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Tales of the Restless

The crown lay shattered on the marble floor, each shard reflecting candlelight like frozen tears. Kaelith moved through the shadows of the throne room, gathering the pieces with gloved hands. The metal was still warm, as if remembering its wearer's final moments.

"You understand the price?" The regent's voice echoed from somewhere in the darkness. "To summon a king—"

"Requires a king's sacrifice, yes." Kaelith's fingers traced the jagged edges of gold. "Though your brother wore this crown for barely a day before his death. The spirits may not recognize his claim."

Silence answered. The regent had already retreated, unable to witness what would follow. Few could stomach the sight of a necromancer's work, even those desperate enough to seek it.

Kaelith arranged the crown fragments in a circle, each piece aligned with astronomical precision. The marble beneath seemed to pulse, veins of black stone threading through white like corrupted arteries. From a leather pouch came the remaining ingredients: crushed bone of a hanged man, ash from a burned prophecy, and three drops of blood from the dead king's own heart.

The incantation began as a whisper, words older than the kingdom itself. They tasted of copper and grave dirt, each syllable drawing shadow closer until the candlelight struggled against the gathering dark. The crown fragments began to vibrate, scraping against stone in a discordant chorus.

Then came the cold—not the mere absence of warmth, but a hunger that sought to devour it. Frost crystallized on the marble, spreading in patterns that mimicked the crown's original filigree. The dead king's spirit rose like smoke from the circle's center, formless at first, then condensing into something almost solid.

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"Who dares?" The voice was thunder trapped underwater, rage and confusion tangled together. "Who pulls me from my rest?"

Kaelith remained steady, maintaining the binding circle's integrity. "Your murder demands justice, Your Majesty. The throne stands empty, and whispers of civil war grow louder each day."

The spirit writhed, its edges blurring. "Justice? There is no justice in death, necromancer. Only truth, sharp as the blade that opened my throat."

"Then share that truth. Name your killer."

The ghost's laugh was bitter as winter wind. "You think it matters? One murderer or another will wear my crown. The living hunger for power as the dead hunger for warmth." The spirit pressed against the circle's boundary, testing its limits. "But you didn't summon me for justice, did you? There's something else you seek in death's kingdom."

Kaelith's hands remained steady, though sweat beaded on their brow. "Your killer's name, Your Majesty. Nothing more."

"Lies ill become a servant of death." The ghost's form shifted, becoming more solid, more crowned. "I see the shadows in your own heart, necromancer. The questions that keep you walking between worlds. You seek something far older than my murder."

The binding circle flared as the spirit's power surged. For a moment, Kaelith glimpsed something behind the ghost—endless rows of thrones, each occupied by a crowned corpse, stretching into infinite darkness. The vision passed, leaving behind the taste of ancient stone and older secrets.

"Your killer's name," Kaelith repeated, voice firm despite the trembling in their bones.

The dead king smiled, teeth sharp as broken promises. "Very well. But remember, necromancer—every answer from death's realm comes with its own price. Are you certain you wish to pay it?"

The candles guttered, shadows dancing like mourners at a king's wake. Outside, ravens gathered on the palace walls, waiting to carry new secrets into the gathering dark.