The sky overhead had darkened into a thick, moonless void by the time Ile Mortis emerged from the underbrush. He had taken care to conceal Oryn’s corpse as best he could, though a true practitioner of death magic likely would not have had to rely on such crude methods. That would change. In time, he would no longer need to hide bodies—he would command them.

  The night was silent but for the distant howl of a lone wolf, a fitting backdrop for the thoughts that swirled in Ile’s mind. He replayed the moment he had touched something beyond the veil, the brief flicker of motion in Oryn’s fingers. It had been subtle, but it had been real. He had no master to teach him, no tomes of ancient knowledge to guide his hands, yet still, he had made progress.

  There was power in death. He simply had to learn how to harness it.

  Ile walked for miles, his skeletal form requiring no rest. He traveled along forgotten paths, through abandoned ruins, places untouched by the living. He needed to find knowledge. And where better than in places where death already reigned?

  His journey eventually brought him to a ruined watchtower, a crumbling relic of some long-forgotten war. The stones were weathered and cracked, the structure barely standing. Once, this place had likely been a stronghold against invaders. Now, it was a monument to decay.

  Ile stepped inside, the scent of mildew and rot filling the air. Small creatures scurried into the shadows at his arrival. He moved toward the center of the chamber, where the remnants of a table stood, half-buried in dust. A cursory glance at the surroundings told him what he needed to know—this place had been abandoned for decades, if not longer.

  But something called to him here.

  He pressed a skeletal hand against the cold stone floor, closing his empty eye sockets as he reached out. The feeling was faint, distant, but unmistakable. Death lingered here.

  Ile searched the tower thoroughly, overturning debris, shifting aside broken weapons and forgotten banners. It wasn’t until he uncovered the remnants of a shattered chest that he found something of true value.

  Beneath the splintered wood and rusted iron bindings lay a collection of brittle parchment, yellowed with age but still intact. He lifted them carefully, his bony fingers tracing the faded ink. They were written in an old tongue, but he recognized enough to understand their purpose.

  These were records—accounts of those who had died here, soldiers who had perished defending the tower. But interwoven with the records were notes, scrawled hastily in the margins. Descriptions of rituals, mentions of death rites, whispers of forgotten names. Whoever had kept these records had understood something of the power Ile sought.

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  A grin spread across his skeletal face.

  “Fitting,” he murmured, tucking the parchments into the tattered remains of his cloak. “The dead leave behind more than bones.”

  He spent the next few nights within the ruins, studying by firelight, deciphering what little he could. The notes spoke of rituals performed by battlefield priests, last rites meant to ease the transition of souls. But there were other details, hints of how the line between life and death could be blurred. If souls could be guided, could they not also be... retrieved?

  One passage stood out among the rest:

  'The flesh is but a vessel, the soul its true inhabitant. To call one back, the vessel must be prepared, the bridge reforged.'

  Preparation. That was where he had gone wrong with Oryn. He had simply tried to pull the boy’s soul back without making the body ready to receive it.

  He needed to do more.

  With newfound purpose, Ile left the tower and made his way back to where he had hidden Oryn’s corpse. Days had passed, and decay had begun its slow work. It mattered little—this was an experiment, nothing more.

  He cleared the dirt and leaves away, exposing the body once more. The flesh was pale, lifeless. The eyes, which had once held fear and desperation, were empty now. But Ile did not care for sentiment.

  He began carving symbols into the ground again, but this time, he was more deliberate. He recalled the notes from the records, the mentions of 'bridges' between life and death. He marked Oryn’s limbs, his chest, his forehead. Symbols of passage, symbols of return.

  Then he placed the cursed blade beside the corpse.

  He knelt, pressing his palm against Oryn’s sternum. He focused, stretching his senses, reaching beyond the physical. Again, he searched for the thread, the lingering remnant of the boy’s soul.

  And this time, he found it more easily.

  It was weaker than before, fragile, barely tethered. But it was there.

  Ile grasped it—not with his hands, but with something deeper, something that went beyond flesh and bone. He pulled, whispering words he did not entirely understand, allowing the power within him to flow outward.

  The air grew cold. The symbols he had drawn began to darken, as though shadow itself was bleeding into them. The cursed sword pulsed, its dark energy feeding into the ritual.

  Oryn’s body jerked violently.

  His chest heaved as if gasping for air, though no breath came. His fingers twitched, his legs spasmed. The thread in Ile’s grasp resisted, flickering like a candle in the wind, but he refused to let go.

  Then, Oryn’s head tilted, his empty eyes locking onto Ile.

  For the first time in centuries, the Mad King felt something close to triumph.

  The boy did not speak. He did not truly live. But he moved. He responded. It was crude, imperfect, but it was proof.

  Necromancy was not beyond him.

  Ile let the thread go, and Oryn’s body went still once more. The experiment had been a success, but there was more to learn, more to refine. He would need more corpses. More practice. More understanding.

  He stood, brushing the dirt from his knees, and looked down at the boy who had once been his companion.

  “I told you your kindness would not be wasted,” he said, voice laced with amusement.

  Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Oryn’s body behind.

  The road ahead was clear. Ile Mortis would master death.

  And soon, the dead would answer his call.