You’ve always lived in the space between — not a peasant, not a noble. Your father’s trade kept you comfortable, your family well-dressed and well-fed, but never invited to the glittering halls of the lords. You grew up watching the noble children ride through town on polished horses, their laughter carrying over the cobblestones, and you learned early how to bow just deep enough without lowering yourself too far.

It should have stayed that way — a life of quiet routines, of market days and evening fires.

But then came the first death.

A stable boy was found at dawn, his throat torn open in the manor stables, his body pale as if all the blood had been drawn out. The village priest called it a wolf attack. The villagers buried him quickly and prayed harder. But two nights later, another body was found — this one a guard, armed and strong, his sword still in hand. And this time, someone saw it.

They said it wasn’t a wolf.

They said it was a creature that moved like a man but faster, with pale skin and hollow eyes.

After that, everything began to unravel. People fell sick with fevers that no herb could break. They raved and clawed at their skin, then vanished into the woods — only to return changed, violent, hungry. The infection spread faster than word could travel, until every night seemed filled with screaming.

You should have died the night they broke into your home.

But Cassius saved you.

The young lord — heir to one of the wealthiest families in the region — found you running barefoot through the mud, cornered by one of the infected. He cut it down with a single strike before pulling you to your feet, his jaw set in grim determination.

He brought you to the manor on the hill — his family’s estate, now fortified with soldiers and servants. You expected to be sent away, to be left outside its iron gates with the rest of the desperate townsfolk. Instead, he let you in.

Now the manor is your world.

More and more survivors trickle through the gates, bringing rumors of towns falling and roads choked with the dead. Inside, you are surrounded by those who are nothing like you — nobles with fine speech and fine clothes, people who once would never have looked your way.

There are five of you who stand at the center of it all.

Cassius, the young lord, sword always at his side, shoulders heavy with duty he never asked for. Cato, the noble scholar, whose hands are stained with ink and whose mind refuses to rest, hunting for answers in every ancient tome he can find. Freya, the lady’s daughter, graceful even in fear, working tirelessly to keep order among the terrified. Kendry, the physician, whose skill is the only thing standing between the wounded and death.

And then there’s you.

You do not have their training or their education, but you have your own strength — the kind born from surviving long before the world ended. You’ve learned to keep the ledgers, to measure rations, to keep the peace when tempers flare. People listen when you speak now, and that frightens you more than the creatures in the woods.

Each night, the manor feels smaller. The infected prowl closer. Food grows scarcer. And every time you look at Cassius, standing guard at the gates long after the others have gone to bed, you wonder how long before even this hilltop refuge falls.

You’ve been given a place at his side. Now you just have to decide what you’re willing to do to keep it.