Aldric's eyes snapped open.
Cold air rushed into his lungs, burning like fire as he gasped, his body convulsing as if he had been drowning in something far deeper than water. His fingers dug into rough stone, his limbs heavy, his mind struggling to separate reality from the vision that had just consumed him.
He was back.
Whitebridge. The ruined city.
But something was wrong.
He pushed himself upright, his muscles resisting, sore and unfamiliar. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, but it wasn't just exhaustion. His body felt… off.
Stronger. Heavier. Changed.
The Black Throne was gone—or rather, it had never been real. The bones that had once shaped it were now nothing more than shattered fragments at his feet, crumbling like dust beneath his weight. The Abyss had tested him.
And yet, he could still feel it.
A whisper beneath his skin.
Aldric exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. His fingers twitched—and for a brief moment, he swore his shadow didn't move with him.
It lagged.
As if something else was wearing his shape.
He blinked, and the moment passed.
A trick of the mind. Nothing more.
He had more important things to focus on.
A slow, deliberate chuckle echoed in the silence.
Aldric turned his gaze toward the Lich.
The undead sorcerer remained exactly where it had stood before, its skeletal hands folded before it, its hollow eyes gleaming with something that almost resembled… amusement.
"You refused the throne." The Lich's voice was soft, but in the silence of the ruined city, it might as well have been thunder.
Aldric didn't answer immediately. He didn't trust his own voice yet.
The memory of the Abyss still clung to him, its weight pressing against his thoughts.
He finally forced out, "It wasn't mine to take."
The Lich mumble in what might have been approval.
"No. It was meant for something greater."
Aldric frowned. "What does that mean?"
The Lich didn't answer.
Instead, it simply watched him, as if waiting to see if he would figure it out for himself.
Aldric clenched his jaw.
He had no time for riddles.
Darion was still out there. His hunt wasn't over.
His grip tightened around King's End, the Abyssal greatsword resting at his back. It felt warmer than before, as if the weapon itself had sensed his ordeal.
It wasn't just a tool anymore. It had changed alongside him.
Just as he turned to leave, the Lich spoke again.
"The Abyss does not forget, revenant."
Aldric didn't stop walking.
But the words followed him.
And for the first time since his rebirth…
He wondered if he had truly left the Abyss behind.
Aldric's footsteps echoed through the ruins of Whitebridge, each step steady, deliberate.
His body still felt off, he felt a felling of heaviness. Not in the way exhaustion weighed down a warrior, but like a second presence coiled beneath his skin, waiting.
The Abyss had not let go of him.
But it would not control him, either.
His breath curved in the cold air as he moved through the abandoned streets, his senses sharp. Whitebridge was a dead city, but dead things could still move, after all he was one of the dead things.
His grip flexed on King's End, the Abyssal greatsword strapped to his back. The weapon pulsed faintly, as if responding to the change in him.
He ignored it.
His focus was on the road ahead.
If the Lich's words had any truth to them, then Aldric's presence in this world was not an accident.
But that didn't matter.
Darion was still out there. And Aldric would find him.
He turned a corner and stopped.
A body lay slumped against the remnants of a shattered archway.
Unlike the countless corpses littering Whitebridge, this one was fresh.
The armor was still intact, though stained with blood. A mercenary, by the look of it. Not a soldier of the old kingdom, not one of the dead—someone who had come here recently.
Aldric crouched beside the corpse, his fingers brushing the hilt of a short sword strapped to the man's hip. The blade was well-maintained, but the edges were dulled from use.
Who had sent him here?
Aldric's gaze flicked over the body, observing the wound on his neck—clean, efficient. This wasn't the work of the undead.
This man had been executed.
Which meant someone else had been here before Aldric.
And they didn't want witnesses.
The trail wasn't hard to find.
Aldric followed the faint scratch marks in the dirt, the disturbance in the debris, the footprints barely visible in the fading light.
Whoever had come through here was careful—but not careful enough.
He moved silently, his years of battle-honed instinct guiding his steps. The ruins stretched around him like the ribcage of a dying beast, broken towers looming overhead, their shadows long and jagged.
Then—voices.
Aldric slowed, pressing himself against the remains of a crumbling wall.
The voices were hushed but firm. Three, maybe four men. Armed.
A scouting party.
Aldric peaked around the edge of the wall, his sharp gaze locking onto figures gathered near the ruins of an old watchtower.
Mercenaries.
Their armor was mismatched, but well-worn, the kind only a sell sword would wear. They stood tense, alert—not afraid of ghosts, but wary of something far worse.
Aldric narrowed his eyes.
They weren't scavengers.
They were looking for something.
Or someone.
Aldric watched the mercenaries from the cover of the crumbling wall, his breath slow and measured.
They stood in a loose formation, weapons ready, eyes scanning the ruins. These weren't men who had wandered into Whitebridge by accident.
They were searching for something.
Or someone.
Aldric's grip on King's End tightened. He could feel the Abyss murmur in the weapon's core, responding to his intent.
His body still ached from his trial, but the unnatural weight in his limbs had faded. His mind was clear. Focused.
Time to move.
He stepped forward, keeping to the shadows as he circled around the broken stone structures. The mercenaries were speaking in low voices now, but Aldric caught fragments of their conversation.
"—shouldn't be here this long."
"Orders are orders. We find the body, or we don't get paid."
Aldric's eyes narrowed. A body?
Not scavengers, then. Hunters.
Who had sent them? And more importantly—who were they here to kill?
Aldric took another silent step, moving to a vantage point above them, his body blending into the ruins.
One of the mercenaries, a man with a notched axe slung over his shoulder, turned abruptly.
"Did you hear that?"
The others stiffened, hands drifting toward their weapons.
Aldric didn't hesitate.
He struck.
The first man never saw him coming.
Aldric dropped from the ledge, his boots striking the mercenary's back as he drove him into the ground. Before the others could react, he drew King's End and slashed upward—
Steel met flesh. Blood sprayed.
One mercenary collapsed, his throat split open.
The others shouted in alarm, stumbling back.
Aldric moved like a shadow, his blade an extension of his will. The second mercenary lunged at him, but Aldric was faster—a sidestep, a quick counterstrike.
The man's sword arm went flying.
He screamed.
Aldric didn't let him suffer long.
He drove his blade through the man's chest piercing his hearth, twisting sharply before pulling it free.
The last mercenary hesitated, stepping back. His face was pale, his breath heavy. He wasn't a coward, but he had just watched two men die in seconds.
Aldric pointed his blade at him. "Who sent you?"
The man swallowed hard, his grip tightening around his sword.
"I—"
Then, without warning, he turned and ran.
Aldric exhaled through his nose. "Fool."
He lifted King's End and threw it.
The greatsword spun through the air in a deadly curve before impaling the mercenary through the spine.
The man's body jolted before slumping to the ground, motionless.
Silence.
Aldric walked forward, retrieving his blade from the corpse.
Aldric stood over the bodies, his grip firm on King's End, his breath steady despite the scent of blood thick in the air.
The fight had lasted seconds.
The hunt had only begun.
He crouched beside one of the corpses, searching the mercenary's belt. No insignia, no identifying marks. Hired blades with no allegiance.
That meant only one thing.
Someone with power had sent them. Someone who didn't want their name attached to this.
Aldric's jaw tightened.
He grabbed the last mercenary he had killed, rolling the man onto his back. The body was still warm. The glazed eyes stared upward, lifeless, mouth slightly open in an unfinished breath.
Aldric reached inside the man's cloak.
His fingers closed around a piece of scroll.
Unfolding it, he scanned the hastily written orders.
"Retrieve the target's body. If still alive, kill on sight. Do not engage any unknown entities. Burn all remains."
Aldric's gaze darkened.
They weren't hunting just anyone.
They were hunting him.
A slow breath left his lips, waving in the cold night air.
Someone knew he had returned.
And they wanted to erase him again.
Aldric stood, letting the scroll slip from his fingers. The flames from a nearby torch caught the edge of the paper, devouring it in seconds.
Let them come.
If they wanted to erase his name, he would carve it into history with their blood.
With one last glance at the bodies, Aldric turned and vanished into the ruins.