The forest was quiet, save for the faint rustle of branches swaying in the cold night breeze. Malric lingered at the edge of the shadows, his skeletal form concealed beneath the tattered cloak he had claimed from a fallen foe. His empty sockets scanned the darkness, unease prickling his thoughts. Something was out there.

Then he saw him.

The man stepped into view with deliberate calm, his tattered robes swaying as though moved by an unseen wind. He exuded power—an aura of necromantic energy so strong it seemed to dull the life around him. Aric Blackthorn. Malric had heard no stories of the man but knew instinctively this was no ordinary mortal.

Aric stopped in the clearing, his gaze sweeping the dark as though searching for something—or someone. His voice was low, steady, yet it carried clearly through the stillness.

"Come out, rare one. I know you're watching."

Malric stiffened. Rare one? He remained motionless, considering his options. Fight? Flee? No. Curiosity won out. This man knew something, and Malric needed answers.

He stepped forward, his bony feet crunching against the frost-covered leaves. The necromancer’s lips curled into a small smile.

"There you are. Fascinating."

"Who are you?" Malric rasped, his voice a dry whisper.

"Aric Blackthorn," the man replied, bowing his head slightly. "A scholar of death and the mysteries it holds. And you—what name do you go by, if any?"

"Malric," he replied, his tone flat. He didn’t trust this man, but he wouldn’t show weakness.

"Malric," Aric echoed, as though tasting the name. "You are a marvel. Intelligence in the undead is... exceedingly rare. Most of your kind are bound to purpose or whim, incapable of thought or reason. You, however, stand apart. What brought you into being?"

Malric paused, the memory of his awakening hazy, fragmented. "I don’t know," he admitted, his tone laced with bitterness.

Aric nodded, as if unsurprised. "Such anomalies often arise from ruptures in fate. A confluence of magic and chaos. Whatever the cause, you are no mere accident."

Malric bristled at the necromancer’s tone, unsure whether he was being praised or studied like a curiosity. "What do you want from me?"

Aric chuckled softly. "What I want is simple: to understand you. But I have no interest in coercion or hostility. Instead, I offer you knowledge."

Malric tilted his head. "Knowledge?"

"There is a group," Aric said, pacing slowly around the clearing. "A network of individuals—living and undead—who thrive in the shadows of society. They call themselves The Basilisk’s Fang. They take in those who have no place in the world, those cast out or hunted. They could help you fit in, navigate this world of the living, and grow stronger in the process."

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"And what do they want in return?" Malric asked, his tone wary.

"The same thing we all want: survival and power," Aric replied. "They reject the laws of the living, operating on their own terms. You would be among kindred spirits, at least in principle."

Malric crossed his bony arms, his mind racing. The offer was tempting, but he wasn’t blind to the dangers. He had no intention of becoming a pawn in someone else’s game.

"And what about you?" Malric asked, his voice sharp. "Why are you telling me this?"

Aric stopped his pacing, his gaze meeting Malric’s with unsettling intensity. "Because you are unique. I have spent decades studying death and undeath, but you... you are unlike anything I have encountered. I believe you could be an ally, or at the very least, a fascinating subject to observe."

Malric’s sockets metaphorically narrowed. "I won’t be your servant, necromancer."

Aric’s smile returned, faint but unthreatened. "Nor do I expect you to be. Consider my words, Malric. The Basilisk’s Fang could be a powerful asset to someone like you. Seek them out, if you wish. Or don’t. The choice is yours."

With that, Aric turned, his undead minions shuffling after him as he disappeared into the forest.

Malric remained in the clearing, his thoughts swirling. The Basilisk’s Fang. A group of criminals and outcasts. Could they really help him? Or was this another trap, another attempt to manipulate him?

He pulled his cloak tighter around his skeletal frame and slipped back into the shadows. For now, he would watch, learn, and plan. He took a look at the devastation around him.

The air still reeked of smoke and scorched timber. Malric stepped carefully over the smoldering debris, his skeletal form blackened from the flames that had consumed the village mere hours before. The world around him was a ruin—a graveyard of charred homes, toppled fences, and lifeless streets. What few structures still stood were little more than skeletons themselves, their wooden frames blackened and warped by heat.

Ash blanketed everything, swirling faintly in the breeze. It muffled the sound of Malric’s movements, but not his thoughts. He had burned this place for one simple reason: he hated the living. Their arrogance, their vitality, their sheer audacity to thrive—it all made his bones ache with rage.

But now, he had to make use of the destruction he had wrought. His cloak had been reduced to tatters, and the crude tunic he had scavenged before was little more than ash. He needed new gear if he was to endure and survive.

He crouched low, his hollow eyes scanning the remains of a once-thriving marketplace. Stalls were overturned, their wares scattered and ruined. Pots and pans lay twisted among the rubble, and sacks of grain had burst open, their contents mixed with soot. A burnt corpse hung over a collapsed cart, its blackened fingers frozen in a desperate grasp for escape.

Malric ignored the bodies. He had no pity for the dead, only an unrelenting hunger for survival.

He moved toward the remnants of what had once been a tailor’s shop. The walls were gone, reduced to piles of charred wood, but a scorched mannequin stood eerily upright among the wreckage. Nearby, a chest, though blackened and scorched, had been partially protected beneath fallen beams. Malric knelt beside it, using the hilt of the oversized sword strapped to his back to pry it open.

Inside, he found clothing still intact, if a bit singed. He pulled out a long, dark coat—once fine but now marred by ash. He shook it off and slipped it over his shoulders. It was loose, but its heavy fabric would conceal his skeletal frame well enough.

Beneath the coat, he found a pair of leather gloves and a wide-brimmed hat, both weathered but serviceable. He donned them quickly, the gloves masking his bony hands and the hat casting shadows over his hollow sockets.

Further searching led him to what had once been the village elder’s home, perched on a small hill at the edge of the settlement. It was a larger structure, partially collapsed but still promising. Malric pushed through the debris, his skeletal fingers brushing aside ash-coated beams.

In the ruins of a study, he discovered a sturdy leather satchel, its clasp engraved with a simple yet elegant crest—a tree encircled by a serpent. Inside were two items of note.

The first was a small, golden trinket shaped like a phoenix, its wings outstretched as if mid-flight. The metal was warm to the touch, faintly enchanted. Malric couldn’t discern its purpose but decided it might be useful. He slipped it into his new satchel.

The second was a journal, its cover singed but still legible. The writing inside was faded and shaky, detailing mundane village life, but occasional entries mentioned something intriguing—a hidden cache of supplies buried near the well.

Malric wasted no time. He made his way to the center of the village, where the stone well stood untouched amidst the devastation. Its once-clear water was now choked with ash and debris, but that was not what he sought. At its base, beneath loose stones, he unearthed a small chest.

Inside were silver coins, a finely crafted dagger with an ornate hilt, and a necklace adorned with a blood-red gem. The necklace hummed faintly with magical energy, sending a cold sensation through his bones. He hesitated, but only briefly, before fastening it around his neck.

As he stood and surveyed the ruined village one last time, Malric felt a grim satisfaction. The fire had taken much, but it had also given him what he needed—a cloak of shadows, trinkets of power, and a reminder of his growing strength.

The living would rebuild this place someday, but Malric would not be here to see it. He turned away, his new coat billowing behind him as he disappeared into the night, a predator preparing for his next hunt.