Angus was a Lich. Shadow-lord behind a Dungeon in the world below, he was also a Lich with a past carved into bone like old runes.

Once, on the sunlit side, he’d stood on the front line against the depths. Back then, the word “hero” trailed him like incense that only rises after a funeral.

He carved seven paths through lizardman ranks like a blade through reeds. He traded blows with the Blood Kin till the sky went dim, and danced with hellspawn in firelight and ash.

His deeds earned the name “hero,” and the name fit like iron. One man held back the tide below, buying time for the armies above.

But “hero” was a curse whispered by fate. Even as a Grand Archmage, near-divine and storm-bright, he burned out alone, his strength spent like oil in a guttering lamp.

At death’s edge, grief came first, action after. He couldn’t let go of his wife and children. His soul drifted home like smoke, homing to the soil that raised him.

If misfortune stopped there, it would’ve been a drizzle, not a flood.

He reached his homeland to see no ruins, no corpses, no charred cradle. Instead, over his head hovered a faint green hat—the old sign of a cuckold—like mold on moonlight. His wife had betrayed him.

If she’d remarried after he died, his anger would’ve been a breeze, not a gale. Love meant letting her chase warmth; he’d never demand a lifetime of widow’s frost.

But as a ghost in the eaves, he listened. The cold truth cut deeper than any spear. Not only had she cheated, the children weren’t his.

A son and a daughter, about ten each, faces bright as lanterns. By rights he should have seen it in their bones, but his brother’s face mirrored his like still water.

His brother and his wife had birthed those two, their features close enough to blur like twins in fog. He had never doubted; doubt would’ve brought a Grand Archmage’s truth.

So the children were that old. At the latest, ten years. Ten years ago, the knife had already gone in.

He’d become a ghost for love, not wrath, wanting one last glimpse of a warm hearth. But that hero’s title clung like a curse, dragging him deeper into cold water.

He had no heart, yet a heart-rending pain tore him like claws. For twenty years of war, he’d given everything, living with undead breath and shadow for company.

While he bled at the front, that shameless pair rolled in warm sheets behind his back. How could that not stoke a firestorm?

He wanted to burn the world to ash, but a last thread of reason tugged him back. Find old friends, it whispered. Borrow their strength. Return to flesh, then settle the score.

He followed old roads, and reached a friend’s house washed in lamplight. A banquet swelled there like a bright pond.

No archmages, no knights, only ordinary bodies with heavy crowns. He drifted in like a draft, and no one’s eyes could catch the ghost in their midst.

If it could have ended there, he would’ve bowed to silence. But the curse had a second hook. The feast was to celebrate his death, wine raised like poison.

The reason was simple and snake-cold. His name had grown too bright, even half-orcs who hated humans whispered it like thunder beyond hills.

Those high and mighty set a snare to keep their thrones steady as stone. They sent him alone to dam the underworld’s flood, and let him burn out like a candle.

Now he knew why he’d held the line three days and three nights with no banners coming. The silence was plotted as neatly as a ledger.

Home held a shameless pair; his friends fed him to wolves for power. What could the world offer but frost?

In despair, he stopped being human. He became a Lich, soul in a cold phylactery, and swore the whole world his enemy, like winter swearing snow.

He joined the world below, iron in his chest and night in his eyes. Before he had the strength to crush that pair, the allied hordes were driven back.

The passage to the surface sealed like a tomb, and his vengeance froze mid-stroke.

A thousand years passed like wind over stone. Angus returned to the surface at last. A Lich doesn’t die while his phylactery holds, a cold star in a dark sky.

He felt a grim joy in that choice. Only as a Lich could he outlast centuries, and only then could the curtain finally fall on revenge.

He looked up and saw the night had changed. One moon had become three, like silver coins stacked in black velvet. By day, three suns blazed like triple spears.

Such changes made no ripple in his heart; his resolve was iron sunk in deep water.

He passed a small village, and a warm family scene flickered like fire behind paper windows. Rage rose like a tide. Why does fate spare others and brand me alone?

Why do their wives stay true while mine betrayed? Why do their children mirror their faces, while mine were a stranger’s seeds?

He hated fate. He hated the world. He hated everything like a winter storm hates leaves.

Heh, heh, heh... If your family is that warm, then without a little cheating, life’s too bland, isn’t it? He’d give them despair first, then death would taste sweeter.

The children were truly the man’s own; time couldn’t be unwound like thread. No matter. If the past stayed clean, he would stain the present.

Twisted in spirit, Angus slid forward like a shadowed knife. Night was best; sleepers drifted open as doors, easy to sway, easy to bend.

He moved to pass through the wall, and—bang—his skull hit an unseen ward. Not a dome, no. The very bricks wore sigils that barred spirits like iron thorns.

Damn it. Does my hero’s curse still dog me after death? A tiny village, a little house, and they build it with treasure like this?

He circled the house like a hawk, and found every beam and brick etched with magic like frost.

If he couldn’t slip in, he’d walk in. Mortals can’t see a Lich who sinks into shadow like ink.

At the door, luck cracked open like an egg. The door stood ajar. He felt, for a breath, like fortune’s darling, wish and world aligning.

He stepped inside. No adults, only two kids in lamplight. The brother looked about twelve, the sister eight or nine. A husky sprawled beside them like a snowdrift.

“Brother, brother, that skeleton didn’t knock,” the girl whispered, fingers cold on her brother’s sleeve, pointing straight at Angus in the shadow. His mind snagged. What the hell—she saw him?

The boy followed her finger, calm as a pond.

“Um... Mr. or Ms. Skeleton,” the boy said, voice steady as a stick, “this isn’t right. Mom and Dad say you knock before you enter.”

Angus saw no fear on their faces, not a flicker, only night-smooth eyes. What had the world become, that brats pierced his veil and didn’t even tremble?

“Trash. Shut up.”

Since he’d been spotted, he’d cut the two little heads like gourds. When the parents came home, he’d lay a human feast on their table.

“Waaah... Brother, the skeleton’s so mean,” the girl bawled, tears glittering like beads. That was the reaction he wanted, even if the reason rang off-key.

The boy patted her back, calm as winter bark, then glared at Angus with a look that said you’re dead.

He nudged the husky with his toe.

“Wangwang, go teach that rude skeleton a lesson.”

The snow-white husky lifted his head, covered his mouth with a paw, and yawned like a lazy prince. Then he stood on two legs, cleared his throat, and squared his shoulders.

Angus felt curiosity bloom like a small, dark flower. A dog on two legs? He held back his hand to see the trick.

The husky cleared his throat again, then shouted, voice ringing like a gong, “Brothers, someone’s making trouble. Grab your gear and get over here!”

Three seconds later, the whole village erupted in woof-woof, a chorus rolling like thunder through the night.