The wind carried the scent of blood and dust as Ile Mortis knelt beside Oryn’s still-warm corpse. The young man’s face was frozen in shock, his body limp where it had fallen. The sword had pierced him cleanly, ending his life in an instant. Ile tilted his skull slightly, regarding the lifeless form with a cold curiosity.

  He had killed many before. Countless, in fact. He had ordered the deaths of traitors, burned villages to make an example of them, and drowned entire bloodlines in war. Life and death had once been tools in his hands, and yet, now, death intrigued him in ways it never had before.

  Once, he had wielded power as a king, bending men to his will through fear and force. But magic? True magic had always eluded him. His sorcerers had been loyal, but he had relied on them rather than mastering the arts himself. But now... now, there was an opportunity.

  Oryn’s corpse was not just a body—it was a chance to seize something new.

  “Let’s see what death has to offer me,” Ile murmured, his voice dry and rasping.

  He lifted a hand, fingers flexing experimentally as he tried to call upon something, anything. He had no spells, no tomes to guide him, no mentor to teach him the ways of necromancy. But he had instinct, and he had the raw, cursed energy thrumming through the blade at his side.

  The cursed sword. It had followed him beyond death. It had remained lodged in his chest, waiting for him. He did not know its full nature, but it was powerful. And if there was power in death, then perhaps the blade would be the key to unlocking it.

  Gripping the hilt, he pressed the tip of the blade against his skeletal palm. The moment the cold metal met bone, he felt something stir—a whisper in the void. Not a voice, not yet, but something old, something deep. The blade pulsed, and for a moment, the ground beneath him felt less solid, the air heavier.

  “Ah... interesting.” Ile’s grin widened, unseen beneath his skeletal features.

  He turned his attention back to Oryn. The boy’s body was cooling, but the death was still fresh. The soul had likely already left, guided by Zalmor’s servants, but the flesh remained.

  Ile pressed two fingers to Oryn’s forehead, mimicking the rituals he had once seen necromancers perform. He focused, trying to feel something beyond the physical. The world did not answer immediately. The corpse did not stir.

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  Frustration flickered through him, but it was swiftly replaced by determination.

  “Very well,” he muttered. “If the body does not move on its own, I shall give it a reason to.”

  He stood and glanced around. The area was isolated, the trees thick, the path empty. No one would come across them. He had time.

  Using the cursed sword, he carved symbols into the dirt around the corpse—not that he knew if they held meaning, but they felt appropriate. He remembered how the priests of Zalmor would inscribe runes to help souls pass, how his own court magicians had drawn circles of power when calling forth spirits. He copied what little he recalled, improvising where his memory failed.

  Then, with a sharp motion, he drove the sword into the ground at the head of the corpse. The blade vibrated, a low hum emanating from it. The world around him seemed to darken slightly, as though the very presence of death had grown heavier in the air.

  Ile placed both hands upon Oryn’s chest and focused.

  Nothing happened.

  A long silence stretched between them. The wind rustled the trees, the distant call of a bird echoed, and still, the body lay still.

  Ile exhaled, the habit of a living man still lingering in his motions. He withdrew his hands and studied them. His fingers were bone. He had no blood, no warmth. He was death itself, was he not? Then why did it resist him?

  His gaze fell upon the sword again, then back to Oryn. Perhaps it was not about force. Perhaps it was about understanding.

  Death had claimed Oryn. Could it be undone?

  Ile reached forward again, but this time, he did not attempt to pull Oryn back to life. Instead, he sought to feel what was left.

  His mind stretched outward, seeking something in the abyss of death. And there, just at the edges of perception, he felt a thread. A remnant of something. Faint, fragile, but present.

  A grin pulled at his skeletal features.

  He grasped the thread—not physically, but with something beyond touch. He pulled, gently, coaxing whatever it was back toward the body.

  And Oryn’s fingers twitched.

  The reaction was brief, barely more than a spasm, but it was something. Ile let out a low chuckle, dark amusement swirling within him.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  The corpse did not rise, did not return fully, but it reacted. And that meant it was possible. He simply needed to learn, to refine this newfound power.

  Ile stood, withdrawing the sword from the ground, the runes in the dirt now meaningless. He had done enough for today. The path had been set, the first step taken.

  He turned his gaze down to Oryn’s still form, now merely a discarded vessel. It was a shame—the boy had been useful, in his own way. But he had served his purpose. He would serve again, in time.

  Ile knelt one last time, pressing a skeletal hand against Oryn’s forehead. “You were kind, for a fool,” he murmured. “Your kindness will not be wasted.”

  Then, with deliberate care, he pulled the body into the underbrush, hiding it from sight. The experiment had been a success, however minor, but there was no need to leave evidence behind.

  He turned away, the cursed sword resting against his shoulder, and walked toward the road once more. The world awaited him, and now, he walked it with a newfound purpose.

  He had begun his journey. He would master death itself.

  The Mad King would not merely walk the world. He would command it.

  And the dead would march at his side.