The forest remained silent. Not the silence of peace, but that of an absence—of something missing, something that should have been there but had since retreated, leaving only a hollow void in its wake.

  Ile Mortis did not move for several moments, allowing the weight of what had transpired to settle upon him. The cursed blade, though still bound to his form, remained unnervingly still. It had spoken in warning, something it had never done before. That alone was enough to mark this encounter as different from all others.

  Something had acknowledged him. And that something was beyond the reach of the gods he had once known, beyond the trappings of the mortal realm. He had conquered cities, raised armies, and bent lesser beings to his will. But this? This was something outside the realm of his conquests, something that did not obey the rules of his world. He could feel it in the air, in the way the trees still leaned away as if repelled by the remnants of the presence.

  And yet, it had left him untouched.

  For now.

  He turned his gaze to the shard in his grasp, its surface dark and fractured, pulsing ever so faintly. He had taken it, and in doing so, had drawn the attention of things that lurked beyond sight. He had never been one to regret his actions—kings who regretted their decisions did not last long upon their thrones—but there was an unease in his bones that could not be dismissed.

  A test, indeed.

  With a slow, deliberate movement, he tucked the shard away beneath his tattered cloak. He would uncover its secrets in time. For now, he had other matters to attend to. The world had changed in his absence, and though he had already begun to weave himself back into its threads, he was still far from understanding how much of his past remained and how much had been buried beneath time’s ever-moving tide.

  He resumed his march through the forest, his steps measured. The ancient trees stood tall around him, their twisted forms casting long shadows. He had passed through these woods before, yet now they felt different. The weight of unseen eyes lingered even in their absence. He was being watched. Not actively, not by a physical being, but by the memory of something vast and unknowable.

  The cursed blade stirred once more, a faint vibration against his back.

  “They will not act again so soon,” Ile Mortis murmured. It was not reassurance, but an acknowledgment of the truth. Whatever those beings were, they had made their point. He had been seen. But to what end, he did not yet know.

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  The path ahead led him to the edge of the forest, where the trees began to thin, revealing the rolling hills beyond. Smoke curled in the distance, the telltale sign of a settlement. It was a small thing, barely worth the name of a village, but it was civilization nonetheless.

  He did not need food or rest, nor the company of the living, but knowledge—knowledge was something he required. The world he had known was gone. What remained, and how much of his legacy still clung to the bones of history, was something he needed to uncover.

  As he approached the outskirts of the village, he adjusted the ragged hood of his cloak, pulling it further over his skull. He had no illusions about his appearance—while he had never feared revealing himself, there was no need to invite unnecessary panic. He had no interest in a pointless conflict.

  The village was quiet, though not in the way the forest had been. This was the quiet of routine, of lives lived in the small confines of their world. Smoke rose from chimneys, the scent of cooked meats and burning wood mingling in the air. A few villagers moved about, tending to their tasks. None paid him any mind at first.

  It was only when he stepped fully into the main road that the first pair of eyes landed upon him.

  A child, no more than ten winters old, stood by a wooden fence, clutching a small bundle of kindling. She stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes, her breath hitching in her throat. Not in fear. No, this was something else.

  Recognition.

  Ile Mortis slowed his step, turning his hollow gaze upon her. “You have seen me before.” It was not a question.

  The girl hesitated, then gave a small nod. “In stories.”

  A flicker of amusement stirred within him. He had not expected that. “And what do your stories say?”

  She swallowed. “That you are the Mad King.”

  The title was familiar. A relic of his past, uttered in both reverence and fear. He let the words settle between them, watching her carefully. “And do your stories say I should be feared?”

  The girl hesitated again, then shook her head. “They say you were cruel.”

  That was closer to the truth.

  “But also,” she continued, voice quieter, “that you were great.”

  Something unexpected stirred in his chest. Not pride, not satisfaction—something else. A reminder that history, no matter how twisted, never truly let go of its ghosts.

  He inclined his head slightly. “Stories are fickle things. They bend with time.”

  The girl nodded, though he doubted she fully understood his meaning. Before he could speak further, a voice called from within one of the homes. A woman—her mother, perhaps.

  “Ela! Come inside!”

  The girl flinched, casting one last glance at him before hurrying toward the house. She did not speak of him to her mother, nor did she betray any outward sign of alarm.

  Ile Mortis resumed his path. The village had taken note of him now, however subtly. He would not remain long—he had no interest in stirring old fears. But the encounter left him with something to consider.

  Even after centuries, his name lingered.

  And if his name still lived, then so too did the echoes of his past.

  Perhaps this world had not forgotten him after all.