A thick cloud of smoke, ash, and a heavy wave of copper and charred flesh coaxed the air over the barren grounds, entering his shrivelled lungs before leaving dead. Slipping through his cracked lips, his chest tightens with each greedy breath, causing his shallow breaths to burst from his lips in a dry cough. Rolling onto his side, he grunted softly as he heaved the heavy weight that pressed down uncomfortably on his torso, his muscles straining under the pressure. Sweat beads on the edges of his forehead, threading through his hair as his elbow digs into the dirt below. Peering open his eyes, another forsaken breath fills his lungs, causing him to wheeze and choke.

His head began pounding, crashing against his skull painfully. He winces, squeezing his eyes shut. Fractured memories began to burst through the barrier of his mind, causing his vision to become distorted and blurry. Flickering across his eyelids in a misty-like ink, the grounds warp before him, mending the past with the present. Angry shouts echo in his mind as the faces of a crowd form vividly, their twisted yet furious expressions carving into his consciousness. Orange hues flicker across each of their faces as darkness envelops him. Hot, searing pain dances across his skin as he turns on his back, his spine digging into the dirt beneath him. Invisible hands of the smoke cling to his lungs, causing his chest to tighten. Fear crawls from the depths of his gut, clawing against the walls of his stomach, causing his breathing to become ragged.

"Justice for our king!" A flurry of voices booms through his mind, shattering the memory into a thousand fragments before ceasing to a halt.

A soft groan escapes his lips, blooming the taste of thick copper and ash in the back of his throat. 

Peering open his haunting gaze, he's met with a blank canvas of the sky, painted in an intricate tapestry woven with shades of grey and white. Heavy clouds drift lazily above, their forms shifting and twisting like ghosts in a restless slumber. A flock of crows circle overhead, their wings beating rapidly before stretching out into a glide. Each caw echoes through the air, causing the air to become thick with a stark reminder of his impending doom in the land of the living.

With a deep breath, he leans forward, his spine releasing a symphony of cracks and pops that shatter the air around him. As he tilts his head back, closing his eyes, his bare shoulders roll, a dance of tension slowly unwinding from his body. He cranes his neck up, inviting the cool air to tickle his cheeks.

Scanning the world around him, his gaze flickers to the pile of charred remains beside him, noticing what was left of mortals from the living. Peering through his dark lashes, counting quietly to himself, he notices several more piles that look to be finished while the aftermath of smoke trails lightly in the air. Lysandre's lips formed a thin line while a sickening pang formed in his chest.

"There's so many of them. . ." he murmurs as his fingernails dug into the damp dirt below.

"By Magniadas' eye, the legends speak of truth!" An unfamiliar voice broke through the barrier of his thoughts.

With a swift motion, his fingers wrapped tightly around a piece of still-burning wood, the heat of the dying embers licking the flesh of his palm. He spins around, steeling himself against the unknown imposing threat.

"Your arrival here is a bad omen."

Narrowing his gaze, Lysandre clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he locks onto the stranger before him. A tall, slender man stands before him, his soft, chocolate-coloured eyes gazing at him with curiosity. The man is dressed in a cream-coloured robe that drapes from his shoulders, its fabric appearing almost too large for his frame. Hanging around his neck is a golden symbol that Lysandre doesn't recognize, but he is quick to understand his affiliation.

"Do I know you?" Lysandre asks dryly, his emerald gaze carving daggers into the man's soul.

"No, you don't. But I know you and what your kind is," his thick accent laces through the air, cutting the edge that laces around his.

"What of it?" His heart raced, pounding like a drum against his ribcage, sending a surge of heated energy coursing through his veins. He clenched the piece of wood, jaw clenched as impatience gnawed at him.

"I know your face, the green-eyed monster who plagued the world into darkness. Some call you a coward, while some praise you as a King Slayer. . ." his voice trails off as he holds a leather book close to his chest.

"Guard your tongue, human," he warns, narrowing his gaze, focusing strictly on the man before him as he grips the searing piece in his hand. Pain flickers through his fingers, and with a sudden, explosive force, it bursts, sending fragments flying.

"I give no judgment, zombie. Although it's rather unusual for one to rise from the dead," the man replies, tilting his head. A gentle breeze threads through his dark, messy tresses.

Gradually lowering his guard, his sharp features begin to soften, noticing the man before him imposed no threat.

"What brings a monk to the grounds of the dead?" he inquires, his eyes drawn to the monk's right side. He notices that his arm is absent, and the long sleeve dangles from his body.

A black spider-web-like wound traces along the side of his face, trailing down the side of his neck, reminding him of a fungus growing on a tree. A sickening pang spread through his chest the more he stared. A feeling he knew all too well.

"A grave sickness spreads through the lands, claiming the lives of many through pestilence. I've come to pray." He lowers his gaze before watching Lysandre heave himself off the ground.

"I don't follow your reasoning," Lysandre states dryly, his gaze locking with the monk before wiping the grime on his hands on his tattered pants.

"I believe the dead deserve to be blessed with a safe passage into the Garden of Eden. Their souls suffered enough, don't you agree?" he cocks a brow, tilting his slightly, his gaze almost testing Lysandre's morals.

Lysandre remains silent, his thoughts wandering to the recurring memories haunting him inside his head. No mortal batted an eye under his false accusations or dared to speak against such a vile act. Such hate burned into the hearts of mortals, daring to watch the trial where he burned, paying the price. Yet, no matter how hard he racked his mind, events leading up to his death became a blur. Fury etched into his heart, setting his soul ablaze.

A sharp exhale escaped his throat, his lips parting as he prepared to speak. But just as the words began to form, a sudden hacking cough interrupted him, halting his intentions. His gaze darts to the man before him, noticing the fear laced in his eyes as he stares at his hand with wide eyes.

Blood.

The monk's hands trembled in fear, his gaze swaying like a pendulum as his legs began to buckle. Without hesitation, Lysandre charged forward, catching the monk before he could fall. Gently lowering him, he maintained a firm grip on his shoulder throughout the process.

"It's all right. I'm fine.-" Another hack erupts from his throat, interrupting his mid-sentence.

"You're dying," Lysandre states dryly.

"You foresaw my death when you first laid eyes on me, didn't you? I know of your kind and their ability to foresee one's death," he sucks in a deep breath, his breathing becoming weaker by the minute.

Keeping his emerald gaze on the monk, he remains silent, knowing the monk is correct.

"Very few know of that." As much as Lysandre hated to admit it, this mortal was well-educated rather than judging a book by its cover.

"The world is dying, lad, bled itself into pestilence. A great darkness plagues these lands, while a grave sickness claims those deemed impure. Some hold you liable for it, given that the execution took place a year hence," he sucks in a sharp breath, recalling everything slowly from the top of his head.

"S-sometimes. . . I believe the gods have abandoned us—to let us rot," he seethed through gritted teeth as another agonizing cough escaped him, his lungs feeling tighter and tighter.

The monk's gaze darts from side to side, his eyes straining as he squints against the blurring edges of his surroundings. His brow furrows in concentration, but the world around him starts to fade, colours blending into one another like a watercolour painting left in the rain. Feeling his flesh start to burn up against Lysandre's cold flesh, he knew it was a matter of minutes.

"I'm so exhausted. I pray that. . . Magniadas guides me to my salvation—to my family-" gulping in another sharp breath, raw fear clawed in his chest. In an instant, all life drained from the monk's eyes, his body becoming limp. It reminded Lysandre how fragile the threads of mortals are. Each moment weaved together on a spinning wheel only to be cut short by death's blade.

With a deep breath, Lysandre closes his eyes, allowing the world around him to fade away. He gently cradles the monk's head in his hands, feeling the weight of the man's life resting in his palms before lowering it to the ground. Reaching forward, the tips of his fingers gently slid the monk's eyelids closed.

"Rest easy, mortal. May your soul find eternal peace in Magniadas' arms. Requiescat in pace," he murmurs, finishing a small prayer before sitting there in silence, staring off into the horizon.

In the distance, along the parched, undulating rolling hills, a shimmering river stretched endlessly as far as he could see, dull from the lack of sunlight bleaching the world. Meanwhile, a looming forest, thick with shadows and shrouded in grey and decay, stood like a foreboding graveyard, silent and still, beyond the realm of the living.

"Perhaps the gods have abandoned us. The world is dying," he rasps quietly to no one in particular.

Digging his fingernails into his knee, he furrows his brows, noticing something feels off. Raising his hand before him, deep lines form on his forehead. His stomach flips as the predicament of his resurrection becomes more grotesque by the second.

"Could this day deem any worse?" he hisses, noticing the absence of his ring finger as he throws his hand back down.

Cursing under his breath in his kin's language with ancient and melodic tongue, he wanted nothing more than to rip out his hair. First, his resurrection brought him back from the dead, still bearing his heavy accusations, with no memory recalling up to his trial. And now, he's missing a ring finger.

Great.

"Those forsaken grave diggers," he utters to himself while pinching the bridge of his nose.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat before escaping his lips as he was faced with the reality of his situation.

"Here I stand at last with no idea what I must do next," he chuckles, realizing how ridiculous the predicaments were to his situation.

In the corner of his eye, a green glow flickers like a distant firefly, stirring his curiosity. He slams the door on his war of thoughts, his jaded gaze darting toward the scroll resting against the monk's still body. Narrowing his gaze slightly, he tilts his head before grasping onto the scroll. Curling his bony fingers around the shell, he twists the metal of the top, rotating his wrist until it opens. Tilting it slightly, Lysandre flattened his palm while a piece of old, worn, yellowed piece of rolled parchment paper slid out, landing softly in his hand.

Examining it slightly, he pulls the string that binds the parchment together securely before slowly unrolling it. Raising his brows slightly, he read along with each ink-scratched-out word of the parchment quietly.

"Sign me to sleep where I may rest. For may I rise anew with a quest. Fractured warrior, coated in blight. I am the end and the beginning. Born of starlight and forged in shadow's embrace. Forsaken the mortal realm, sown with seeds by the endless night. Where a jaded butterfly may guide me. For my strength, a beacon bright against the wounds cut deep with the stains of heresy. Through the darkness, where the dead may rest, Magniadas' champion will rise," he mutters, coming to the end of the page.

A soft sigh escapes his lips while he threads his fingers through his sterling locks. Shivers went down his spine as he rolled up the piece of paper, putting it back to its original state before placing it in his pocket—or what was left of his pocket. Another chuckle escapes his lips while he leans his body to sit up. He bends his knees before standing.

"Such strange beings. . ." he mutters before turning around and stepping away from the grounds. The tall, dead grass grazes along his legs as the cool breeze tickles his arms. His toes dug into the damp earth below, keeping his balance stable. Before he knew it, the edges of a dirt-like road came into view. Looking left and right, a slight sigh escapes his lips, knowing he had a fifty-fifty chance things could go peacefully, taking one way or terribly wrong with taking the other. If it wasn't monsters roaming the area, it was people.

Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, letting the cool air fill his lungs and awaken his senses. The persistent chirping of crickets filled the air, a rhythmic symphony, while the absence of birdsong hung heavily around him. The wind danced playfully through the tall grass, its gentle caress weaving through the blades, creating swaying waves that whispered secrets to the trees. A solemn groan emanated from the heart of the forest, a haunting cry that vibrated through the branches, echoing in a silent lament that seemed to resonate with the very soul of the woodland.

An answer engraves itself in his mind as he turns to venture down the right side, praying to the gods that he isn't spiralling into a grave mistake. Surely, there must be a village nearby, right? Yet, with each step deeper into the dirt-streaked road, a gnawing doubt intertwines with his thoughts, questioning whether his patience is worth dying for or if it's merely his pride leading him astray. An unsettling sensation clawed at his insides, a visceral reminder of the fragments left in his memories.

Nothing made sense. The events leading up to his death were shrouded in a fog, and the reason for his awakening felt like a cruel joke. False accusations had dug themselves deep into his soul, choking the life from him until he was left teetering on the edge of a blade. A war of emotions raged within, each thought a jagged stone in his heart, and countless questions buzzed unanswered like wasps in his mind. He recalled the monk's words echoing in his ears, yet one particular word loomed larger than the rest, haunting him with the weight of its meaning.

King Slayer.

Such poison dripped from that word, causing Lysandre to shiver in disgust. What in hell's name, he of all beings, has gained from slaughtering the king? No matter how much he racked his mind, nothing came to mind, and it remained a mystery as to why he would commit such an act. Yet no one, no mortal or divine being, believed him or in his innocence.

Lysandre was so deep in thought he hadn't realized the sky was crying, trying to heal the wounds inflicted deep within its flesh. Cool droplets coated his sharp shoulders, sliding down the ridges and deep lacerations of his back and chest. After being dead for a year, he had forgotten what it was like to feel the cool rain against his dead-like flesh, feeling the pain from his wounds slowly start to wash away.

"For the love of Merlin's beard!" An angered voice shattered through the doors of Lysandre's thoughts, snapping his attention forward.

He craned his neck, his dark eyelashes glistening with beads of droplets as he squinted into the distance. A cloaked, short figure swayed unsteadily, their muscles straining against the cart, which seemed to resist every push. As he drew nearer, the telltale sound of dirt scraping against wood caught his attention. He peered closer, noticing the wooden wheel wedged stubbornly in a deep, muddy hole, refusing to budge even an inch.

He stepped closer, catching snippets of the stranger's words, but just as he was about to speak, he jerked back. In a flash, the stranger whirled around, their blade slicing through the air with terrifying speed. A sudden sting spread across his chest as he pivoted his footing to make distance between the two. His hair clung to his face as he narrowed his gaze.

"Easy, dwarf. I oppose no threat," he scowls, his hand hovering over the small cut on his chest, noticing black liquid emerging from his wound.

"You're lucky I didn't gut you where you stand," she growls, her golden eyes shining brightly like fire in between the mountain.

"You look like nothing I've seen before," she narrowed her gaze, noticing the white of his sclera was black, surrounding his haunting, jaded gaze.

"Now, you have five seconds to tell me what you are before I hammer you six feet below. " She points her stubby fingers toward him before her other hand reaches below the cart's tarp.

"I've walked a thousand lifetimes and fought a thousand battles, and I have yet to answer such a being. . ." his jaded gaze glowed like embers through the rain as it locked with hers.

"I'm Magniadas' Champion."

Requiescat in pace: Rest in peace in Latin.

Word count: 2928