A pile of cobblestones covered in a thick layer of snow was the sole companion of immortality.

The once thrice-cursed hill, crowned by ruins and myth, rose defiantly amidst the surrounding pearly painted northern forest, its true name is forgotten by the minds of all but scholars, shattered into a thousand different ones through the forges of folklore, in the flames of storytime bonfires.

However, in the ancient chalk-colored courtyard a pile of stone transpired subtle movement, the rasping sound of stone moving against stone being the sole odd trumpet heralding the return of a legend that long transcended the realm of the living and whose banners once stroke fear in the heart of rivals.

A pale tense and skeletal hand dislodged the final levels of stone that entombed it, rising amidst its cold grave filled with purpose as if to grasp the firmament, it tattered the blocks underneath in search of firm standing to pull the rest of its body, when it succeeded doing so, the effort paid off in the form of the hand’s arm being pulled out of the ruins and into the open air, no less dreadful-looking than the body part that preceded it, the look of a corpse was the best description for it, half exposed bone and decomposed skin that defied the ages decorated the resurgent body part, yet the lack of muscles seemed to be no obstacle for in a single rising movement the tip of the rock pile came undone.

A head and a torso exposed themselves amidst falling stone, if the arm raised the question of whether its owner was alive or not, the head answered it, a patchwork of lifeless skin and frail, faulty hair crowned its top, one eyeball missing and the other looked no different from the surrounding accumulated snow, no lip or cheek could be seen for bone was exposed from the nose and below, yet the skull shape was that of a human, the rest of the body, or what remained of it, was entombed in a suit of rusty armor with no distinguishing features, likely lost a long time ago to the entropic nature of exposure.

The ghastly appearance however did not last as the figure breathed the cold air that surrounds it. Its flesh begins to grow unceremoniously. The skin regains color as its veins start to regenerate, its muscles connecting and growing to connect the lack of flesh. Skin fills the missing spots of the body where the bone was once exposed. By the end of the inhuman spectacle, the otherwise corpse looked no different from a healthy athletic man, and a fair looking one at that. Where there were faulty lines that could be barely called hair, a short curly black one could be seen crowning a youthful-looking face with the lack of facial hair contrasting against thick eyebrows. The missing eye having now returned, paired with the left one in their amber color. He looked no different from a young, strong lad with no more than a quarter-century to his name, yet if he had any emotion running in its mind, his face did not betray it.

For a moment he stood there, his posture straight and noble-like, he had no intention of hiding his proudful nature, its mouth opened and a guttural yet gentle sound flew from it, the first man-made sound these open-topped halls heard in a long time.

“Is this the hospitality of House Sanatorea?” He recited eloquently to the faint frozen wind that touched the courtyard, he was half-naked, his once functional armor partially covering skin and falling apart each step he took while descending from the stony mound. “The warmth of Lady Andressa or King Balmier is severely undermined by the unwillingness of their servants!” Again, no answer back.

“No welcoming embrace to the return of the prodigal son? No bread and salt will be parted over such a joyous event? No laurel ceremony or sacrifice to Ortu? Where are my brothers?” He reached ground-level, this last question being muttered solely to himself, melancholy filled his voice, snow, and dirt were met on his landing, naked feet impervious to the piercing touch of cold, defiantly maintaining its warmth, feeling the snow touching his ankle, he stopped and seemed to fully take-in his surroundings, as if a switch has been triggered inside his head.

As if bothered by it, the rusty warrior grasped what remained of his armor and threw it away, the decay of the metal was such that little resistance was offered when faced against brutish force, the pulling left vivid red strings scarred across the naked man’s body, and yet no time was given for the oozing blood to seep before skin rushed to cover the wounds again, no lasting wound or infection would be suffered by this man’s flesh and he was well aware of it.

“No one?” Stupor fading, confusion, and melancholy started to settle in his heart, this last question had a tone of incredulity, the dying light of hope surrendering to realism.

The Eternal retinue of House Sanatorea were all gone, the thought crossed his mind, either scattered to the wind or granted the final repose, his memories of the last moments before slumber were hazy to him at best, he could only remember names and how fond he was to the faces that bore it.

 “How could we have lost? We were so confident, and had the skill to match…” He looked up to the cloudy sky, snow touching his face and melting away under the resurgent warmth, then a breeze ran through him coming from the east, always from the east.

“Hian…” A gentle, feminine whisper in the wind called his name, he turned quickly towards the direction the sound came from, yet no living thing crossed his gaze and only the passing breeze was met, his hair flapping gently, he narrowed his eyes in thought and worry.

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Hian knew what it meant for an Eternal to start hearing voices, whispers in the wind, calling for him. Had he lived for that long? Not even half a century has passed since he took the Deathless oath under the altar of the third fate.

No, he thought, it was not just that, and for the first time he truly scoured the ruins of the castle, his memories superseding against what his sight presented him, this was once a place of kinship and glory, a mighty fortress in the Sanator valley, where armies would march from and within, its sturdy walls knowing defeat to no invader if any ever managed to reach it, for the arms of those that called it home were strong and eager. He walked towards the remnants of the western stone tower that still was high enough to present itself as a vantage point, climbing the uneven footing that age has created he reached the top of the tower, he took his time watching the surrounding land, looking beyond the decrepit crenelations, nothing but vegetation and forest as far as the eye could see, the white tips of the Marian mountain range to the north and the wide Taurar river that cut through the forest to the south were the only landmarks he recognized, he felt uncomfortable with the realization, where the land was once dotted with farmland and the capital city rolled over the foothill, nothing remained, the natural overtook the man-made scarring, the cycle was made anew.

100 years? He thought, 200? 300? 

Cascagnan the oldest of the Eternals of Sanatorea had little more than five centuries to his name before the Erä called him to the final repose, it all started with the whispers, he recalled, then came the slow descent into slumber, it took decades, however, decades for an Immortal might look like mere years if one just voluntarily released their grasp on reality, they were Eternal just in name, but in truth, they felt the passage of time all the same.

 “Half millennia…. How?” – Hian felt old, the sudden realization that he missed out a lot, frustration built up, borne of a sense of failure, the House he fought for was extinct, his battle brothers and sisters were no more, the oath he swore was pointless and redundant now, he was truly alone and his time in this world was ending, I had so much time he thought when he took the oath, Now I have little if any.

He felt depressed and lost deep in thought, trying to connect the dots of his faulty memory, he wandered the ruined halls, wood having long since having rotten away into inexistence, only the stones denounced the warmth that once was.

He wandered inside a wide place, open to the sky through missing roof, its silent collapse having happened a long time ago, he searched the ruins for others like him, Knights that survived their end, yet all he found was the cold rock, marble, and cobblestone that served as the foundations of the castle, alongside mortal remains, bones preserved by their now exposed rocky coffins, providing little satisfaction to him as his search went on.

During his vain exploration, he meandered back to the courtyard, almost giving up he gave one last look and noticed the presence of something he did not recall, be it for his sight was compromised due to shock, or lack of attention. A monolith stood in the middle of it, half-buried in snow and covered in dried-up moss, fading indentations in the stone could slightly be seen from afar, his curiosity piqued, he approached and cleaned up the odd structure with bare hands and tried to read what was engraved in it, it was carved in several different dialects, each side revealed different information, from all the languages written in stone, the Calgarian one, the language of the nation he once served, being the only one he could fully comprehend, he cleared his throat and muttered what he could make of the shallow words.

“In the 31st year of the Volk-Abster reign, the noble forces of the Alliance of Nine and the Council of Songcrafters destroyed this vile den of evil and perversion and banished the lineage of the rulers of Sanator, may the evil of undeath never again be seen in the realm of the living.”

The other sides of the monument had a list of names, a memorial he thought, he searched the names out of curiosity, some he could read, others faded to time a long time ago, one name seemed familiar though, and coincidentally or not, it was one of the first he read, Gavyn Volk-Abster au Aspetar, whether that name was supposed to mean something to him or not, he lacked the knowledge to know as of now.

“For cunning liars and bastards” – He expressed instinctually, he did not know where his anger came from, only that reading those names stirred emotions in his heart, familiar emotions, perhaps his sole companion in this odd and lonely new world he had awakened into, then he saw a sigil, at the very bottom of the structure, partially covered by snow, half-erased from rock, the sigil of a raised finger in front of a shining sun.

The memory of his last moments returned to him, a siege against overwhelming odds, the Songcrafters devastation of the countryside, the genocide of the civilians under the elements, the desperate mounting of resistance, the rhythm of the war drums of the bloodied bear rung in his ear, like a ghost mocking him, a face, a woman’s face, and pain. And at the center of it all, this sigil painted the canvas of massacre. Present in shining armor and flapping banner alike, his memories were livid as much as his emotions that now rushed back to him, a 500-year race to return.

His sentiment of failure was substituted by anger, he remembered now, the purge, the formation of the Alliance of Nine, their hypocrisy, and the arrogant tyranny of the Songcrafters.

“Undeath” He repeated the words, this is what they branded his holy oath, a small smile grew on his face.

“This is not what they called it back then” He pondered on the wordplay and how it served as the justification for their actions, then amusement overcame him, for a force created to wipe out the eternal retinues of the old houses, they had done a poor job making sure to finish the job on Sanatorea.

He looked back to his stone tomb, he recalled how the events transpired, it was clear now the cause of his hibernation and his failure. Knowing what he had to do, he walked outside of the half-destroyed portcullis and followed the fading road that leads down-hill towards the sea of trees, purpose in his eyes, and a clenched fist as company. 

I know not of this world whose air I breathe, but I will make it remember the Old ways, I will make it remember us.