Ile Mortis moved through the dense forest with the silent grace of a specter, his skeletal frame blending with the shadows that clung to the ancient trees. The necromancer’s words echoed in his mind, their weight pressing upon him like the soil upon a long-buried corpse.

  There is a tomb, not far from here. Sealed by those who feared its occupant.

  A test, he had called it. A proof of worth. Ile had no intention of failing.

  The air thickened with an unnatural stillness as he pressed forward, the very atmosphere of the forest seeming to shift the deeper he ventured. The night, which had once been alive with the murmurs of nocturnal creatures, had fallen into absolute silence. No insects, no rustling leaves, no distant cries of hunting beasts. Only the whisper of his cloak and the soft crunch of his boots upon the earth.

  He knew what this meant.

  He was close.

  The first sign of the tomb’s presence came in the form of twisted stone pillars, half-buried and worn with time. They jutted from the ground like broken fangs, inscribed with runes too faded to decipher. He ran a bony fingertip across one of them, feeling the lingering traces of old magic. Warding sigils. Meant to keep something in, rather than keep others out.

  Interesting.

  A few more steps brought him to the edge of a clearing, where the land dipped into a shallow ravine. At its heart stood the entrance to the tomb—a massive stone doorway carved into the hillside, flanked by statues of weeping figures whose features had long since eroded. Vines clung to the archway, nature’s attempt to reclaim what had been lost to time.

  Ile approached with measured steps, his gaze sweeping across the entrance. The doors were sealed shut, not by mere stone, but by a barrier of magic. Faint, flickering glyphs shimmered across the surface, whispering in tongues older than any civilization still standing. He placed his palm against the cold rock, feeling the pulse of power resisting him.

  He smiled.

  They feared whatever lies within enough to seal it with such care. That only makes me want it more.

  Drawing a deep breath out of habit rather than necessity, he reached inward, seeking the remnants of the magic that had once coursed through his being. It was weak, fragmented—like a shattered mirror reflecting only pieces of its former self. But it was there. He focused, willing it forth, letting the old power stir within him.

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  The cursed blade at his hip pulsed in response. It had no voice, not in the way mortals understood speech, but he could feel its awareness. Its hunger. It had been bound to him for so long, sharing in his existence, feeding upon the lingering traces of his essence. Now, it offered something in return.

  Power. Just a taste.

  Ile grasped it, letting the energy flow through him, hollow and cold. With a low whisper, he traced the air before him, sketching symbols in the darkness. The glyphs upon the doorway flickered, wavered… and then, with a sound like shattering glass, they broke.

  The tomb doors groaned, ancient mechanisms grinding as they slowly crept open, exhaling a gust of stale air that reeked of decay and forgotten sorrows. Darkness yawned beyond, deep and uninviting.

  Ile stepped inside.

  The passage was narrow, its walls lined with murals depicting scenes of death and despair. Torches once mounted in sconces had long since crumbled to dust, leaving only the faint glow of luminescent moss to light his path. He moved with caution, his fingers trailing along the carvings as he walked. The further he went, the more distorted the images became. What began as scenes of reverence—figures bowing before a central, crowned figure—soon twisted into depictions of horror. The same figure, now skeletal, standing over masses of writhing, suffering souls.

  Who were you? Ile wondered. A king? A warlord? A god? Whoever they had been in life, the people had gone to great lengths to ensure they remained dead.

  The corridor ended in a vast chamber, where a single sarcophagus rested upon a raised dais. Unlike the rest of the tomb, it was untouched by time. The stone was pristine, the carvings sharp and deep, depicting scenes of conquest and bloodshed. This was no resting place of honor. This was a prison.

  And he was about to open it.

  Stepping forward, he placed both hands upon the lid. The runes inscribed along the surface flared to life, a last act of defiance against his intrusion. He ignored them. With steady force, he pushed.

  The seal broke.

  The lid slid away, revealing the occupant within. The figure was wrapped in ceremonial cloth, its skeletal form adorned with rusted jewelry and the remnants of regal attire. In its bony grasp, clasped tightly against its chest, was the prize Ile had come for—a blackened shard, pulsing with a sickly green glow.

  A fragment of lost power.

  The air trembled. The torches lining the chamber, dead for centuries, ignited in eerie green flames. The walls trembled as whispers slithered through the dark, coiling around him.

  You dare…

  The voice was not one, but many. Layered atop one another, filled with malice and hunger.

  Ile did not hesitate. He reached forward, grasping the shard. The moment his fingers closed around it, a surge of energy ripped through him. His vision blurred, the chamber dissolving into a sea of memories not his own.

  A throne room drenched in blood. A kingdom built upon the bones of the fallen. Betrayal. Murder. A curse sealed with dying breath.

  And then—nothing.

  Ile staggered, the visions vanishing as quickly as they had come. The chamber had returned to silence, the green flames guttering. The whispers had ceased.

  He looked down at the shard, feeling the hum of power within it. This was no mere relic. This was a piece of something far greater.

  Something ancient. Something… waiting.

  A slow grin crept across his exposed skull.

  He had passed the test.

  Now, it was time to claim his reward.