The road beyond the temple was unkind.

  Ile Mortis moved through the overgrown ruins of what was once his empire, his skeletal form cloaked in the tattered remnants of old robes. The cursed sword hummed softly in his grip, the blade pulsing with restless energy. Each step he took carried him deeper into the unknown, through streets swallowed by time and decay.

  Oryn led the way, his lantern casting flickering light upon the broken path. The historian’s excitement was palpable, his movements quick, eager. He spoke often, recounting stories of the Mad King’s reign—his conquests, his cruelties, his inevitable downfall. Oryn did not seem to fear Ile, nor did he flinch at the presence of a walking skeleton at his side. If anything, the man was enraptured, scribbling notes whenever they paused, murmuring to himself about the discovery of a lifetime.

  Ile humored him. For now.

  “This city,” Oryn said, gesturing toward the crumbling remains of old towers, “was once the heart of your empire, wasn’t it?”

  Ile’s hollow gaze drifted over the ruins. He saw not the broken husks of buildings, but the grand structures they had once been. He remembered the banners hanging high, the sound of soldiers marching, the scent of feasts carried by the wind. Now, only ghosts remained.

  “It was.”

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  Oryn glanced at him, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Do you regret it?”

  Ile tilted his skull. “Regret?”

  “Your rule. The way it ended.”

  The Mad King chuckled, the sound a dry rattle. “Regret is for the living.”

  Oryn frowned but did not press further. They walked in silence for a time, their only company the distant howls of the wind.

  Eventually, they reached the remnants of a once-grand hall. The walls still bore traces of murals, though time had worn them thin. Oryn hurried inside, marveling at the remains, running his fingers over the faded stonework.

  “This is incredible,” he breathed. “The things you must remember…”

  Ile watched him. The historian was young, foolishly so. His mind was filled with stories, with dreams of uncovering the past. But Ile had lived the past. He had no interest in sharing its truths.

  The cursed blade in his hand pulsed, whispering thoughts of violence.

  Oryn was useful, but only for a time.

  “You are not afraid of me,” Ile said.

  Oryn looked up from his notes, blinking. “Should I be?”

  “Yes.”

  The strike was swift. The cursed blade plunged into Oryn’s back, sliding between his ribs with ease. The historian gasped, his lantern falling from his grasp, the flame sputtering against the stone.

  He staggered forward, fingers trembling as he reached for something—anything. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and glistening in the dim light.

  “I… don’t understand,” he choked out.

  Ile twisted the blade. “You should.”

  Oryn collapsed, his breath shallow, his life slipping away as the Mad King watched in silence.

  The past had no use for those who sought to rewrite it.

  Ile retrieved his blade, stepping over the body as he made his way toward the ruined throne at the end of the hall. He ran his fingers along the cold stone, memories pressing against the edges of his mind.

  The world had forgotten him.

  But he would not let it forget for much longer.