The sun was beginning its slow descent when Ignis and Lilith returned, arms laden with cloth-wrapped bundles and paper parcels that gave off the most enticing aromas—fresh-baked bread still warm from the oven, honey-glazed pastries, spiced meat skewers, small jars of preserved fruits, and wheels of soft cheese wrapped in leaves.

Ignis bounded up the porch steps first, cheeks flushed with excitement. "Adam! You won't believe how many amazing things they have here! The baker gave us extra because I helped carry flour sacks!"

Lilith followed more sedately, but even her crimson eyes held a quiet sparkle. In her elegant hands she balanced a basket of delicate berry tarts dusted with sugar.

Adam rose from the steps, smiling at the sight of them. "Welcome back. Did you two have fun?"

Ignis beamed. "It was incredible! Everyone was so nice—they smiled, they talked, they didn't even scream once!"

Lilith inclined her head, a faint, genuine curve to her lips. "Satisfying. More than I expected."

In Adam's mind, a quiet thought settled with relief, 'Their view of humans is shifting becoming neutral instead of hostile. Good. This is progress.'

Ignis immediately began unpacking her treasures on the porch table like a proud hunter displaying trophies.

"Look at these!" She held up a skewer of caramelized meat glistening with spices. "The butcher said it's smoked dire-boar—tastes like fire and heaven!"

She thrust one toward Adam. He took a bite, eyes widening at the explosion of flavor—rich, smoky, with a sweet-heat glaze that lingered perfectly.

"Gods, that's good," he admitted.

Lilith offered a berry tart to Philip and Aish, who had come to the door at the commotion.

"For our hosts," she said softly. "A small thanks for your kindness."

Aish's newly restored energy shone in her smile as she accepted. "Oh, these look wonderful! Thank you, dear."

Philip took one with a grateful nod, biting into it and humming appreciatively. "Best tarts in the village. You picked well."

Adam eyed the growing pile of food and chuckled. "This all smells incredible… but why so much? We're about to eat Aish's cooking. Isn't it rude to bring our own feast?"

Aish laughed—a full, bright sound that carried none of the weariness from before.

"Nonsense!" she said, waving a hand. "A table is never too full. The more food, the merrier the meal. It'll make supper feel like a proper celebration tonight."

She turned to Ignis and Lilith with warm eyes. "And after all the running about you've done, you must be starving. Bring it all inside—we'll set an extra leaf in the table."

Ignis needed no further encouragement. She scooped up her parcels and marched indoors, already chattering about which dishes should go where. Lilith followed with quiet grace, helping Aish carry the lighter items.

Philip clapped Adam on the shoulder as they brought in the last bundles.

"Never thought I'd see the day my table groaned under this much plenty," he said, voice thick. "And all because three kind strangers walked into our lives."

They gathered around it like a true family: Philip at the head, Aish beside him radiating quiet energy she hadn't felt in years, Adam across from them, Ignis bouncing in her seat, and Lilith seated with perfect poise yet a rare softness in her eyes.

Philip raised his mug of cider. "To new friends… and to miracles we never dared hope for."

Everyone echoed the toast, mugs clinking gently.

Ignis was already piling her plate high. "Aish, your stew smells like heaven! Can I have two bowls? No, three?"

Aish laughed, ladling a generous portion. "As many as you like, child. You've the appetite of a growing child."

Ignis grinned shamelessly. "Close enough!"

Philip tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the stew, eyes twinkling. "So, Ignis, Lilith—what did you think of our little village?"

Ignis answered with her mouth half-full, cheeks puffed like a squirrel. "It's wonderful! The baker let me taste everything before buying. Said my smile reminded him of his granddaughter. And there was a man with puppies!"

Lilith cut a small piece of tart with precise grace. "The people were… unexpectedly kind. A woman at the herb stall gave us extra moon-mint when I asked about its properties." She glanced at Adam, a silent message passing between them. "It was… pleasant."

Aish reached across to pat Lilith's hand. "You three carry yourselves like you've seen hard times. But you've gentle hearts. I can tell."

Adam felt warmth creep up his neck. He focused on his stew to hide it. "We've had our share of rough roads. Places like this… they remind us the world isn't all sharp edges."

Philip nodded solemnly. "Aye. War's far off for now, but we hear the stories. Refugees coming west with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Makes you cherish quiet evenings like this."

Ignis swallowed a massive bite and leaned forward. "Do you think the war will ever reach here?"

Philip and Aish exchanged a long look—one that carried decades of shared memory.

"Hope not," Philip said quietly. "We fought our battles when we were young. Lost friends. Nearly lost each other." He squeezed Aish's hand. "Now we just want peace for the young ones."

Aish's eyes glistened, but her smile was steady. "And tonight, we have it. Good food, good company, and"—she looked at Adam with open gratitude—"my strength returned. That's more than enough."

Supper stretched long into the evening—laughter echoing around the crowded table, plates passed and refilled until everyone was full and content.

Eventually, the lamps were trimmed low and beds made up. Philip and Aish insisted their guests take the softest rooms, while they retired to their own. The house settled into peaceful silence, broken only by the soft chirp of crickets outside.

Adam lay awake longer than the others, staring at the wooden beams above his borrowed bed. The day's kindness lingered in his chest like a foreign but welcome ache. For the first time in years, sleep came easily.

Until Hunter's Tri-Sense jolted him awake.

A sharp spike—multiple heartbeats, two human and frantic, pounding toward the village at full gallop. Behind them, a larger mass: cold, hollow presences devoid of life-signs, moving with unnatural coordination. Dozens. Closing fast.

Adam was out of bed in an instant, pulling on his cloak. Down the hall, Ignis and Lilith emerged at the same moment—eyes alert, already sensing the disturbance through their bond.

Outside, shouts rose from the village green. Alarm bells began to clang.

Philip met them at the door, longsword belted on, face grim but steady. Aish stood behind him, clutching a shawl, worry etched in her newly restored features.

"Trouble at the east gate," Philip said. "Come on."

They ran together through the moonlit lanes, joining a growing knot of villagers—torches flickering, pitchforks and hunting bows gripped tight. The village headman, a burly man named Torv, was already there, directing people.

Two horses thundered into view, lathered and wild-eyed, bearing down on the open gate. Their riders were women—both bloodied and exhausted.

The first was strikingly beautiful despite the grime and wounds: long golden-blonde hair streaming behind her like a banner, fine features pale with fatigue. She wore the remnants of elegant traveling clothes now torn and stained.

The second rider—shorter blonde hair cropped practical beneath a dented helmet—wore battered knight's armor, a broken lance still clutched in one gauntleted hand. She slumped forward, one arm cradling an obvious wound across her ribs.

Behind them, pouring from the treeline like a tide of bone, came the pursuers.

Skeletons. Dozens—no, scores—of them. Clattering armor hanging from yellowed bones, rusted swords and spears raised. Empty eye sockets glowed with faint green witchfire. They moved with unnatural speed and purpose, far more organized than any mindless undead.

Villagers gasped and recoiled.

"Skeletons?!" one cried.

"Undead! So many—gods preserve us!"

Philip stepped forward, voice cutting through the panic like a blade.

"We hold the gate. Get those women to safety!"

Several farmers and hunters rallied behind him, weapons raised. Torv began shouting orders for non-combatants to fall back toward the center of the village.

Adam's eyes narrowed as he assessed the horde. Something was wrong—these weren't random dungeon stragglers. They moved in formation, flanking, almost tactical.

Lilith's voice brushed his mind, cool and analytical.

'Those two fled because they could not handle the numbers. Something commands these skeletons.'

Philip drew his sword with practiced ease, the old steel catching torchlight. He flashed Adam a fierce grin.

"Don't underestimate an old dog, lad. I was taking down necromancers before your father was born."

Adam couldn't help but return the smile—respect and fondness warming his chest.

"I'm not letting you charge in alone," he said. "We'll help."

Torv shouted warnings to be careful. Women and children were already hurrying deeper into the village, doors barring behind them.

Adam sent a quick telepathic command to Ignis and Lilith.

'We fight—but hold back. Protect the village, but keep the disguises intact.'

Ignis's golden eyes flashed with excitement, but she nodded sharply.

'Got it. Just enough to burn some bones.'

Lilith's mental reply was calm steel.

'Understood. Precision over spectacle.'

Philip barked quick orders—villagers to form a line behind the low palisade gate, archers to the flanks. Adam, Ignis, and Lilith took positions at the center, beside the old adventurer.

The two exhausted riders galloped through the gate at last, horses stumbling to a halt as villagers rushed to catch them. The long-haired woman slid from her saddle, legs buckling. The armored knight managed to stay upright long enough to gasp a warning.

"Necromancer… east woods… raised an army… we couldn't—"

She collapsed, supported by strong farmer arms.

The first wave of skeletons reached the gate—clattering, relentless.

Philip raised his sword high.

"Hold the line!"

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