The air in the forest grew colder as Colonel Aribari moved deeper into the thicket, away from the flickering warmth of the camp. He wasn't looking for wood gatherers; he was looking for a sign—any sign—that their "guest" was the monster he suspected him to be. Aribari stopped by a stream that shimmered like liquid mercury under the full moon. He knelt, not to drink, but to press his ear to the earth, using a scouting technique Marilda herself had taught him.
Instead of the steady rhythmic thrum of the forest, he heard a discordance. A hum that felt like a needle pricking the back of his brain.
Suddenly, the bushes parted. But it wasn't a Mekuba warrior. It was one of his own men, a young scout named Jiro. Jiro’s eyes were wide, his skin pale as bone.
"Colonel," Jiro whispered, his voice trembling. "I found them. The wood gatherers. They aren't dead... but they aren't them anymore."
"Explain yourself, soldier," Aribari commanded, gripping the hilt of his sword.
"They are standing in a circle near the grey sands," Jiro said, pointing toward the edge of the Desert of Whispers. "They are speaking in tongues, but their shadows... Colonel, their shadows are reaching out and touching each other like living vines."
Aribari felt a chill that no armor could protect against. He realized then that Oswald’s warning about the "mental trap" was already unfolding. If the Mekuba could take their men without a single drop of blood being spilled, the army of Tubenia was already walking into a slaughterhouse.
Back at the campsite, the atmosphere was thick with a different kind of tension. Griselda sat across from Oswald, the firelight dancing off her polished breastplate. She watched him closely. Up close, his skin wasn't just grey; it had a pearlescent quality, etched with faint, glowing lines that pulsed in time with his breathing.
"You said you learned to shield your mind," Griselda said, her voice cutting through the crackle of the flames. "Teach me. Now. My men are restless, and their fear is a scent I can almost taste. If I cannot lead them with a clear head, we are lost before we reach the sands."
Oswald leaned forward. "To shield the mind, you must first acknowledge that your senses are liars, Griselda. The Mekuba don't create horrors from nothing; they find the rot already inside you and give it a face. Tell me... what is the one thing you fear most? Not as a General, but as the daughter of Mokkar?"
Griselda stiffened. She thought of her father’s aging face, the weight of the crown she wasn't sure she wanted, and the haunting memory of her mother’s empty chambers. "Failure," she whispered. "Losing the people I swore to protect."
"Then look behind you," Oswald said calmly.
Griselda spun around, her sword clearing its scabbard in a blur of silver. Standing at the edge of the firelight was her father, King Mokkar. He looked broken, his royal robes tattered, his eyes weeping blood.
"Mirelda," the apparition wailed. "You promised to return. You’ve led them all to their graves for the sake of a grey demon."
Griselda’s heart hammered against her ribs. The image was so real she could smell the cedarwood oil her father always wore. She took a step forward, her resolve crumbling.
"Stay back!" Oswald’s voice boomed, though his lips didn't move. The sound echoed inside her skull. "Focus on the fire, Griselda. Feel the heat on your skin. The heat is real. The smell of the smoke is real. The ghost has no scent because it has no substance. Ground yourself in the physical!"
Griselda gasped, forcing her eyes away from the weeping King and into the heart of the flames. She focused on the searing orange light until her eyes burned. Slowly, the sound of the wailing faded. When she looked back, the space where her father had stood was empty—only a swirling mist remained.
She sheathed her sword, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "Is that what they do?"
"That was a mere whisper," Oswald replied grimly. "In the desert, the whispers become screams. They will show you an entire world of pain until you beg for death just to make it stop."
The quiet atmosphere was shattered by a piercing scream from the woods.
Griselda was on her feet instantly. "Captains! To arms!"
Colonel Aribari emerged from the tree line, dragging Jiro by the collar. Behind them, three wood gatherers walked with a mechanical, jerky gait. Their eyes were entirely black, devoid of iris or pupil.
"They’ve been touched, Princess!" Aribari shouted. "The Mekuba are already among us!"
The soldiers scrambled, drawing blades and forming a defensive perimeter. But as they looked at their possessed brothers, hesitation took hold. How do you kill a man you shared bread with only hours ago?
"Do not strike!" Oswald stood, his glowing lines brightening to a fierce blue. "They are not possessed. They are being 'piloted.' If you kill the bodies, the Mekuba will simply jump to the next mind in the circle. You must break the link!"
Oswald stepped toward the blackened-eyed men. He raised his hands, and a low hum filled the air—the same sound Aribari had heard by the stream. The wood gatherers stopped in their tracks. They began to convulse, their mouths opening in a silent, collective shriek.
Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the men’s feet. It wasn't a shadow at all, but a viscous, ink-like substance that slithered rapidly toward the dark jungle.
"It’s a scout," Oswald warned. "It returns to the Mekuba to tell them that the 'Grey One' has found a champion."
Griselda looked at her trembling men, then at the mysterious alien who had just saved them from a fratricidal nightmare. The alliance was no longer a strategic choice; it was their only hope for survival.
"Aribari, secure the perimeter with fire. They hate the light," Griselda commanded, her voice regaining its steel. She turned to Oswald. "We move for the Desert of Whispers at first light. I don't care about the legends or the ghosts. We are going to get your 'spacecraft,' and then we are going to burn the Mekuba’s illusions to the ground."
Oswald looked at the warrior-princess—the woman he called Griselda—and for the first time, a look of genuine hope crossed his alien features. "Then let us hope your mind is as sharp as your blade, battle-maiden. The desert does not forgive, and the moon is watching our every move."
As the camp settled into a guarded, fearful rest, the moon hung high over Tubenia—a silver eye witnessing the birth of a legend that would haunt the castle of the dead for centuries to come. The "House of the Dead" was not just a place of monsters; it was the final destination of a love forged in the fires of a mental war.
Author's Note:
The journey into the Desert of Whispers has begun! Will Griselda's mental shield hold against the shapeshifters? And what secrets truly lie within Oswald's "spacecraft"? Stay tuned for Part 3 of the "House of the Dead" series.
.jpg "\" Oswald & Griselda in the valley of ghosts\"")
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