The walking dead filled Castle Taleisn’s great hall.  They had attacked during the dark of the night, slaughtering the thanes and the servants alike, and now the castle was theirs.

Or, rather, their master’s.  

“You know, my lord Calwyn,” said the dark man lounging on the stone throne, “I’ve been looking forward to killing you.” His cruel smile widened, and his cold eyes shifted to Rosalyn.  “Killing your betrothed before your eyes…well, that adds savor to the stew.”

Two of the black-armored skeletons dragged Rosalyn towards the throne, their bony hands tight about her arms.  Their finger bones looked dry and brittle, yet felt like bars of cold iron against her bare skin.  The skeletons shoved, and Rosalyn fell besides the man lying bound and bloody at the foot of the throne.  

“My lady Rosalyn,” whispered the bound man, a hale fighter of about thirty-five.  One gray eye had swollen shut, and his face glistened with blood.  “I’m so sorry.”

“This can’t be, Calwyn,” said Rosalyn, trying to clean the blood from his face.  “You wiped out the Shadow Order, you killed them all…”

“Yes,” said the dark man, “all but one.”

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