Guldur awoke slowly, as if in no hurry – which made sense, since he had all eternity ahead of him. Still, there was something annoyingly uncomfortable about waking up after decades of hibernation. It wasn’t like waking up from human sleep, of course. He didn’t have dreams, or pillows to adjust, or even eyelids to open. But there was one thing he made sure to preserve from his past life, something that made the existential torment worth it: breakfast.

“Time for some tea, a few biscuits… maybe a little cake if Ossaldo’s feeling inspired,” he murmured to himself as he rose, shaking the dust from his robes. He stretched purely out of imitation of what he used to do when he was alive, the sound of his bones cracking echoing through the chamber.

“Skeleton!” he shouted, his voice reverberating theatrically.

Ossaldo, the most reliable skeletal servant (which wasn’t much of a compliment), came stumbling in. “Here, master! Always ready to serve!”

“Tea,” Guldur commanded, waving dramatically. “And some decent biscuits. None of those hard crackers you baked last time. And don’t set the kitchen on fire again.”

Ossaldo hesitated, which was already a bad sign. “So… about the biscuits, master…”

Guldur narrowed his glowing eyes. “Don’t tell me you ate them all again.”

“Of course not, master! I don’t have a stomach! It was the infestation…”

“Infestation?!”

“Yes, master.” Ossaldo shrank back. “Spectral rats. They invaded the pantry while you were… resting.”

Guldur stood silent for a moment, staring at Ossaldo with an expression that could only be described as ‘are you serious?’ Finally, he sighed, sinking into his chair with the resignation of someone who had lived (and died) long enough not to be surprised by the world’s nonsense anymore.

“Explain, Ossaldo. How the hell do rats without bodies eat anything?”

“Ah...” Ossaldo scratched his chin, or the place where a chin would be. “Well, they don’t exactly eat, master. It’s more like... absorb. They dance around the food, make a strange noise, and... poof! It’s gone.”

“Dance around?”

“Yes, master. It’s quite beautiful, really, but also tragic. The last time it was with that cake you loved… the one with dried fruit.”

Guldur closed his glowing eye sockets for a moment, feeling something that could probably be interpreted as soul pain – or what was left of it. “My dried fruit cake…” He rubbed his non-existent temple. “I made that cake with my own hands centuries ago! Raisins from a distant kingdom! Nuts that cost a war to harvest!”

“And it was delicious, master!” Ossaldo added eagerly, before realizing it wasn’t the time for compliments.

“This is an outrage.” Guldur stood up, his cloak billowing dramatically. “Spectral rats not only disrespected my fortress, but destroyed one of the few joys left from my past life! Do you have any idea how hard it is to replicate the taste of mortality?!”

Ossaldo shook his head, but he knew Guldur wasn’t expecting an answer.

“Well then, make the tea without the biscuits. And if I catch a spectral rat lurking around my pantry again, Ossaldo, I’ll put it under a containment spell that will make it wish it had never died!”

“Understood, master. Can I add sugar to the tea? Or do you prefer it... bitter?”

“Always sweet, Ossaldo. I may be a lich, but I’m not a psychopath.”

As Ossaldo hurried to the kitchen, Guldur sank back into his chair. The sound of his servant stumbling over pots and pans was already comforting. He tried to distract himself with a grimoire on advanced necromancy spells, but the letters began to move on the page, forming the phrase: "Still thinking about the cake, huh?"

“Damn meddlesome book!” He threw the grimoire against the wall, but the irritation remained. “One of these days, I’ll go hunt those rats myself. Personally. And I’ll make it a spectacle for the history of the dead!”

Of course, he wouldn’t actually do any of that. But at least the thought was comforting while he waited for the tea.

Guldur was seated on his stone throne, tea finally served in a chipped cup he swore was an ancient artifact from a lost civilization (but was probably just old). He held the cup carefully, savoring the illusory warmth he knew made no difference to his bones, but still gave him a sense of normalcy.

On the opposite side of the room, a line of undead servants formed, each more ragged and clumsy than the last. Ossaldo, still wearing the “Best Boss of the Underworld” apron, led the procession with an expression that looked… anxious? It was hard to read emotions on an empty skull.

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“Why are you all standing there like it’s a wake? Just say what’s going on,” Guldur ordered with a sigh.

“Master...” began Ossaldo, hesitantly. “We have a… matter.”

“Matter?”

“A labor issue, master.”

Guldur spat out a sip of non-existent tea. “WHAT?!”

“Well, the servants, um... the servants are complaining. We feel like we’re working too much.”

“You… feel? You don’t even have sensory organs!”

The skeletons murmured among themselves, some shaking their heads as if they were genuinely upset. A zombie in the middle of the line raised a decayed hand, causing parts of its fingers to fall to the floor.

“Yes, master!” Ossaldo continued. “The spectral rats are out of control, the hallways are full of cobwebs, and no one here has had a day off since you resurrected us. We’re overwhelmed!”

Guldur stared at the group, incredulous. “You don’t need days off. You’re dead! Every day is technically a day off!”

A short skeleton at the end of the line raised its hand. “With all due respect, master, we still have feelings. Well… simulacra of feelings. And we like to feel valued.”

“Valued?” Guldur repeated, rubbing his non-existent temple. “Do you realize that I brought all of you back to existence? That without me, you’d be rotting in shallow graves or hanging as macabre decorations in some village somewhere?”

The dead exchanged awkward glances. Another skeleton stepped forward, holding a torn piece of paper like a revolutionary manifesto.

“Master, we propose an agreement. A day off per decade, shorter work shifts, and an immediate solution to the spectral rats. We can’t stand seeing them dance around the food anymore.”

Guldur stared at the paper as if it were a forbidden curse. “You think this is a democracy? You think you can unionize me?”

“It’s a matter of respect, master,” Ossaldo said, now with renewed courage. “Also, the rats are really unbearable. They ate the last pumpkin I was saving for a stew.”

“Pumpkin? What kind of lich’s fortress has pumpkins?!”

“One that also cares about the morale of its servants, master.”

Guldur opened his mouth to protest but stopped. He looked at the horde of undead gathered and, for the first time in centuries, felt something akin to... mental exhaustion. Is this what eternity did to people? Turned obedient servants into unionists and hungry ghosts into opportunistic dancers?

He stood up, his cloak billowing dramatically (as always, because he didn’t skimp on good visuals).

“Listen up,” he began, pointing a bony finger at the servants. “I will resolve this rat issue. Personally, if necessary. But know this does not mean I approve of this… rebellion disguised as ‘labor rights’. Understood?”

The servants exchanged glances, murmuring to each other before nodding in unison.

“Great. Now get out. And someone sweep up those phalanges you’re leaving all over the floor!”

But not today. Today, he just wanted to finish his breakfast in peace.

Guldur was hunched over an improvised stone counter, scribbling notes on a piece of yellowed parchment. The lab smelled faintly of mold, but he barely noticed. After all, when you live surrounded by undead, the concept of "fresh air" is more of a distant memory than a priority.

“I’ll have to deal with those rats,” he murmured, taking a sip of his now cold tea.

“It can’t be that hard,” he continued, more to himself than to Ossaldo, who was sitting in the corner sorting herbs and ingredients with the precision of someone without thumbs. “I created a spell to fix clothes without stitching and another to make bread that never spoils. Surely I can deal with half a dozen spectral rats.”

Ossaldo raised his skull, holding a small bottle of purple liquid. “And do you remember how the bread spell turned out the first time?”

“Ah, shut up, Ossaldo,” grumbled Guldur, pushing a glass jar that almost fell off the table. “They only stayed alive for a week. Details.”

He turned his attention back to the parchment. The title, written in large, elegant letters, read: "Definitive Spectral Rat Repellent (Temporary)".

“Main ingredient,” he read aloud. “Garlic essence... because everyone hates garlic, right? A pinch of bone powder – and of course, the special touch, essence of crypt fungus.”

Ossaldo looked at him, tilting his skull. “And this will… what? Make the rats leave?”

“Exactly, my dear skeleton. It will create such an unpleasant environment that even spectral rats will prefer to go to another dimension.”

After several hours of work, mixing ingredients and reciting simple spells, the repellent was ready. It was a murky green potion, bubbling slightly as if it had a life of its own. The smell, however, was indescribable.

Guldur pulled the bottle away from his nose and took two steps back, waving the air. “Looks like it’s working!”

Ossaldo was more practical and simply fainted, or at least collapsed to the ground like a sack of bones.

“Take him to the pantry tunnels, Ossaldo,” Guldur ordered, trying not to inhale deeply. “Spread it well. This will take care of the rats in seconds.”

“Yes, master,” said Ossaldo weakly, grabbing the bottle and staggering out of the lab.

Half an hour later, Guldur was comfortably sitting on his throne, savoring another cup of tea. “Well, at least something worked today,” he said, looking at the door. Ossaldo returned, looking... excited? No. That was impossible. He looked less defeated, at least.

“Master, the spell worked!” Ossaldo exclaimed. “The rats fled immediately. They vanished as if they’d never been there!”

Guldur gave a satisfied smile, or as close to one as his fleshless face allowed. “See? I’m still a genius.”

At that moment, a gust of wind blew through the room, bringing the smell of the repellent to the throne.

“ARGH!” Guldur dropped his tea, coughing violently. “What is THIS?!”

“Oh,” said Ossaldo, nervously clapping his bony hands. “Yes, well… the smell seems to… um… linger, master.”

“Linger?” Guldur repeated, as the other skeletons in the room began to fall to the floor, one by one, pretending to faint.

“Well, the good news is, it repels more than just spectral rats. No form of life – or death – seems to tolerate the odor.”

“Great. My fortress now smells like a troll’s backside in the middle of summer!”

Ossaldo hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Maybe it needs… some ventilation, master?”

Guldur sank into his throne, massaging his non-existent temples. “Of course. Because nothing says ‘all-powerful lich’ like opening windows and airing out the fortress. What a wonderful day.”

And so, while Ossaldo and the skeletons opened doors and windows to try to deal with the aromatic disaster, Guldur just sighed and muttered, “The life of a lich is never as glamorous as they say.”