The air was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves. Malric stood in the clearing, motionless as he regarded the bodies of the adventurers scattered before him. His hollow sockets swept over them, taking in the intricate details of their deaths. Blood had soaked into the earth, the rich iron scent lingering faintly in the air.

He crouched next to Kellen's body, noting the tension still etched on the archer's face. Even in death, they look alive, Malric mused, a pang of envy twisting through him. It was a cruel reminder of the vibrancy he despised in their kind.

Malric reached for Kellen's bow, its polished wood smooth under his bony fingers. He held it aloft, appreciating the craftsmanship. It was sturdy but light, a weapon clearly cared for. He set it aside, his gaze now fixed on the quiver strapped to the archer's back.

Methodically, he moved from body to body, stripping them of their belongings.

Ryn's oversized sword caught his attention first. It lay half-drawn from its sheath, its blade reflecting the faint light that filtered through the canopy. Malric hefted it with both hands, testing its weight. It was unwieldy for his skeletal frame, but the craftsmanship was undeniable.

He turned his attention to Lila's belongings. Her armor was lightweight but durable, designed for agility rather than brute force. Malric frowned as he tried to fit a piece of the chest plate over his ribcage, only for it to slip awkwardly. Too much flesh and not enough thought in their designs, he thought bitterly.

Farin's pack yielded unexpected treasures: a small collection of potions, a well-worn prayer book, and a delicate charm inscribed with symbols Malric couldn't decipher. He turned the charm over in his hand, a faint sense of unease prickling through him. Whatever magic it held, it had been useless in saving its owner.

Ryn's journal was tucked into his pack, the leather cover scuffed from use. Malric opened it, flipping through the pages. The writing was haphazard but legible, filled with accounts of their journey.

"Day 12: The ruins are close. I can feel it. The others don't see the importance, but they'll understand when we find it. This is our chance to prove we're more than just kids trying to survive."

Malric scoffed. You didn’t survive at all.

Next, he turned to Kellen's diary. The archer's entries were sharper, laced with sarcasm and pragmatism.

"Ryn keeps dragging us into danger. He thinks he's invincible. One day, his optimism will get us killed."

Malric felt a flicker of approval. At least one of them had been aware of their folly.

Ryn’s map proved to be the most valuable find. Unfolding it carefully, Malric noted several landmarks marked in ink. Brightford Village, circled with a star. The Eastward Road, lined with annotations about merchant caravans. The Stonefall Ruins, scrawled with question marks and "cursed?"

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He traced the route to Brightford with a bony finger, a plan already forming. A village would be an ideal place to observe humans further—and perhaps exploit them.

His sockets lingered on the Stonefall Ruins. The word "treasure" scribbled beside it intrigued him. Treasure often means power, he reasoned. Power he could use to strengthen himself.

He would head to Brightford first, then decide if the ruins were worth exploring.

Before leaving, Malric took time to test the gear. The bow felt awkward in his hands, his fingers struggling to mimic the smooth draw Kellen had likely mastered. The sword was too heavy to wield effectively, though he made a note to keep it for potential trade or intimidation.

The potions perplexed him. He uncorked one, sniffing the contents. The sharp, herbal scent gave him no clue as to its effects. He stowed them away for later use, unwilling to risk experimentation now.

The clothes were equally troublesome, he draped a cloak over his shoulders, tying it around his neck. It hung loosely, obscuring his skeletal frame. With the hood drawn low, he might pass as a human from a distance.

Satisfied, Malric buried the remaining gear he couldn't carry and concealed the bodies with leaves and branches. He didn't care for sentimentality, but he understood the need for secrecy.

As he stood over the grave of leaves and earth, Malric felt a strange pang of finality. He had taken everything from these adventurers- their lives, their dreams, and their possessions.

"Fools." He murmured, his voice a dry rasp, "you wandered into death, unprepared for its patience."

With the map in hand and his stolen gear strapped to his frail frame, Malric turned toward the western edge of the forest. Brightford awaited, a world of humans ripe for understanding, manipulation, and conquest.

For the first time in his unnatural existence, he felt a semblance of purpose.

The forest stretched endlessly ahead, its dark canopy filtering the sunlight into fragmented beams. Malric walked with purpose, the map clutched in one bony hand. The stolen cloak draped over his skeletal form, its edges trailing in the dirt as he moved.

His steps were silent, each one measured and deliberate, but his thoughts churned noisily. He replayed the night's events in his mind—the adventurers' fear, their final gasps, and the stillness that followed.

It wasn’t just the act of killing that lingered with him; it was the sensation that came after. Satisfaction, cold and sharp, yet hollow. What was it about extinguishing life that enthralled him so?

"I don’t need sustenance. I don’t feed like they do," he thought. "And yet, it’s intoxicating. To watch their warmth fade... to snuff out what I can never possess."

Malric clenched his bony fist, the motion stiff under the weight of the cloak. It wasn’t just envy—it was something deeper, something he couldn’t articulate.

"What am I, if not a vessel for death?"

The question gnawed at him as he trudged through the underbrush. He glanced at the map again, tracing the path to Brightford. The village was a simple place by the looks of it: a cluster of homes, a market square, and a tavern. A hub of humanity, bustling with life.

But he didn’t just want to observe them. Observation was a tool, not a purpose.

"What do I want?" he wondered. The question felt foreign, almost intrusive. His existence had been a series of reactions—hiding, surviving, striking. But now, with the map in hand and a destination ahead, he felt the stirrings of something more.

It wasn’t enough to watch humans, to mimic their behaviors or steal their tools. He wanted to unravel them, to understand the threads that bound their fragile lives together—and then decide whether to sever them.

"They cling to their lives, their dreams, their hope," he mused. "And for what? What makes their existence so precious?"

A bird flitted across his path, startling him from his thoughts. He watched it vanish into the trees, its small, vibrant life so different from his own. For a moment, he considered how easily he could pluck it from the air, end its flight mid-arc.

But what would that prove?

Malric’s sockets darkened, his thoughts turning grim. Brightford would be his proving ground.

"I’ll walk among them, learn their ways. Their desires. Their weaknesses. And when the time comes..."

The thought trailed off, unfinished. He didn’t know what the end would look like—whether he wanted to destroy them, rule them, or simply disappear again.

But he knew one thing for certain: he would not leave Brightford unchanged.

As the forest began to thin, the faint sounds of civilization reached him. Distant voices, the clang of metal, and the occasional bark of a dog carried through the air.

Malric paused, adjusting the hood of his cloak. His skeletal frame was well-hidden now, his hands concealed in the folds of fabric. From a distance, he might pass as a traveler, though up close...

"They’ll notice the silence," he realized. "No breath, no heartbeat. I’ll need to stay in the shadows, at least at first."

He glanced at the map one last time, folding it carefully and tucking it into the pouch he'd taken from Kellen.

"Brightford," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "Let’s see what your precious life is worth."

And with that, Malric stepped out of the forest, a shadow moving toward the light.