The village was a patchwork of old stone and aged timber, buildings huddled close together as if whispering to one another about the stranger in their midst. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the scent of charred wood and simmering stew. The ground beneath Ile Mortis’ boots was damp from recent rains, and the air was thick with the scents of livestock, freshly tilled earth, and humanity.

  He walked without urgency, his steps deliberate yet without purpose. He did not belong here, among the living, and yet here he was, a relic of a past long buried, treading upon soil that had forgotten him. He pulled the hood of his tattered cloak further over his skull, concealing what little remained of the man he had once been.

  Few villagers took notice of him at first, too preoccupied with their daily toil. But those who did felt a momentary shiver, an inexplicable unease they could not place. The air around him was not cold, yet his presence carried with it a stillness, a quiet weight that seemed to press against the soul.

  He passed a blacksmith’s forge where a man pounded iron into shape, his brow glistening with sweat. The clang of metal on metal filled the air, a steady, rhythmic sound that once would have heralded the march of war. Ile Mortis watched for a moment, his mind drifting to memories of armories filled with freshly forged blades, of legions preparing for battle under banners that bore his sigil. Those banners were dust now, their meaning long eroded.

  A small market occupied the village square, where merchants peddled produce, cloth, and trinkets. A woman called out her wares in a melodic voice, offering fresh bread still warm from the oven. Another man haggled over the price of a woven basket, his voice thick with frustration. It was a world of mundanity, of small concerns and simple joys, a world that had no place for kings or the echoes of ancient wars.

  Yet, even here, his past found him.

  An old man sat on a wooden stool near the square’s edge, hunched and wrapped in a thick woolen shawl. His eyes, milky with age, locked onto Ile Mortis as he passed. The old man’s fingers tightened around a wooden cane, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he simply watched, his gaze filled with something between recognition and disbelief.

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  Ile Mortis did not break stride. If the man knew his face—what little remained of it—then let him remember in silence. The dead had no need for conversation with those who had outlived them.

  He moved on, passing between the stalls, absorbing what he could. Snippets of conversation drifted past him, speaking of harvests, of the coming winter, of a nearby baron’s new levy. The world had changed, yet its concerns had not. War, politics, survival—it was all the same, only played by different hands.

  A group of children ran past, their laughter ringing through the air like chimes in the wind. One of them, a boy with dirt-smudged cheeks, skidded to a halt upon seeing Ile Mortis. His friends ran on without him, oblivious to his pause.

  The boy’s gaze traveled up, taking in the stranger’s ragged cloak, the gloved hands that barely concealed the unnatural stillness of his movements, the deep hood that swallowed his face. He stared, unafraid yet uncertain, as if standing at the threshold of a tale come to life.

  “Are you a knight?” the boy asked suddenly.

  Ile Mortis turned his head slightly, regarding the child. “No.”

  The boy frowned. “A wizard?”

  A dry amusement flickered in Ile Mortis’ mind. “No.”

  The boy squinted, stepping closer. “You look like a ghost.”

  Ile Mortis said nothing.

  A woman’s voice called the boy’s name, and he turned sharply before dashing away without another word. The encounter left no mark, no consequence, yet it lingered in a way Ile Mortis did not expect. To be mistaken for a knight. For a wizard. For a ghost.

  Perhaps, in a way, he was all three.

  He reached the far end of the village, where the land stretched out into rolling fields and a winding road led back toward the necromancer’s dwelling. The sky had begun to darken, streaked with the colors of impending dusk. It was time to return. He had gleaned what little he could from this place.

  As he turned, a whisper brushed against his mind—soft, almost inaudible, yet undeniably real.

  "He walks again... the king who should not be."

  Ile Mortis froze. The voice was not of the villagers. It came from somewhere else, from something else. A presence unseen yet lingering.

  Slowly, he scanned the square once more, but the villagers carried on as before, oblivious. Yet, the weight of unseen eyes pressed upon him.

  He exhaled slowly, a habit he no longer needed but still remembered. Then, without another glance, he walked on, his thoughts a quiet storm.

  The world had not forgotten him entirely. His name still lived, though its edges had blurred. He had walked among the living, unseen yet acknowledged, a shadow in a world of light.

  As the first stars blinked into existence overhead, Ile Mortis made his way back through the fields, toward the only soul in this world who might yet hold the answers he sought.

  The necromancer awaited.