Night had fallen, and the Mist Horn Tavern in the heart of Greyshade Town glowed warmly with lamplight.
Nestled along a mud-slicked alley at the edge of town, the old tavern looked like it had been patched together over decades, leaning slightly as if weighed down by the stories it held. The faded wooden sign above the door swung and creaked in the night breeze, its paint nearly peeled off, yet the faint symbol of a horn wrapped in mist was still visible.
Inside, the air was a dense stew of sweat, spilled ale, and the charred scent of overcooked meat. Smoke from the hearth drifted lazily across the low ceiling beams, blurring the dim orange lanterns that hung from rusted chains. Every surface—walls, floors, and tables—bore the marks of hard use: scratched wood, darkened stains, and knife gouges that told their own tales.
At the bar, the tavern owner, a squat, one-eyed man with arms like tree trunks, grunted orders to a limp-limbed barmaid carrying mugs larger than her head. In the far corner, a merchant counted his coins with the paranoia of someone used to theft. A pair of sellswords arm-wrestled over a keg, their yells shaking the plates hung on the wall. Drunken laughter rose and fell like waves, mingling with the clatter of mugs and the occasional slurred curse.
Despite the chaos, there was a strange warmth in the place—as if it were the last flicker of firelight in a war-scarred world just beyond the door.
And tonight, amidst the clangor and chatter, a story was about to be told—one that had not been spoken aloud in many years.
This old tavern, nestled on the edge of a war-torn frontier town, was filled with the scent of aged timber and lingering smoke. Rusted swords and dried beast hides hung from the walls, while a pile of shabby straw mats in the corners served as makeshift beds for drunkards to collapse upon till dawn. The air was thick with the smell of cheap ale and roasted meat, mingled with an indescribable damp mildew.
The hearth blazed, casting flickering light on a bard perched on a high stool at the center of the room. Cloaked in a faded mantle and cradling a cracked old lute, he had the look of someone who had seen too much of the world. His voice, though hoarse, carried a magnetic weight.
"Listen closely," he plucked a few quiet notes from his instrument, and the tavern gradually fell silent. "This isn't just a story—it's a piece of history buried with the dead."
He lifted his head, gazing at his audience, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as though speaking of something forbidden:
"Long ago, there was a kingdom on this continent called Thalorim—the realm of necromancers."
"There, the mages sought no glory, no divine favor. They pursued but one goal: how to make the dead walk again… and keep walking."
"They used magic to awaken corpses, stitching flesh into abominations. They believed the dead were more trustworthy than the living—because the dead cannot betray."
"At first, their magic stayed within Thalorim's borders. But soon, it broke free."
"Corpses rose in hordes, plagues swept through villages like wild winds. The dead bit the living, the living died and turned, and only then did mankind realize—they had raised a monster."
He paused, taking a long sip of water.
"That year, all wars on the continent ceased. The Elven King marched forth, the dwarves carved paths through the mountains, and even beastkin tribes allied with human armies. Their shared purpose—was to destroy Thalorim and bury necromancy forever."
"The air had been a choking mire of rot and scorched marrow, where every breath scraped the throat raw. Blades clashed in the distance like iron storms, and the ground trembled under the march of the dead. For seven days and seven nights, the earth split apart, seas of corpses surged, divine spells and arcane fire raged in a war so fierce, even the stars seemed to dim."
"In the end, Thalorim fell. The undead were sealed in the abyss. They say the Elven King, his armor cracked and his crown stained with ash, stood amidst the silence of a battlefield piled higher than the walls of his own palace before speaking his final words. the Elven King left behind a prophecy…"
The bard set down his cup, his gaze distant and somber:
"When the dead walk the earth once more, the crown shall be stained with blood."
He spoke no further.
For a few long seconds, the tavern sat in silence. Firelight danced across the listeners' faces, many of them now solemn, as if they had just heard a record of some real, forgotten apocalypse.
In a dimly lit corner, a young man cloaked in black leaned lazily against the back of his chair. His face was half-hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. The glow of the hearth did not reach his eyes, and he seemed out of place in the noisy tavern—like a silent shadow watching from afar—yet he hadn't missed a single word from the bard.
He was Eleres.
When the bard's voice dropped to a solemn whisper—"When the dead return to the land, the crown shall be stained in blood"—the words struck Eleres like a hammer, driving straight into his mind.
His fingers twitched against the table's edge, as if gripping for balance, and a faint chill crawled up his spine despite the heat of the hearth.
He knew exactly who he was. And he knew, all too well, what kind of power was now awakening within his veins—quietly, irresistibly.
He was not a child of Thalorim. He had never sought the aid of necromancy. Yet the very force feared and outlawed across the continent had taken root inside him. It whispered at the edges of his thoughts—not in words, but in the cold certainty of command over death itself—both intoxicating and abhorrent.
And what haunted him even more… was the fact that the squad he'd encountered on the battlefield—before they were torn apart—had called him "Your Highness."
He didn't know whether this power was a curse, or a gift.
He couldn't tell if he was defying fate, or if fate had already chosen him.
But one thing was certain:
From this moment forward, his life could never return to what it once was.
The path ahead would be more harrowing than death itself.
Just as Eleres was lost in thought, a burst of loud laughter erupted from the bar, shattering the brief silence in the tavern.
"If the Elarain Knights were still around back then, those damned necromancers would've been skewered with a single spear!" a burly man bellowed, his face flushed with drink. "Seven days and seven nights? Please—we'd have wrapped it up in seven minutes!"
Before he could take another swig, an old mercenary wearing a headscarf burst out laughing, slapping the table. "Oh, shut it! You pissed yourself the last time you saw a water wraith. And now you're talking about fighting necromancers? Ha!"
The shift was jarring—like a dirge cut short by a drunken song—leaving the weight of the tale to die in the smoke before it could settle. The tavern roared with laughter. Jokes flew, mugs clinked, and boots thudded against wood as the crowd slipped back into merriment, brushing off the heavy tale as if it were no more than a well-told fireside fantasy.
"Another round!" someone shouted.
The fire crackled merrily again. The mood lightened. The weight of ancient wars and dire prophecies faded into the smoke-filled air.
But in the shadowed corner, Eleres remained silent.
His head bowed, fingers slowly curling around the cold rim of his mug.
The drink inside had not yet touched his lips—And yet, it had already gone cold.
Outside the Mist Horn Tavern, the night air was cold and wet, the cobblestones slick with dew and the scent of distant smoke. Eleres stepped into the dark, his cloak dragging lightly through a puddle of ash-streaked water.
Behind him, laughter still rolled from within the tavern walls—carefree, oblivious. But ahead of him lay silence.
And in that silence, something stirred within him.
"When the dead walk again…" he murmured. His hand, pale in the moonlight, curled into a fist.
He did not yet know if he was savior or scourge.
But fate had already drawn its blade.