The night air was crisp as Ile Mortis strode through the village, his tattered cloak billowing behind him like a specter’s shroud. The sky was vast and empty, a void of darkness interrupted only by the pale glow of the moon. He moved with purpose, avoiding the main roads and slipping into the narrow, winding paths that led beyond the village outskirts.

  His mind churned with possibilities. If necromancers were being hunted, then there had to be a trail—signs of their presence, whispers of their fate. It had been centuries since he had last wielded his own dark sorcery, and though his body had remained intact, his power had withered like the husk of a long-forgotten corpse. He needed knowledge. He needed power. And he would claim it, no matter the cost.

  The village gave way to fields, and beyond them, a dense forest stretched like an ink stain against the horizon. He stepped into the gloom, feeling the temperature drop as the canopy above swallowed the moonlight. The scent of damp earth and rotting leaves filled the air, a scent that stirred something deep within him—memories of battlefields long since abandoned, of corpses strewn across the land like discarded dolls. He did not mourn them. He did not mourn anything.

  A flicker of movement caught his attention. A pair of wary eyes gleamed from the undergrowth, reflecting what little light remained. A fox, its fur dark and mottled, watching him with cautious curiosity. He stared back, unblinking. The creature tilted its head but did not flee.

  The presence of the fox was a good sign. The dead did not linger where life still thrived. If necromantic energies tainted this place, the animals would have long since fled.

  Pressing forward, he let his instincts guide him. The trees thickened, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The air grew colder still, an unnatural chill seeping into his bones—not that he could feel it. Something was here. Something old. Something hidden.

  Then, he saw it.

  A cairn of stones, deliberately stacked, marked the forest floor. It was subtle, barely noticeable beneath the creeping vines that sought to reclaim it. He knelt, brushing away the dirt and debris, revealing the etchings carved into the surface of the topmost stone. Symbols of binding. Of secrecy.

  Necromantic sigils.

  A slow smile crept across his jawless face.

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  He pressed his fingers against the carvings, feeling the residual pulse of magic, faint but undeniable. This was a meeting place. Or perhaps a grave. Either way, it meant he was close.

  A whisper in the wind.

  His head snapped up. The fox was gone. The air was still. Too still. Even the insects had fallen silent. He rose to his feet, pulling his cloak tighter around himself, more out of habit than necessity. He was being watched.

  “Who disturbs the sanctity of this place?”

  The voice was like brittle parchment crumbling between fingers. It came from everywhere and nowhere, wrapping around him like the mist curling through the trees.

  Ile did not flinch. He had been a king. He had been feared. And though the world had long since buried his name, he would not be cowed by a mere disembodied voice.

  “I seek knowledge,” he said, his voice low, firm.

  A pause. Then a soft chuckle, dry as dust.

  “Knowledge comes at a price, stranger.”

  Ile tilted his head. “And what price do you demand?”

  A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the moonlight. A man, or what remained of one. His flesh was pallid, stretched tight over angular bones. His robes were tattered, stained with the remnants of old rituals. His eyes, sunken and hollow, gleamed with something unnatural.

  A necromancer.

  Ile had found what he was looking for.

  The man studied him, his gaze piercing. “You are not what you seem,” he murmured.

  Ile reached up, pulling back his hood, revealing the truth beneath.

  The necromancer did not recoil. He did not gasp or clutch at his charms like so many others might. Instead, he smiled, revealing teeth blackened with decay.

  “Ah,” he breathed. “A revenant. No… something more.” His gaze flickered to the sword at Ile’s hip, lingering. “Bound by a cursed blade. An old one. How very interesting.”

  Ile remained silent, watching.

  The necromancer took a slow step forward. “What is it you seek, lost one?”

  “My magic,” Ile said. “It has withered. I would see it restored.”

  The necromancer chuckled again. “Magic does not simply wither. It is stolen. Forgotten. Buried. And what has been buried…” His grin widened. “…can be exhumed.”

  Ile’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. “Then teach me.”

  The necromancer’s smile faded. “A bold request. Power is not gifted. It is taken. Earned.” His gaze darkened. “Prove yourself worthy, and I may grant you what you seek.”

  Ile tilted his head. “And how would you have me prove myself?”

  The necromancer gestured toward the trees. “There is a tomb, not far from here. Sealed by those who feared its occupant. Within lies an ancient secret. A fragment of lost power. Retrieve it.”

  Ile considered this. “And if I refuse?”

  The necromancer’s smile returned, cold and knowing. “Then you will wander this world, forever diminished. A shadow of what you once were.”

  A challenge. A test. Ile had spent centuries in the void. He would not waste this opportunity.

  “Very well,” he said, turning toward the darkness. “Tell me where to find this tomb.”

  The necromancer’s laughter followed him as he disappeared into the trees.

  The night was still young. And his journey had only just begun.