Uriel halted his flight with a gentle beat of his wings, his reptilian body descending smoothly until it touched the ground with a muffled thud. The long black claws of his four legs dug into the uneven stones of the path, and he continued walking with heavy, rhythmic steps. His movements had the predatory grace of a being who ruled the skies, but who now chose to feel the ground beneath him.
Without turning his head, he cast a sidelong glance toward Ainz — a look full of something hard to define. Distrust? Caution? Curiosity? Whatever it was, it didn't show in his voice when he spoke with naturalness, almost casually:
"Did you know someone... was here?"
Ainz turned slowly, his armor creaking softly. He had no eyes — only two empty sockets where once burned the flames of life. But somehow, Uriel could feel the weight of that hollow gaze turned toward him. It was as if the void itself were watching him.
"Master... from the moment I ceased to live, I never left that cave where the others and I stayed." Ainz's voice echoed, deep and serene, like wind blowing between forgotten tombs. "Even if we could leave... we didn't. There was no purpose for us after death."
The way he spoke was calm, stable — and yet, there was a melancholy hard to pin down. Perhaps it was simply the absence of emotion, a coldness that didn't come from indifference, but from the very lack of a heart.
Uriel remained silent for a few seconds, his single glowing eye fixed ahead, as if pondering something even he didn't fully understand. At last, he muttered with veiled disdain:
"Alright. Don't worry about it. It was just a question... curiosity."
But his voice, though tranquil, didn't deceive so easily. Ainz, who had only been around him for a few hours, couldn't say for sure if Uriel had truly let the subject go or if it was just a mask. The dragon's face remained immobile, his expression always fierce, stone-like — a war sculpture made to intimidate. Feelings weren't easily read there.
----
Meanwhile, many kilometers away, Eskandor sat in the gray shade of a withered, gnarled tree whose branches seemed to beg for one last breath of life. His back was against the rough trunk, his body relaxed, but his eyes stared at the horizon with restrained impatience.
Time passed, and with it, his restlessness grew.
"He's taking too long," he muttered to himself, his fingers drumming lightly against his thigh.
Beside him, a giant of ice stood tall, his skin translucent like frozen crystal, reflecting the dim light of the overcast sky. His deep blue eyes watched Eskandor with a mixture of sincere concern and something else... a bitter spark hidden behind the restrained tone of his voice.
"Aren't you going to look for His Majesty? You should."
There was concern, yes, but not in the way it seemed. The giant knew what Uriel represented. He knew that without him, not even the proud sons of ice would survive long after abandoning their ancestral home. His concern, deep down, came from need. From dependence.
And perhaps... perhaps also from envy.
Why Eskandor? Why had that frost giant been chosen as Uriel's second-in-command? Why him and not himself? The giant didn't say it, but every word carried the weight of wounded pride, carefully hidden beneath his icy shell.
Eskandor, however, remained silent, simply tilting his head back and closing his eyes for a moment.
Eskandor didn't seem truly worried. Whether it was because he trusted Uriel's absolute strength or simply didn't care, no one could say for sure — only he knew the answer buried in the frozen corners of his heart.
Hours drifted by slowly, like a viscous river of shadows, in the heavy silence of the Realm of the Dead. Still, Eskandor remained there, lazily leaning against the twisted trunk of the withered tree, as if at home, as if still resting on the vast glaciers of Jotunheim. His half-closed eyes followed the gray clouds crossing the somber sky, and his breathing was slow, rhythmic — almost bored.
But the same couldn't be said for the others. The ice giants that accompanied him — proud and resilient beings forged in the depths of eternal cold — were beginning to give in, even if they wouldn't admit it. They began to huddle in pairs, pressing their bodies together in silent embraces, seeking in the minimal warmth of proximity some comfort against the supernatural cold that permeated that dead land. It wasn't an ordinary cold. It was a cold that whispered forgotten memories, that gnawed at the soul, that scraped bones with invisible fingers. It was the cold of absence, of emptiness, of the end.
Among them, only two seemed truly untouched: Eskandor, still reclining with serene disdain, and Uriel — absent, but ever-present in their thoughts.
Then, the silence was broken.
A beating of wings cut through the air like dry thunder, drawing the attention of all the giants at once. Rigid bodies turned in unison, eyes scanning the gray skies, muscles tense and instincts on edge. Until that moment, no real danger had appeared in that inhospitable land — but they were in the Realm of the Dead, after all. And the unknown there could never be underestimated.
Then they saw him.
Descending from the skies with terrifying majesty, an immense dragon with dark blue scales hovered in the air like an omen. The black membranes of his wings flapped with authority, stirring up gusts that lifted dust and bones. Behind him, marching in absolute silence, came dozens of skeletons — thin, shriveled figures with empty eyes glowing with spectral light.
For a moment, the ice giants prepared to fight. Eyes wide, fists clenched, instincts screaming danger. But then they recognized him — and relief washed over them like a warm wave.
Uriel had returned.
With instinctive reverence, the giants relaxed. Their bodies, still wrapped in cold, now trembled less from fear and more from respect. They eyed the skeletons warily but dared not move a muscle. If those creatures walked beside His Majesty, then they could not be enemies. They must not be.
It was then that Eskandor stood in one smooth motion, as if only now the world around him had become worthy of his attention. He raised his arms, his voice ringing out clear and theatrical as always:
"Oh, Your Majesty! As expected, there is no creature in this place that could pose a threat to you! Not even the Goddess of Death herself would dare cast her gaze upon your immaculate scales!"
His tone was vibrant, almost melodious, filled with flattery as familiar as it was exaggerated. It was hard to say whether he spoke from genuine adoration or had simply grown accustomed to shaping words as offerings.
Uriel remained silent, walking ahead with the majesty of a monarch who needs no reply. But it was not he who turned his face.
It was Ainz.
Slowly, Ainz turned his head toward Eskandor. His face of eternal bones, marked only by the empty sockets, was motionless — expressionless, emotionless. Yet still, something in that absence made Eskandor fall silent for a brief second. As if a different cold ran down his spine. As if those sockets watched him with silent judgment. A soulless judgment.
Eskandor, unsettled, looked away. He didn't know why... but there was something there. Something strange. A weight in a gaze that, theoretically, shouldn't even exist.