The sun hung low in the sky as Ile Mortis departed from the marketplace, his mind stirring with thoughts of the world that had forgotten him. The name Valmorn meant nothing to him, nor did the Eastern Dominion, yet the mention of necromancers being hunted intrigued him. The old man’s words clung to his thoughts. Magic still existed, but it had been driven into the shadows.

  He moved through the village with purpose, careful not to draw undue attention. The simple folk here were wary of strangers, but their curiosity was dulled by the mundanity of their daily struggles. They saw only a cloaked traveler, not the undead king who once waged wars that reshaped the land.

  A wooden sign creaked in the evening breeze ahead of him, marking the entrance to a small inn. The structure was modest, its thatched roof weathered, the scent of roasted meat and ale seeping through its warped wooden doors. The sounds of conversation drifted from within—voices of tired farmers, of traders recounting their journeys, of drunks slurring half-forgotten songs.

  Ile pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The tavern was dimly lit by lanterns hanging from the rafters, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. A handful of patrons sat at rough-hewn tables, their eyes turning briefly to the newcomer before returning to their drinks. A barmaid moved between them, her arms balancing wooden platters of food and tankards of ale. Behind the counter stood the innkeeper, a broad man with a thick beard and a wary gaze.

  Ile approached the counter. “A room.”

  The innkeeper grunted, sizing him up. “One silver a night. Two if you want a meal with it.”

  Ile reached into his cloak and produced another trinket from his past—a small, gem-inlaid brooch. The innkeeper’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

  “This worth your price?” Ile asked.

  The man hesitated, then nodded. “More than enough.” He took the brooch and tucked it away beneath the counter. “Upstairs, second door on the left.”

  Ile inclined his head in thanks and turned toward the staircase, his presence already forgotten by the drunken patrons.

  The room was small, but it served its purpose. A simple bed, a wooden chair, and a narrow window overlooking the village square. He closed the door behind him and pulled back his hood, allowing his skeletal form to fully emerge in the solitude of the dimly lit chamber.

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  He did not need sleep, nor food, nor drink. Yet he sat on the bed, staring at the wall, lost in thought. The world had moved on, but magic had not been erased—only hidden, feared. Necromancers were hunted, which meant they were still out there. He had to find them. To learn from them. And if they refused him, he would take what he needed by force.

  A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He drew his hood back up before stepping forward, pulling the door open just enough to see who stood on the other side.

  A young woman, the barmaid from downstairs, held a wooden tray with a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. She hesitated under his hooded gaze.

  “The meal comes with the room,” she said, offering the tray.

  Ile did not move to take it. “I did not ask for one.”

  She shrugged. “Paid for it, didn’t you?”

  A moment passed. Then, with slow precision, Ile reached out and took the tray, careful to keep his skeletal fingers concealed beneath the cloth of his sleeve. The girl lingered, studying him.

  “You’re not from around here.”

  “No.”

  “Traveler?”

  Ile considered the question. “Of sorts.”

  She folded her arms, shifting her weight to one side. “Most travelers come through in spring, heading toward the capital. Not many stop here this time of year.”

  He remained silent, waiting for her to lose interest.

  Instead, she tilted her head. “You looking for something?”

  He met her gaze from beneath his hood. “Perhaps.”

  A flicker of curiosity crossed her face. “If it’s trouble, you won’t find much of it here. The biggest excitement we get is the occasional bandit raid, and even they’ve grown scarce.”

  “I seek knowledge,” he said finally.

  The girl snorted. “Then you came to the wrong place. Ain’t much wisdom in this village.”

  Ile almost smiled at that. “And yet I have already learned something.”

  She raised a brow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “That the wise do not always recognize themselves.”

  She blinked, then let out a small laugh. “Strange words for a strange traveler.” She turned to leave, pausing only briefly at the doorway. “If it’s stories you’re after, the elders know plenty. They like to talk, given the right persuasion.”

  Ile watched her go before setting the tray aside. He had no need for food, but the gesture intrigued him. The girl was perceptive. Perhaps, in time, she would prove useful.

  For now, he had more pressing matters.

  Night had fallen over the village by the time he stepped outside again. The square was nearly empty, save for the flickering of lanterns and the occasional passing figure. He moved through the darkness like a shadow, heading toward the outskirts of the village.

  If necromancers were forced into hiding, there had to be signs of them. A trail to follow. Those who feared death often sought to bargain with it, and where there was fear, there was opportunity.

  He would find them.

  And when he did, he would ensure they had no choice but to serve him.

  The Mad King had returned.

  And his kingdom would rise again.