The Twice-blessed Paladin

The journey from the battlefield is long and silent. The moon watches from above, casting its pale glow over the overgrown remnants of a road once traveled by armies. Aldric walks at a steady pace, his steps unnaturally light—a skeleton bears no weight of flesh, no fatigue in muscles.

That, in itself, unsettles him.

Every movement feels foreign, as if he were inhabiting a body that is no longer his. He should be tired. He should feel hunger, thirst, pain. Yet there is nothing. No warmth, no exhaustion, no breath to fog the night air.

The silence stretches between each step, and for the first time in his existence, he wonders if he is truly alive.

But he cannot afford such thoughts now. He must blend in, find information, and conceal his nature until he understands how much the world has changed.

The dirt road leads him toward the glow of torchlight in the distance—a town.

His first test.

The wooden gates of Black Hollow loom ahead, illuminated by the flickering torches of two armed guards. Their armor is mismatched, their weapons iron-tipped spears and dented shields—simple town watchmen, not trained knights.

Aldric halts just outside the reach of the torches, gathering himself. His disguise must hold.

He pulls the tattered cloak tighter, keeping his skeletal hands concealed. The armor on his legs is rusted but still functions well enough to cover his exposed bones. As long as no one sees beneath the helm and cloth, he can pass as a man.

He strides forward, keeping his steps steady but slow.

One of the guards, a young man with a scar over his nose, squints at him. "Halt. Name and business?"

Aldric stops. He had not considered a name.

Giving his true name risks being recognized—if any records remain of him. But a false name…? That feels like burying what little of his past remains.

He settles on a half-truth. "Sir Aldric. A wandering knight." His voice is hollow, echoing slightly inside his helm—he hopes it sounds more like a man speaking through metal rather than an undead's unnatural resonance.

The other guard, an older man with a thick beard, gives him a once-over. "A knight, eh? You look like you crawled out of a grave." He chuckles, nudging his companion.

Aldric resists the irony. If only he knew.

"I've been on the road a long time," he says. Technically true.

The younger guard glances at his rusted sword. "Your weapon's seen better days. You looking for work?"

Aldric nods. "I seek information and lodging."

The older guard shrugs. "Not much here but farmers and merchants. If you're looking for work, the Adventurer's Guild is in the main square. Just don't go causing trouble."

"Understood." Aldric gives them a curt nod before stepping past the gate.

He does not look back.

The streets of Black Hollow are lively despite the late hour. Lanterns glow in shop windows, merchants finish their final sales, and drunken laughter spills from taverns. It is a world of warmth, of life.

And he is no longer part of it.

Aldric walks through the crowd, his senses distant, detached. He passes a bakery, where the rich scent of fresh bread lingers in the air—yet he smells nothing. He watches a man drink ale, his face flushing red with warmth—yet Aldric feels nothing.

Everywhere around him, life moves on, unaware of the undead knight in their midst.

His hands tighten beneath his cloak.

"Is this how it will be? A ghost walking among the living?"

A sudden voice breaks his thoughts.

"Hey, you! You're new around here, yeah?"

Aldric turns to see a broad-shouldered man in a leather apron, wiping soot from his hands. A blacksmith.

"You need that sword reforged, knight?" the smith gestures at Aldric's rusted blade. "That thing looks more fit for a grave than a battle."

Aldric hesitates. He does need a functional weapon, but blacksmiths work closely with their customers. If this man asks him to remove his gauntlets or helm… he might notice.

Still, carrying a broken sword invites suspicion.

"How much?" Aldric asks.

"Depends. You want a reforging or a new blade?"

Aldric considers. A reforging might keep his weapon familiar, but it would take days—time he doesn't yet trust this town with. A new blade might be safer.

"A new greatsword," he decides. "Something heavy. Functional."

The blacksmith grins. "A man who knows what he wants. Come by in the morning, I'll have something for you, if you have the coin."

Aldric nods and moves on.

One problem handled. For now.

His next destination is the local chapel.

It is a small stone building nestled between larger homes, its modest bell tower overlooking the square. The stained-glass windows glow faintly from within.

Aldric enters quietly.

Inside, a single old priest tends to the altar, adjusting worn candles. The air is thick with incense, but Aldric smells none of it.

He steps forward. "Father."

The priest turns, offering a polite but curious look. "Yes, my child?"

Aldric glances around. The symbols in the chapel are unfamiliar. No sigil of the Radiant Dawn. No crest of the Veiled Reaper.

His fingers twitch beneath his cloak.

"I seek knowledge," he says carefully. "Tell me, father—what gods are worshipped in this land?"

The priest gives him an odd look but humors him. "The most prominent faith is the Celestial Church—they worship the Four Divine Aspects." He gestures to the stained glass depicting a sun, a star, a storm, and a mountain.

Aldric's unease deepens. Not a single symbol he recognizes.

"And… the older gods?"

The priest frowns. "I am unsure what you mean. The gods have always been as they are."

Aldric's skeletal fingers tighten into fists beneath his cloak.

Gone. Erased.

His gods—the beings who shaped his soul, who granted him strength—are nothing but dust in history.

He nods, suppressing his emotions. "Thank you for your time, father."

And he leaves.

Aldric exits into the night, his mind racing.

His gods were right. No one remembers them.

If he simply preaches their names, no one will listen. He needs influence, power, renown—something that will make the world take notice.

Then he remembers the guards' words.

"The Adventurer's Guild is in the main square."

Aldric looks down at his gauntleted hands. If he cannot spread his gods' names through faith…

Then he will carve them back into history with his blade.

He turns, heading for the guild.

A new plan forming.

Tomorrow, the world begins to remember.