The wind whispered through the hollow cracks in Malric’s skull, threading its way through the sockets of his eyes and carrying with it the chill of an approaching frost. He stood motionless at the edge of the ruined homestead, its blackened beams clawing against the darkening sky like skeletal fingers. To any passerby, he might have seemed a part of the scenery—just another artifact of decay and death, forgotten by time.

His mind, however, churned. The phoenix-shaped charm dangled from one skeletal hand, its golden surface catching faint glimmers of light from the distant stars. The blood-red gemstone nestled at his sternum pulsed faintly, as though urging him forward.

"The living," he muttered, his voice a hollow rasp, "how they mock me with their warmth, their connection to the world I have lost." His fingers tightened around the charm. "But their strength lies in more than their bodies. They endure by adapting, by uniting."

The thought left an acrid taste in his mind, if such a sensation could exist for one without flesh. Malric had no interest in unity, no desire for companionship, but he would borrow their methods. If he were to destroy them, he needed more than raw power. He needed cunning.

The road ahead stretched endlessly beneath the pale moonlight, a ribbon of stone and dirt winding between skeletal trees. Malric moved slowly, his boots striking muted rhythms against the earth. Each step was a cadence to his thoughts, a calculated march through possibilities.

How does one find a shadowy organization like The Basilisk’s Fang? Aric Blackthorn had hinted they were elusive, their tendrils buried deep in the underbelly of society. Yet Malric doubted such a group could remain invisible. They would leave trails—small but discernible for one with patience.

He considered his options, turning them over in his mind like a predator circling prey. Perhaps the simplest route was brute force. Cause enough destruction, kill enough of the right people, and surely someone connected to the Fang would emerge to stop him. But no, that was reckless. Such a move might invite attention from groups he wasn’t yet prepared to face.

Then there was infiltration. The world of the living thrived on gossip and whispers, and those who frequented taverns, markets, and brothels were the best sources of information. Malric could pass as one of them, hiding his skeletal form beneath his scavenged clothing. Yet this carried its own risks. A wrong word, a misplaced gesture, and his disguise could falter.

Perhaps bribery or coercion? Find a merchant or thief with connections and twist them into giving up what they knew. But what could he offer beyond fear? Coins held no value to the dead, and promises of safety rang hollow when delivered by a creature like him.

Finally, there was observation—tracking patterns, studying the movements of those who seemed out of place, and waiting for something to reveal itself. It was slow and tedious, but Malric had nothing if not time.

As he pondered, the faint glow of light appeared on the horizon, interrupting his thoughts. A village, small and unassuming, nestled in the crook of the valley. Smoke rose from a handful of chimneys, carrying the scent of burning wood on the breeze. Malric stopped, gazing down at the cluster of homes and the simple dirt paths that connected them.

This place was insignificant. Not a hub of commerce or culture, but perhaps that was its value. A quiet village was less likely to attract the attention of law keepers, making it an ideal place for an organization like the Fang to operate unnoticed. Or it could be nothing more than a collection of ignorant peasants, scraping by on what little the land allowed them.

He shifted his gaze, weighing the possibilities. "Is this worth my time?" he muttered, his voice swallowed by the darkness. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a cloaked figure slipping from the shadow of one building to another. The faint stirrings of curiosity tugged at him.

Malric’s thoughts coiled tighter, sharpening into focus. Whether the Fang had a presence here or not, the village would serve as a starting point. His patience would be tested, but patience had always been his ally. "Every answer lies in the shadows," he murmured, stepping toward the glow of life below.

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The faint hum of the gemstone against his chest seemed to quicken as Malric drew closer, a subtle affirmation of his path. He would begin with observation, lurking at the edges, picking apart the threads of the village until something useful revealed itself. And if this place proved fruitless?

His hands flexed, the bones grinding faintly. Then he would simply burn it down and let its embers draw out the prey he sought.

The village had settled into a rhythm of evening calm, with most of its denizens tucked away in their homes. Only a handful of souls dared linger in the open, their murmured conversations and unsteady steps filling the gaps between the quiet crackle of torches.

Malric moved like a shadow between alleys, his presence masked by his scavenged coat, gloves, and hat. To any observer, he might have been a wayward traveler, weary from the road and disinterested in the lives of others. But beneath the concealing fabric, his skeletal mind churned with cautious deliberation.

"I need to know if I can stand among them," he thought, his hollow gaze flicking toward the flickering lights of the tavern in the village center. Laughter and the occasional cheer spilled out into the night, carried on the warmth of firelight.

Yet, Malric did not step toward it. To enter the tavern now was folly. Too many people, too many risks. One wrong move, one word spoken out of place, and the mob instinct of the living would surface.

No, he needed something simpler—someone alone. He scanned the streets, his eyes catching on a figure stumbling down a narrow lane, swaying with each step. The man was clearly drunk, his clothes disheveled and his balance unsteady.

"A perfect subject," Malric mused, slipping silently into the darkness to intercept him.

The drunkard mumbled incoherently as he staggered toward the edge of the village, a bottle clutched loosely in one hand. His steps dragged, his boots scuffing against the dirt road. Malric positioned himself in the man’s path, stepping out of the shadows at the last possible moment.

The drunkard froze, blinking blearily at the figure before him. "Eh? Who’re you, then?" he slurred, squinting against the gloom.

Malric dipped his head slightly, ensuring his hat’s brim cast a shadow over his face. He straightened his posture, imitating the weary confidence of a seasoned traveler. "Just passing through," he replied, his voice low and carefully modulated.

The drunkard swayed slightly, squinting harder. "Y’don’t sound like from ’round here. Bit...strange, eh?" He hiccupped, taking another swig from his bottle.

Malric felt a surge of tension coil within him. This was the moment—when suspicion began to seed itself in the mind of the living. His fingers twitched beneath his gloves, the urge to lash out rising unbidden. "Snap his neck. It would be over in seconds. Quick. Silent. Clean."

But no. That was the reaction of a predator, not of one who sought to blend in. Killing here would be a mistake, a mark left on his presence that others would find. He forced himself to relax, his voice steady as he replied. "Long road makes for strange company, friend. No harm meant."

The drunkard seemed to accept the explanation, nodding lazily and gesturing vaguely with his bottle. "Aye, aye. S’pose we all got our ways, don’t we? Come from the north, eh? Roads’re bad that way."

Malric offered a slight nod, mimicking the casual indifference of travelers he had observed before. "Bad, yes. Mud and worse. Seems your village is the first sign of life in a long stretch."

The drunkard chuckled, leaning heavily against a nearby post. "Aye, life. Bit dull here, though. Nothing like...like back when we had the..." His words trailed into a mumble as he took another swig, his head lolling slightly.

Malric stood still, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, hiding the growing tension in his fingers. The man was harmless, no more threatening than a moth fluttering too close to a flame. And yet, Malric’s mind spun through possibilities, every interaction a delicate balance between blending in and deciding how far he could push his luck.

"What if he realizes what I am?" Malric thought, watching the man’s drunken sway. "Would he scream? Run? I would have to silence him before he could act, before the noise spread. His blood on the ground, his body hidden away...but no, not here."

He shifted slightly, the weight of his own inhuman nature pressing heavily on him. "I cannot kill him, not unless I must. But what if I did? Could I? A single death might go unnoticed in a place like this. Drunks wander off all the time...but no. The tavern would notice his absence. They would search. They would find him. Then what?"

The thought of the living gathering against him made his bones itch. He could handle one or two with ease, but a mob? A village turned hostile? Even with the strength of his undeath, he was not invincible.

Malric’s focus returned to the drunkard, who had begun to hum a tuneless melody. "No. This one is no threat. Let him pass. His ignorance is his greatest ally, and mine."

But the larger question loomed. Could he truly stand among them? Could he continue this charade for long without someone noticing the unnatural stillness of his movements or the hollow timbre of his voice? Every moment spent among the living felt like walking on a razor’s edge, each step threatening to slip and plunge him into chaos.

The drunkard eventually staggered away, muttering something unintelligible before disappearing into the shadowed paths between the houses. Malric remained motionless, watching until the man was out of sight.

"You did nothing," he told himself, a mix of relief and frustration coursing through him. "You stood. You spoke. You passed. That is all."

And yet, it was enough. A step forward, however small, was still progress. If he could deceive one man, perhaps he could deceive another. And another.

For now, he would not push his luck. This village was a puzzle, and the pieces would not fall into place overnight. As Malric turned to retreat into the darkness, his thoughts remained sharp and cold. The living may have their fire, but he had time and patience—two weapons far sharper than any blade.