Long before the rise of mortal empires, before men, elves, or dwarves carved their names into the bones of the earth, the Veil between the worlds was as impenetrable as a starless night. Beyond that Veil, the world of the living thrived under the gaze of the Everlight, and in its shadow, the Realm of Echoes slumbered - a place not of death, but of stillness, where souls traveled, awaited rebirth, and drifted in the quiet whisper of eternity. No living creature could cross the Veil, nor could the dead return, for it was woven by the hands of the Three Eternal Sisters: Aelora, the Weaver of Fate; Imara, the Guardian of Souls; and Velara, the Keeper of Death. Together, they maintained balance between life and death, ensuring that the realms remained untouched by the corruption of time.
Yet, as with all things, there came a fracture, and with that fracture, the first of the Undead.
There existed a kingdom, lost to the records of history, ruled by a powerful and benevolent king named Orys. His realm was vast, his people prosperous, but he bore a singular sorrow - his beloved wife, Queen Elenwe, was dying of a strange illness that no magic nor healer could cure. Desperate to save her, Orys sought the counsel of the ancient seers, the wisest and most dangerous of whom was a forgotten spirit known only as Nyxol, who had been banished from the halls of the gods long ago.
Nyxol told the king of the Veil, and how it kept the worlds of life and death separate. "Beyond the Veil," Nyxol whispered in a voice that was like crumbling stone, "exists a place where death holds no sway, where souls linger forever. If you were to shatter the Veil, you could bring your queen back to life, or even halt her death entirely."
Blinded by love and grief, Orys ignored the warnings in the spirit's voice, ignored the creeping shadow that coiled around Nyxol like mist, and agreed to perform the forbidden ritual. With Nyxol's guidance, Orys gathered the necessary artifacts: the Blood of the Earth from a dragon's heart, the Silver of the Stars from a fallen meteor, and the Tears of a God stolen from an ancient shrine. The ritual was complex, its words older than the mountains, but Orys performed it with unwavering resolve.
And so, on a night when the moon was hidden behind a veil of storm clouds, the king tore a wound in the fabric of existence.
The Veil shattered with a sound like a thousand cries of anguish, and the very air seemed to scream as the realms of the living and the dead bled into one another. At first, there was silence. Orys, clutching the pale hand of his dying queen, felt a wave of hope. He believed he had succeeded, that Elenwe would awaken, whole and free of death's touch.
But something else came instead.
From the rift in the Veil emerged the spirits of the dead, drawn by the scent of life like wolves to fresh blood. These were not the peaceful souls who rested in the Realm of Echoes, awaiting rebirth. No, these were the ancient and twisted souls who had been trapped on the edges of death for eons - forgotten, lost, consumed by rage and bitterness. They poured into the world of the living like a flood, and where they touched, life withered. The dead began to rise, not as they had been in life, but as twisted, hollow versions of their former selves, bound to the hunger of the spirits that possessed them.
Elenwe's eyes opened, but they were no longer the soft, warm eyes of the woman Orys loved. They were cold, empty, filled with a hunger that could never be sated. She rose from her bed, her skin pale as bone, her mouth twisted in a terrible grin. Orys recoiled in horror as she reached for him with hands that had once brought him comfort, but now brought only the promise of death.
The rift between life and death had unleashed the Undead into the world. Not fully alive, not truly dead, these creatures were driven by an insatiable hunger for the life they had lost. And so the first of the Undead were born - not from the natural order of death, but from the king's desperate act of love.
The Undead spread like wildfire across the kingdom. Towns and villages fell in days, their people either fleeing in terror or succumbing to the curse. The dead no longer rested, but clawed their way from their graves, driven by a hunger that gnawed at their very souls. Warriors and mages tried to fight back, but for every fallen corpse, two more rose. The world began to tear itself apart as the balance between life and death unraveled.
The Eternal Sisters, the weavers of the Veil, felt the disturbance. Imara, Guardian of Souls, wept as she watched the souls of the dead torn from her care, twisted into abominations. Velara, Keeper of Death, was enraged, her realm violated by the king's reckless actions. But it was Aelora, the Weaver of Fate, who acted first. She saw that if the Veil was not mended, all of existence would collapse under the weight of the undead plague.
Aelora descended from the heavens, her form radiant and terrible. She found Orys in the ruins of his palace, surrounded by the fallen corpses of his people - corpses that still moved, clawing and scratching at the walls. Elenwe, twisted and grotesque, sat upon his once-proud throne, her laughter a hollow echo of the woman she had once been.
"You have broken the world," Aelora said, her voice as cold as the void between stars. "You have torn the Veil, and now both life and death are in ruin."
Orys, broken and maddened by his guilt, fell to his knees before the goddess. "I sought only to save her," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I didn't know…"
"Your ignorance will not save you," Aelora replied, her eyes burning with divine fury. "But the Veil can be mended, though the cost will be great."
With a wave of her hand, she summoned the remnants of the shattered Veil, weaving them together with threads of starlight and shadow. But as she did so, she bound the souls of the dead to their twisted forms, trapping them between worlds. No longer could they rest, but neither could they fully return to the Realm of Echoes.
The Veil was mended, but it was imperfect, fractured forever by Orys' folly. The Undead remained, cursed to wander the world in their hollow forms, forever seeking the life they could never regain.
And so, the Undead were born, not as creatures of nature, but as victims of a broken Veil. They are a reminder of the price of defying the natural order, of the cost of playing with life and death. To this day, they wander the world, drawn to the living, driven by a hunger they cannot understand.
And the king who tore the Veil? Some say he wanders still, neither alive nor dead, forever seeking a way to undo the curse he unleashed. Others say he sits in the darkest corners of the world, watching the Undead he created, waiting for the day when the Veil will shatter once more.
For the Veil, once broken, can never truly be whole again.