The Viridian Dream returned one last time. He stood in the swirling darkness, hearing the hushed whispers heckle him from all directions. They told him they would come for him again, that he would never know peace. They would find him, and they would drown him.

“Papa!” Rowan jerked at his mother’s voice, opening his eyes to find himself staring at the mostly familiar sight of his house. Moss now crawled up the stone foundation and little shoots of green stuck up in the empty garden that hugged the steps.

Surprisingly, Giselle did not attack the moment Nova passed through her fog. Instead, she tossed away the body leaning against her, now dried out and mummified like the human who had betrayed Rowan. Nova’s eyes fell to the yellowish clothes, recognizing them as belonging to the woman they helped out of the building.

They moved carefully down the ruined roads of Ladisdale, slowed down by the presence of overgrowth and debris. Silas led the way, followed by Rowan’s mother, then Nova carrying Rowan.  Rowan watched as Silas cleared away saplings and bushes with his sword, each swing flashing in golden light and leaving behind a faint whiff of something sharp in odor.

Sorrel stared up at the tree that held her son prisoner, clutching her wounded arm against her chest. Major Baldry stood beside her, concern etched onto his features. The roots closest to the tree had slowed to a crawl, no longer the danger they were earlier. Sorrel hoped that meant things were almost over, but she knew her counter potion was not instantaneous.

“You can’t go out there, did you not see the undead?!” Sorrel bit back a scream of frustration as she pulled against the acolytes holding her back. She had been in the Athenaeum’s lecture hall when the explosion went off, so loud it nearly made her drop the vial she was holding.

It wasn’t until they reached the edge of Ladisdale’s farmlands that Rowan’s feet touched the ground again. Nova came to a stop, surveyed their surroundings, and then carefully let him down. They were just outside of the view of any farmers, using the hilly terrain to their advantage as they stayed out of sight.

“And of course, it snowed! I swear the weather hates old men like me!” Grandpa Zebb complained as he stared out the open front door, glaring at the thin layer of white dusting the ground. A moment later, he shut the door, scowling. “No wonder my knee’s been killing me!”

Nova set her jaw as she twisted, her sword a whistling blade of wind as she cut through a lunging corpse. Black blood splattered in an arc as the two halves came apart, falling to the ground. She turned, walking away as frost sprawled out from her feet, covering the area and coating the thrashing wight, freezing it solid.

Sometimes when Sorrel found herself on the road going into town, she would stop and stare at the world as it was and remember how it used to be. These were the hills where she grew up. Grasses used to sprawl across their crowns, with carpets of heather and clusters of shrubs.