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Death's Shadow : In the ashes of the living only dead remembers

Anbik_Shrestha_9624
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Synopsis
In a world where gods bestow blessings not out of love, but boredom, mortals dance to amuse unseen eyes. Their gifts are power, but also chains—each blessing feeding the god who gave it. Eric was born at the empire’s forgotten edge, a farmer’s son with dreams as small as his village. Then the Empire’s envoys came—smiling, noble, false. By dusk, the ground ran red, and the boy who once feared death became something that death itself could not claim. Chosen—cursed—by the god of death and destruction, Eric rises from the ruin not as a hero, but as a shadow seeking truth. His vengeance is quiet, cold, and patient, shaped not by rage alone but by the hollowness left behind. Because in a world where gods play and men burn, mercy is an illusion… and in the ashes of the living, only the dead remember.
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Chapter 1 - Prologue : peaceful arrival

A boy woke with a start, the remnants of a dream clinging to him like smoke to fire. In it, he was running through the village, the scent of burning thick in the air, and voices—unknown yet familiar—screamed his name.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, messy and coarse from sleep. Thin by build, some might even call him scrawny. His white skin caught the morning light. He wore the plain clothes of any farmer's son.

"Eric! Breakfast!" his mother's voice called from the doorway.

The faint morning sun filtered through the small window, painting their cottage in soft gold. The smell of fresh bread and smoke grounded him in the present.

"Coming," he muttered, though the unease from his dream refused to fade.

After breakfast, he wandered toward the village gate. Every three years, envoys from the Empire arrived—collecting taxes, inspecting borderlands, reminding the nobles of their duties. The villagers had seen them before; their faces were familiar by now.

Eric leaned against the gatepost, lazy in the sun. The road ahead shimmered with heat, and the air buzzed with quiet excitement. His father sighed beside him.

"Keep your posture. You'll make them think poorly of us."

Eric smirked. "I'm sure they've survived worse than seeing a lazy farmer's son," he said, earning a glare from an elder nearby.

Then came the sound—clatter-clatter, the rhythmic strike of hooves drawing nearer. The Empire's envoys appeared, mounted on graceful horses, banners rippling behind them. Two envoys, six guards.

One of them was a familiar face—Sir John. The last time he'd come, he'd shared tales of knights and monsters, and Eric had listened wide-eyed. What story will he tell today?

But when Sir John's gaze met his, Eric's heart faltered. That warmth from before was gone. His eyes were hollow, his presence colder.

Maybe I'm imagining things, Eric thought. Nobles were strange, after all—and he was just a villager.

The envoys passed through the gate, welcomed by the village chief and elders. Eric watched them disappear down the main road until his father's voice broke through.

Eric was still lost in thought, staring after the riders, when his father's voice broke through.

"You seem out of it," he said, studying his son. "Go to the forest for a while—clear your head."

Eric hesitated, glancing once more toward the departing group. "...Alright," he said quietly. Maybe his father was right. The air around those men felt heavy.

With a small sigh, he turned and walked toward the forest path, leaving behind the murmurs of the villagers and the uneasy chill that had settled in his chest. Eric walked through the forest the way he often did with his father—once for firewood, sometimes just to find a little silence away from the world. But this time, he was alone. The deeper he went, the heavier his thoughts became. The calm he sought slipped further out of reach.

When he reached the riverbank, the gentle rush of water eased his mind for a moment. Then he saw it—something small drifting along the current. A bag, dark and soaked, marked with the crest of the Empire.

Frowning, Eric stepped into the shallows and caught it before it floated past. The fabric clung to his hands, heavy with water and mud. But he knew what it was—the same kind of satchel Sir John had carried the last time he came, filled with documents and seals.

So why wasn't it with them now?

A knot formed in his chest. He turned upriver, following the flow backward, searching for an answer. The forest grew quieter with each step, the air thick and cold. And then he saw them. Bodies.

Torn, bloodied, half sunk in the river's edge. The colors of the Empire's banner darkened by blood. He recognized their faces—faces he'd seen alive not long ago, smiling and waving from horseback.

The truth struck him like lightning. His breath caught, his heart pounding in his ears.

They were not envoys.