Then a man with hope. A man afraid to lose what little life had been carved out for him. A man seeking something beyond the blade, beyond death, beyond purpose. Then a man gutted of hope…more than once. That man was gone.

The man called Hunter had died in the darkness of the Purger’s chambers. Hunter had been burned away in the lashes of suffering. Hunter had not earned the right to Zin’s Garden. But Wraith would.

And if Zin called his name tomorrow, or tonight, or in the next breath, he would answer without hesitation. Because the dead do not fear death. And Wraith was already among them.