The road stretched before Ile Mortis, a winding path of dirt and scattered stones cutting through the thick forest. The trees loomed high, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky, whispering in the wind like the voices of the dead. He walked with measured steps, the cursed sword resting against his shoulder, his skeletal form hidden beneath his tattered cloak.

  It had been some time since he left Oryn’s corpse behind, buried beneath a thick nest of brambles. The thrill of his experiment still lingered in his mind—the first stirring of something greater. Yet, he lacked knowledge. He needed guidance, not from scholars or priests, but from the world itself. If he was to command death, he had to understand life, to blend within it, to manipulate it as he once did as king.

  The air changed as he walked, carrying the distant scent of smoke and livestock. Civilization. A village, perhaps. He tightened the cloak around his skeletal frame, ensuring that no glint of bone would betray his nature. His skull, though featureless, seemed to stretch into a grin beneath the shadows of his hood. How would they react, these people, if they knew what walked among them? Fear? Worship? Hatred? The thought amused him.

  The road soon led to an opening where the forest gave way to a collection of modest wooden houses, their thatched roofs slightly damp from the morning dew. Fields stretched beyond, dotted with workers tending to crops, their hands caked in soil. Smoke curled from chimneys, the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread mixing in the air.

  A village, indeed. Small, but alive.

  Ile paused at the outskirts, observing. The people here were simple folk—farmers, blacksmiths, and traders. A few children ran between the houses, their laughter light and unburdened. It was a strange thing to witness, this ordinary existence. He had ruled cities, commanded armies, and watched empires crumble. And yet, here were people who lived without fear of the weight of crowns and steel.

  Adjusting his cloak, he stepped forward.

  The first villager he passed gave him a wary glance but said nothing. Another, an elderly woman carrying a basket of herbs, looked up at him and frowned. It was not suspicion, merely curiosity. Travelers were not uncommon, yet something about his presence seemed to unsettle them. He moved with the grace of someone who had once held power, yet he carried himself like a ghost, his steps silent, his presence unnatural.

  He approached the village square, where a few merchants had set up wooden stalls. The marketplace was humble—baskets of vegetables, dried meats hanging from wooden beams, sacks of grain stacked beside barrels of ale. A blacksmith worked at his forge, hammering away at a glowing piece of iron, sweat beading on his brow.

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  Ile stopped before a stall where an old man sat behind a table covered in books and scrolls. The sight intrigued him. He had expected goods of necessity, not knowledge.

  “Traveler,” the old man greeted, squinting up at him. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  Ile’s voice, when it came, was low and deliberate. “Information.”

  The old man chuckled, stroking his beard. “That depends on what you seek.”

  Ile let his gaze drift across the scrolls, recognizing some as religious texts, others as records of trade and history. He reached out and tapped a parchment labeled The Great Kingdoms of Old.

  “How much?”

  “Three silver.”

  Ile had no coin, only remnants of a life long past. He reached into the folds of his cloak, retrieving a single gold ring, its band engraved with a sigil long forgotten by these lands. He set it upon the table.

  The old man’s eyes widened. “This is worth far more than a scroll.”

  “Then consider it payment for conversation as well.”

  The merchant hesitated only briefly before pocketing the ring and sliding the scroll toward Ile. “Very well. What do you wish to know?”

  Ile unfurled the parchment, scanning its contents. Names of rulers, of shifting borders, of kingdoms that had risen and fallen. Yet, the empire he once ruled was not among them.

  “This is incomplete,” he muttered.

  The old man raised a brow. “History is written by the living, traveler. Some things fade.”

  Ile looked up. “Tell me of the rulers of this land. Who holds power now?”

  The merchant leaned back. “That depends. The nearest kingdom is ruled by Lord Valmorn, though he answers to the High King of the Eastern Dominion. We are far from their courts, however. Out here, it is the village elders who dictate our lives.”

  Lord Valmorn. The name meant nothing to Ile. The Eastern Dominion? A kingdom he had never known. How many years had truly passed since his death? Decades? Centuries? The realization struck him in a way that no blade ever could.

  The world had moved on.

  Yet, power still ruled. Kings, lords, rulers who sat on their thrones as he once had.

  He curled the scroll and tucked it beneath his cloak. “One more question.”

  The merchant nodded. “Ask.”

  Ile leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper. “Do you believe in magic?”

  The old man hesitated. “A dangerous question.”

  “An honest one.”

  The merchant sighed. “Magic is not what it once was. The great sorcerers are gone, and those who practice the arts do so in secrecy. The Church of the Divine Flame hunts them where they can. Necromancers, most of all.”

  A slow grin stretched across Ile’s hidden face. “And why is that?”

  “Because necromancers meddle with what should remain undisturbed.” The old man’s voice dropped lower. “The dead belong to Zalmor.”

  Ile tilted his head. “Perhaps.”

  He turned, leaving the merchant to ponder their conversation. His path was clearer now. The world had changed, but the fear of magic remained. If necromancers were hunted, it meant they still existed. He simply had to find them.

  As he walked through the village, his mind churned. He needed shelter, supplies, a means to further his experiments. But most of all, he needed knowledge. The world had forgotten him, but he would carve his name into its bones once more.

  The Mad King had returned.

  And death would follow in his wake.