The night air greeted Ile Mortis like an old adversary. Cold and indifferent, it whispered through the ruins of the forgotten temple as he stepped beyond its threshold. The sky above stretched vast and starless, swallowed by an oppressive gloom that clung to the horizon. The landscape before him was unrecognizable—what had once been a thriving kingdom, a testament to his ambition, now lay in decay.

  Ragged buildings slumped under the weight of time, their stone facades cracked and crumbling. The streets were empty, swallowed by creeping vines and gnarled roots that split the cobblestone pathways. The air carried no scent of life, no voices echoed from the once-bustling avenues. It was as if the world had taken a deep breath and never exhaled.

  Ile stood still for a long moment, drinking in the sight. The world had forgotten him, but it had not erased him. His skeletal fingers tightened around the cursed blade at his side. This land had once been his. And now?

  "Ruins," he muttered. "A fitting monument."

  He took his first steps into the abandoned city, the clatter of bone against stone echoing eerily in the silence. With each stride, memories stirred—fragments of laughter, of screams, of banners raised in his name. Ghosts of a past that no longer mattered.

  His empire had fallen. The thought should have enraged him, but instead, he felt something else. Amusement. The world had tried to erase him, but here he stood, defiant against the very cycle that sought to consume all things.

  As he walked, he noticed remnants of statues, their forms weathered beyond recognition. One, however, stood taller than the rest—a twisted, half-broken effigy of a man clad in a crown, sword raised high as if in defiance of the heavens. His own image, now nothing more than a shattered relic.

  "I was a great man," he said, his voice dry and rasping. "Or so they feared."

  He reached out, placing a bony hand against the worn surface of the statue's leg. The stone was cold, lifeless—just as he was. But unlike him, it would never move again.

  "How poetic."

  His contemplation was interrupted by movement in the distance—a flicker of shadow in the ruins ahead. He turned his skull sharply, the embers in his sockets narrowing. He was not alone.

  A voice, soft and uncertain, drifted through the stillness.

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  "...A revenant? No, something... else."

  From behind a crumbling archway, a figure emerged. Cloaked and hooded, their presence was cautious but deliberate. The way they moved suggested wariness, but not fear. They had seen him, yet they did not flee.

  Ile straightened, gripping his blade with ease. "You have eyes, mortal," he said, his voice carrying across the empty street. "Tell me, what year is this?"

  The hooded figure hesitated, then took a step closer, revealing a gaunt face lined with age. Their eyes, sharp and dark, studied Ile with the scrutiny of a scholar examining a forgotten artifact.

  "The Age of Fractures," the stranger answered. "If you seek a number, I cannot give you one. The old calendars were lost when the kingdom fell."

  "Fell?" Ile echoed, his grin widening. "That is a rather delicate way of putting it."

  The stranger did not flinch. "And you are?"

  "A man of history," Ile replied. "A king without a kingdom. A ruler without subjects. A corpse given the luxury of movement."

  A flicker of understanding passed through the stranger’s eyes. "You are the one the legends speak of. The Mad King. The Tyrant of Blackthorn."

  Ile chuckled, a hollow sound in the empty night. "Ah, how history flatters me. I rather like that title. And who, may I ask, are you?"

  The stranger studied him for a long moment before inclining their head. "A historian. A seeker of truth. My name is Oryn."

  "A historian," Ile mused. "Then tell me, Oryn, what tales does the world spin of my demise?"

  Oryn’s lips pressed into a thin line. "You were betrayed by your own. Slain in a temple of the dead, cursed for your crimes. Your empire crumbled under the weight of its own sins. The people rejoiced in your fall."

  "How delightful," Ile murmured. "And tell me, does my legacy persist?"

  Oryn hesitated. "It lingers in the whispers of the old. In the fear of those who still remember. But time has buried your name beneath new tyrants, new wars. The world moves on, even when ghosts refuse to fade."

  Ile tilted his head, considering the words. "Then it seems I have much work to do."

  Oryn’s gaze darkened. "And what purpose drives a dead king? Revenge? Redemption?"

  Ile laughed, a rattling, mirthless sound. "Redemption? My dear historian, I have never once sought forgiveness. I have no regrets. No sorrow. No remorse. I was great, and I shall be great again."

  Oryn’s expression did not change, but something in his stance shifted. "Then you will find the world less forgiving. The kingdom you once ruled has become fractured, divided among those who carved their own empires from its corpse. The people have changed. Magic has changed. If you seek to reclaim what was lost, you will find only ruin."

  "Then I shall build anew," Ile replied smoothly. "Brick by brick. Bone by bone."

  Oryn was silent for a moment. Then, against all expectations, he sighed and stepped forward. "I do not know if the gods have cursed or blessed me this night, but I cannot deny my curiosity. If you truly are Ile Mortis, then history has left many gaps in your tale."

  "And you wish to fill them?"

  "I wish to know the truth."

  Ile regarded the mortal before him, then chuckled. "Very well, historian. Walk with me. Let us see what remains of this world together."

  And so, under the shattered moonlight, the dead king and the seeker of truth ventured forth, stepping beyond the ruins of a forgotten past and into a future yet to be written.