The graveyard was silent, save for the low rustling of wind through crooked stones and thorny brambles. A full moon hung low, drowning the earth in a cold, colorless light.
Vlad stepped forward, lantern shaking in his grip. "This is where they buried him," he whispered.
Elian didn't respond. He was frozen, staring at the cracked headstone half-sunk into the soil. It was barely legible now, worn down by weather and time—but the name was still there.
*Father Luka Dragomir.*
"This isn't possible," Elian murmured. "We buried him ourselves. I saw his corpse."
Vlad raised the lantern—and the earth beneath the headstone shifted.
At first, just a tremble. Then, a low *crack*, like splintering wood. The soil rippled. From it, pale fingers broke through—long and rigid, clawed with blackened nails.
Vlad fell back, screaming.
The ground exploded upward as something dragged itself from below. Not a corpse. Not a man. Something between the two. His cassock was torn and rotted, bones visible through sunken flesh. But the face… it was still Luka's.
Only now, his eyes were glowing with an unnatural gold. And when he spoke, his voice echoed like a voice from beyond a tomb.
*"You never listened."*
Elian stepped back in horror. "You're supposed to be *dead*."
Luka's head tilted. "I was. Then *He* found me."
The priest raised a trembling, cracked hand. Around him, the graves began to stir. Shadows leaked from the earth. The dead… were waking.
And Luka smiled with bleeding gums.
*"The seventh son must fall. Only then will the curse be complete."*
—