The shield was gone. Nerves raw. Thoughts naked. No veil. No mercy. The Necromancers didn’t descend the steps. They didn’t rush us. They didn’t need to. They were mountain and weather. They were pressure. They stayed at the altar, and the altar became a lever. The female rose first. Not a jump. A slow, patient float. Robes like oil. Bones like reeds under cloth. She circled the altar as if it were a black sun and she was a small, bright moon. Each loop widened. Each loop pushed. She sang one word. “Submit.” Not loud. Not dramatic. Precise. A surgeon’s scalpel of sound. She made another orbit. The word slid through marrow and memory. “Submit.” Right side zombie choir answered her, soft at first, almost reverent. submit… submit… submit… Their lips barely moved. Heads tilted in unison. Empty eyes locked on nothing. My boys buckled like wheat in a slow wind. Knees touched stone. Mouths slack. Eyes up. The song folded will into neat, apologetic packages. Behind her, the male did not rise. He took one knee on the top step and placed a palm against the altar. His fingers splayed as if pressing keys no one else could see. He did not sing a different song. He sang hers with her. Lower. Heavier. The kind of bass that lives under the floor. Their duet walked through our skulls. “Submit,” she breathed. SUBMIT, he rumbled. Left side zombie choir answered him. SUBMIT… SUBMIT… SUBMIT… The sound carried weight, like shovels striking coffins. Their jaws opened wider, voices growing more guttural, more impatient. The cathedral carried it. The pews hummed. The chains overhead chimed. The hanging dead swayed in sympathy, like metronomes of meat. Every curve of carved stone sharpened the note and returned it to us with interest. We stood inside an instrument built to play obedience. Right choir, soft but sharp: submit… submit… submit… Left choir, louder each time: SUBMIT… SUBMIT… SUBMIT… Half my boys went down at once. Faces to stone. Hands flat. Next came the strong ones who believed they were stronger than they were. Boy Four. Boy Six. Boy Ten. One by one, like candles exhaling themselves. The circle widened. “Submit.” SUBMIT. The word had teeth. It bit the corners of the mind where old fear lives. It bit again. And again. I smelled blood before I tasted it. Right choir hissed their word now, more force in it, less patience: submit submit submit submit Left choir barked theirs, voices cracking stone: SUBMIT SUBMIT SUBMIT SUBMIT Boy Eleven’s forehead touched the floor. Boy Twelve’s fingers trembled and spread in surrender. Boy Five offered his throat to nothing at all. They weren’t cowards. It wasn’t that. The song cheated. It came in wearing their own voices. Boy Two lasted longer. Rear guard habits. Stubborn spine. He dropped slow, like a tower deciding to kneel. Not collapse. Kneel. Finally only three were upright. Boy One. Boy Three. And me. Boy One’s breath gunned fast. Eyes wet. He shook his head. He clenched his jaw. He stayed up. Boy Three didn’t shake. He didn’t blink. He stared at me and waited. The kind of waiting that feels like a bridge with a train on it. He wore defiance like a tight coat. Too tight. Blood crept from his ears, threading his neck. Their chorus pressed harder. “Submit.” submit… submit… submit… SUBMIT. SUBMIT… SUBMIT… SUBMIT… My knees flexed. I didn’t fall. I won’t. I am a dog. Dogs submit only to love or death. This was neither. The female’s orbit widened again. She floated close enough to brush the hanging dead, then arced back. Every pass tightened the room. Every pass made gravity feel personal. I felt a thought that wasn’t mine try to put a leash on my boys. I felt the leash tug. I was upset. Upset is a small word, but it’ll do. I have other words. Most are impolite. None are polite enough for theft. She wasn’t taking their bodies. That would be simple. She was taking my lattice. My links. My boys. That is spitting on my paws. That is pulling my tail.