The path back to the necromancer’s dwelling was a narrow, winding trail through the outskirts of the village, leading into the thick embrace of the woods beyond. It twisted through fields left fallow and past forgotten markers of old boundaries, stones worn smooth by time, their inscriptions long eroded. The last remnants of daylight bled from the sky, swallowed by the canopy of skeletal branches that clawed upward like the grasping fingers of the forsaken. A hush settled over the land, the kind that came not with peace but with the watchfulness of unseen eyes.

  Darkness crept in swiftly, accompanied by the distant hoots of owls and the rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush. The air carried the crisp scent of fallen leaves, damp earth, and the faintest trace of something acrid—something not entirely natural. It was the smell of magic, lingering like the breath of a thing too ancient to name.

  Ile Mortis walked without hesitation, his skeletal frame unbothered by the chill that would set into mortal bones. He had spent centuries in the abyss of death; the night held no fear for him. Yet, something else did. Not fear, no—he had long since forgotten what that truly felt like. But unease? Suspicion? That much remained.

  That voice—soft, almost reverent—had reached into a place he had thought numb, a whisper plucked from the past and spoken with knowledge it should not possess.

  "He walks again... the king who should not be."

  He had turned at the sound, but the village had been as it was—mundane, blissfully unaware. The humans carried on with their small, fleeting lives, ignorant of what had stirred in their midst. Yet something—something not bound by flesh and breath—had noticed him. And if it had noticed, it meant he was being watched.

  His grip tightened on the hilt of his cursed blade. The weapon, ever-bound to him, pulsed with a faint, unnatural warmth, as if aware of his thoughts. It had not spoken, not this time, but he could feel it listening.

  Ahead, the necromancer’s dwelling loomed against the darkness, a solitary structure at the forest’s edge. Smoke coiled from its crooked chimney, carrying the scent of burning herbs, thick and pungent, with something bitter lurking beneath. The hut itself was sagging, its wooden bones half-swallowed by vines, leaning slightly as if weary of its own existence. A single lantern flickered in the window, its feeble light casting twisted shadows along the ground.

  Ile Mortis did not knock. He simply entered.

  The necromancer sat at his cluttered table, hunched over a collection of aged scrolls and brittle tomes. Candlelight illuminated the deep furrows in his face, casting eerie shadows beneath his sunken eyes. He did not look up immediately, his long, bony fingers tracing the faded ink of a passage written in a language older than the kingdom itself. The room was thick with the scent of parchment, wax, and something less identifiable—an aroma that clung to the air like a forgotten spell left half-spoken.

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  “You took longer than I expected,” the necromancer murmured, his voice carrying a rasp, as if the dust of his own books had settled in his throat.

  “I walked,” Ile Mortis replied.

  The necromancer finally lifted his gaze, his eyes sharp despite his frail frame. “And what did you find?”

  Ile Mortis moved to the hearth, where a modest fire crackled within the stonework, the warmth lost on him. “A village unchanged by time. Men and women toiling over the same concerns that plagued them centuries ago.” He turned slightly, his hollow sockets gleaming with an unnatural light. “And something else.”

  The necromancer’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. “Something else?”

  “A voice. A presence.” Ile Mortis faced him fully now. “It knew me.”

  The necromancer studied him for a long moment before shifting his gaze back to the scrolls. His fingers drummed lightly against the parchment, the rhythm slow and deliberate. “There are things in this world, old things, that remember even when men do not.”

  Ile Mortis stepped closer. “You knew this might happen.”

  A thin smile tugged at the necromancer’s lips, though there was little humor in it. “Of course. You are not a simple revenant, bound by chance. Your return is unnatural, a disturbance. A wound in the fabric of fate.” He leaned forward slightly. “And wounds bleed.”

  Ile Mortis was silent, absorbing the weight of the words. He had been content to think of his return as a mere consequence of divine pity or the workings of the cursed blade. But if his presence was a wound, then something—someone—was taking notice.

  “What watches me?” he asked at last.

  The necromancer sighed, rubbing his temples. “There are many answers to that question, none of them comforting. But if something spoke to you, it means that forces beyond this world have begun to stir.” He gestured to the scattered texts before him. “Omens are aligning, whispers surfacing. You have set something into motion, whether you intended to or not.”

  Ile Mortis clenched his fingers. “What do they want?”

  The necromancer let out a dry chuckle. “Answers, perhaps. Or balance. Or ruin. Who can say?” He tilted his head, considering. “But one thing is certain—they will not leave you be.”

  A heavy silence stretched between them, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. Ile Mortis had no breath, no heartbeat, but in that moment, he felt the weight of existence settle upon him like a yoke. He had spent centuries adrift, content in his detachment, but now the world was calling him back, unwilling to let the dead rest.

  “What must I do?” he finally asked.

  The necromancer tapped his fingers against the table, his gaze unreadable. “Prepare.”

  “For what?”

  The necromancer’s smile returned, colder this time. “To meet what watches you.”

  Outside, beyond the thin walls of the hut, the wind stirred the branches. And somewhere, unseen, something stirred in answer.