THE KINGDOM THAT FORGOT DEATH

The first dead man arrived at midnight. He came walking through the northern forest with a sword buried deep in his chest, his left arm missing and his clothes hanging from his body like pieces of an old burial cloth. He had been dead for four hundred years. Yet he was walking. The two guards stationed at the northern gate of Veyrmoor noticed him when the moon disappeared behind a thick blanket of clouds. At first, they thought he was a wounded traveller. The man moved slowly, dragging one foot behind him, and his head hung forward as though his neck could no longer support its weight. "Stop!" one of the guards shouted. The stranger continued walking. "I said stop!" The guard raised his spear. His companion stepped closer and narrowed his eyes. "Wait. Look at his armour." The stranger wore an ancient black suit of armour. A rusted golden symbol was engraved across his chest. It was the symbol of the old royal army, a force that had disappeared long before either guard was born. "That armour belongs to the dead," the second guard whispered. The first guard laughed nervously. "Then perhaps the dead should learn to stay buried." The stranger stopped. Slowly, he raised his head. His face was pale, his lips cracked, and his eyes were completely white. Then he spoke. "Open the gate." "Who are you?" the guard demanded. The stranger tilted his head. "You have forgotten." A low rumbling sound came from the forest. The guards turned. Between the trees, hundreds of figures were beginning to emerge. Some wore broken armour. Others dragged chains behind them. A few carried their own severed heads beneath their arms. They were soldiers, kings and people whose names had disappeared from history. And they were all dead. "Sound the alarm!" one guard screamed. Before he could move, the stranger stepped forward and drove his sword through the guard's stomach. The man fell to his knees, clutching the blade. But he did not die. Nobody died anymore. That was the curse of Varethia. A person could be stabbed, burned, poisoned or crushed beneath a falling building, yet their body would continue living. Wounds might eventually close, but the pain remained. People could lose their minds, their memories and even parts of their bodies, but death never came to claim them. The stranger leaned towards the wounded guard. "Someone has remembered your name." Then the alarm bells began to ring. Across Veyrmoor, doors opened and frightened villagers rushed into the streets. Mothers gathered their children. Soldiers grabbed their weapons. Shopkeepers abandoned their stores. The ancient dead had returned. And they were coming for something. Kaelen Veyr was dreaming when the first bell rang. He stood in a field of white flowers beneath a red sky. The flowers stretched endlessly in every direction, their delicate petals moving even though there was no wind. In the distance stood a woman dressed in black. Her face was hidden behind a thin veil, and in her right hand she carried a long black sword covered in silver markings. "Who are you?" Kaelen called. The woman did not answer. Instead, she raised her sword. A crack appeared across the sky. Something enormous moved behind the clouds. Kaelen stepped backwards. "What is that?" The woman finally spoke. "When the dead return, do not trust the living." Her voice sounded strangely familiar. Kaelen frowned. "What do you mean?" She lowered her sword. "Your mother has lied to you." Suddenly, the white flowers began turning black. Their petals fell away, disappearing into the ground. The woman stepped closer. "And your shadow is not yours." Kaelen looked down. His shadow stood beside him. Not beneath him. Beside him. It turned its head and smiled. Kaelen woke with a violent gasp. He sat upright in bed, breathing heavily. For several seconds, he could not remember where he was. Then another bell rang. He looked towards the small window beside his bed. Outside, orange lights flickered in the distance, and frightened voices travelled through the cold night air. A loud knock came from downstairs. "Kaelen!" It was his mother's voice. He hurried down the narrow wooden staircase. Elira stood near the front door, wearing a dark travelling cloak over her nightdress. Her long brown hair was tied behind her head. Something about her expression made Kaelen stop. She looked frightened. Not the ordinary kind of frightened that came when a storm destroyed a roof. This was the look of someone who had spent nineteen years waiting for something terrible to happen. "Mother?" "Get dressed properly," she ordered. "Why are the bells ringing?" "Because we have to leave." "Leave? Where?" "Somewhere safe." Kaelen glanced towards the window. "Is it another attack?" Elira placed both hands on his shoulders. "Listen carefully. Take your father's sword, your coat and the leather bag beneath your bed. Do not take anything else." Kaelen frowned. "My father's sword? You never allow me to touch it." "Tonight is different." Before he could ask another question, three heavy knocks struck the front door. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Both of them froze. A man's voice came from outside. "Elira." Kaelen looked at his mother. Her face had lost every trace of colour. "Open the door," the stranger called. Elira stepped closer to it. "You are not welcome here." A quiet laugh came from outside. "Still protective, I see." "Leave." "After all these years?" "Leave!" Silence followed. Then the stranger spoke again. "Does he know who his father was?" Kaelen stopped breathing. His father. It was a subject his mother had refused to discuss throughout his entire life. He had been told that his father was a brave warrior who died before Kaelen was born. There was an old portrait hidden inside Elira's locked chest, but she never allowed him to touch it. Now a stranger stood outside their home asking whether Kaelen knew who his father was. Elira's voice became dangerously quiet. "You will not speak of him." "Why not? The boy deserves to know." "He deserves to live." The door began to shake. Dark red liquid trickled down its wooden surface. Kaelen stared in horror. Then came a scratching sound, as though someone was dragging their fingernails across the other side. Elira raised her right hand. Seven small black marks appeared on her palm. "Mother, what are you doing?" "Something I hoped I would never have to do again." The door exploded. Wooden fragments flew across the room. A tall figure stood in the entrance, wearing ancient black armour. A sword protruded from his chest, and his pale skin looked as though it had been buried beneath the earth for centuries. But it was his face that frightened Kaelen most. He knew that face. He had seen it in the portrait hidden inside his mother's chest. The stranger looked directly at him. "Hello, Kaelen." Kaelen raised his father's short sword. "Who are you?" The stranger ignored the question. Instead, he looked at Elira. "You never told him?" Elira stepped forward. "Stay away from my son." The stranger smiled. "After all this time, you still pretend you can protect him." "You're not his father." The man's smile disappeared. "Then perhaps you should tell him where his real father is." Kaelen looked between them. "What does that mean?" Elira did not answer. The stranger lifted his hand. Every candle in the room went out. Elira shouted a word Kaelen had never heard before. The seven marks on her palm began glowing. Black lines travelled up her arm, spreading beneath her skin like cracks in glass. The windows shattered inward, but every piece of glass stopped in midair. The stranger stepped backwards. "Forbidden magic," he whispered. Elira raised her hand. "You should have stayed buried." A wave of darkness burst from her palm. It struck the stranger and threw him through the doorway, sending his body crashing into the street. The house shook. Kaelen stared at his mother. "What are you?" Elira looked at him. "Your mother." She grabbed his arm. "And if you want to remain alive, you will come with me." They hurried through the kitchen towards a narrow wooden door hidden behind a cupboard. Elira unlocked it with a small iron key. A staircase descended into darkness. "Where does this lead?" Kaelen asked. "Somewhere your father left for you." "My father?" Elira did not answer. She lit a lantern and began descending. Kaelen followed. The staircase continued much farther than the size of their house should have allowed. The walls were made of ancient stone, covered in strange markings that appeared to move whenever he looked directly at them. At the bottom was an enormous chamber. Kaelen stopped. Stone pillars reached towards a ceiling he could barely see. Hundreds of weapons hung along the walls: swords, spears, axes and strange curved blades made from materials he had never encountered. In the centre stood a large stone altar. And on it rested a black sword. Seven heavy iron chains held it in place. Silver patterns moved across its surface like streams of liquid light. Kaelen stepped closer. "What is this place?" "This chamber was built long before Veyrmoor existed," Elira replied. "Who built it?" "Your father's family." Kaelen turned towards her. "Who was my father?" Elira looked at the sword. "His name was once feared across all seven kingdoms." "Was he a king?" "No. He was something far more dangerous." Kaelen looked at the weapon again. "Is that his sword?" Elira nodded. "It has a name." "What is it?" "The Mourning Blade." The moment she spoke those words, the silver patterns began glowing brighter. A low vibration travelled through the chamber. Kaelen stepped backwards. The chains began shaking. "Stay where you are," Elira warned. But the sword was already rising. One by one, the seven chains snapped. Their broken pieces struck the stone floor as the weapon floated above the altar. Its point slowly turned towards Kaelen. Then a voice echoed through the chamber. "Kaelen Veyr." He froze. The voice was deep and ancient, as though it had been waiting for centuries to speak. Elira stepped between him and the sword. "No." The blade trembled. "THE LAST SHADOW HAS RETURNED." Something cold touched Kaelen's feet. He looked down. For the first time in nineteen years, he saw a shadow beneath him. But it was not behaving like an ordinary shadow. It stood upright behind him. It had his height, his shape and his clothes. Slowly, it raised its head. And smiled. Elira stepped backwards, tears gathering in her eyes. "No," she whispered. "Not yet." The shadow lifted one hand. The Mourning Blade trembled in the air. Then a second voice entered the chamber. It came from the shadow itself. "Hello, brother."