Elric awoke, propping himself up onto his elbow. His first thought was that his nipples were hard as rocks and his skin had gooseflesh from head to toe. The window to his bedchamber was open and a cold breeze was drifting in with the soft morning sunlight. Birds chirped happily and the smell of pine needles brought a pleasant aroma wafting into his nose. He nudged Mildred. She moaned, turning over to face away from him and pulling the bed sheets up to her neck.

Elric stepped tenderly out of the bed, careful not to wake Mildred. He stretched his limbs and yawned widely. He looked at the latrine and couldn’t help but scoff at the memory of the engineer, Myogar, who had snuck in through the latrine to prove the castle had weak spots. Elric took extra pleasure in relieving himself over the latrine, a petty smirk spread across his face.

After relieving himself and moving downstairs to receive a fill of coffee, Elric snuck back to his solar to garb himself in warm clothing. He pulled a long sleeve linen tunic over his long torso and pulled up a pair of warm black breeches. His breeches were made of wool and of a fine quality. His slid his belt across his waist and secured a saxe knife, a dagger, and his sword to it. He completed his day’s garb by sliding into a black mantle lined with black and white speckled fur and easing an overcoat atop his tunic. He grabbed his signet ring from a table beside his bed, giving the jewel atop the signet an audible kiss. It had been the Lord Commander’s before him. Gareth Blackthorn. He was gone now, and Elric still found himself feeling fortunate and grateful that he had been able to fill Gareth’s role now that he was gone. The only thing that nagged at him was Basidin. He hadn’t intended for Basidin’s spirit to follow them back from Northrock--hadn’t even know such a spirit named Basidin even existed. He shivered. He was dreading his daily visit.

First, he would head to the dungeons below the keep. After he passed by rebels and treasonous men (whose number had tripled since King Tarren’s since Basidin’s influence) Elric would enter through the hidden passageway at the end of the cell block and emerge into the underground tunnels. Elric chuckled to himself, imagining the shock on Myogar and Bilgar’s face if they had known about that hidden weak spot. He didn’t intend on showing them. No man was to know about that tunnel besides a select few trusted men. Halson knew about it, and even that already felt risky.

Elric downed the rest of his coffee with one big slurp and placed the cup just inside the buttery. He smiled at the buttress, who returned the favor with her glittering blue eyes and wide-toothed smile. Her face initially brought excitement, reminding Elric of his continual lust for the buttress. The excitement quickly faded, as her existence also reminded him of the former Cupbearer who he’d had to kill. She had been close with the Cupbearer, but she didn’t dare show Elric resentment--not to his face anyhow.

Elric passed through a series of narrow corridors that branched off of the great hall. The great hall was situated in one of Castle Stormhold’s three baileys. It was the only castle in Windem that had a series of corridors, and it was also the only castle in Windem with three baileys instead of two. Elric frowned. It was quiet in the castle, and it had been for quite some time now. What once had been a bustling castle of economic prosperity and political imputous had now been converted to a war station for Windem’s capitol. Those who wouldn't bend the knee and vow absolute loyalty to King Tarren and his new policies were imprisoned or hanged…or, in some rare cases, thrown off the ramparts by the Lord Commander. That story had done the rounds inside Stormhold.

“Mornin’ Lord Commander,” said a guard. He was standing watch over the door to the dungeon. Elric grunted, then paused as he studied the guard’s face. He recognized the guard as the same man who had dropped his dagger the previous night when Elric was walking along the ramparts with Halson.

“What’s your name, guard?” spat Elric.

“Hedwyn, if it please you m’lord.”

Elric sneered. “Hedwyn,” he muttered mockingly. “Sounds like the name of someone’s pet owl.”

“Agreed, m’lord,” said Hedwyn as he heaved open the heavily barred door. The locking mechanism stuck, and Hedwyn had to heave at it several times to finally creak the door open. He got it open just enough for Elric to slide through. Elric paused before allowing Hedwyn to close the door.

“Do you have any self-respect? At all?” asked Elric.

“Certainly, m’lord.”

Elric shook his head and disappeared down the steep and twisting stairs. The steps were slick with slime and grease. Elric nearly lost his footing and cursed aloud. After quite some time, Elric finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs, where two guards stood at attention with their old weathered spears held firmly in one hand.

“Drop the act,” muttered Elric, paying them no mind as he sauntered by. The two guards exhaled, allowing their chests to drop into a normal slouched posture. They glanced at each other with silly grins on their faces. “I saw that,” said Elric. They dropped the grin, quickly assuming a serious, stoic look.

Elric moved through the dungeon with the grace of a ghost. The air was thick with a damp, acrid smell, a blend of mold and stale breath. The smell reminded Elric of someone’s foul breath after vomiting. He coughed. It never got easier breathing down here. The torchlight barely cut through the shadows, leaving the stone walls to loom like dark shadows. Each step taken by Elric resulted in a soft splash. Green and brown mush covered the floor in a thick layer of slime. Half formed whispers of men who had gone mad filled the maddening silence of the dungeon. Others moaned with hunger pains. Some prisoners cried distant sobs of neglect and regret at having taken a stand against the new leadership in Windem.

“How could he? How could he do-o-o-o this-s-s?” Elric noted a figure hunched over in the corner of his cell, rocking back and forth with his knees drawn to his chest. “The King-g-g-g…he’s evil. He’s a traitor!” He snarled like a rabid dog, leaping on all fours to the edge of his cell and then proceeding to bark at Elric. Foamed ran down his mouth. Elric eyed the visible scars on his neck. They were oozing a black liquid and a white mist ran up from the scar. Elric’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. He shuddered, and kept moving. He had known the man--and had been the one to arrest him when Akar had returned to report that one of the remote villages at the outskirts of the capitol had refused to surrender its yield of oats.

Elric found that he, too, had become a part of the dungeon’s anatomy as his long black cloak dragged along the slimy wet floor. His boots made no sound other than the occasional splash, but his mere presence was enough to bring most prisoners to the edge of their cell. Their eyes were full of anguish, desperate for any scrap of food. It wasn’t mealtime yet. Their one measly meal of leftover peas and beans would come at noon time. They’d be fortunate if it hadn’t already been licked and slobbered over by the King’s hounds that resided upstairs and wandered the bailey.

As Elric wandered further down the hall, the sound of chains rattling and cries of woe began to ring together and grow louder.

“You can’t just leave us here like discarded tools,” wailed a man. His face was gauntly skinny and his beard was so large and bushy that it was nearly larger than his own head. It grew outward more so than downward. “Lord Commander…you were our Lord Commander once. We trusted you, and you failed us!”

Elric winced, then withdrew his sword and slammed the blade against the bars which resulted in a deafening clanging throughout the dungeon. All cries went silent besides the mutterings of a madman from a cell Elric hadn’t passed yet. “I am still your Lord Commander, and I will not tolerate that tongue of yours.”

“But you were our Lord Commander--”

“--I’ll have that tongue clean out if I hear another word.”

The man spoke no further. He cowered back into the shadows of his cell, staring glumly at his sickly skinny legs.

“There’s nothing further to be said to any of you,” announced Elric. “The King made his decree clear. There is a no tolerance policy for those who would wish to oppose the King and his new policies. We are in a war and, as such, we must do what we must in order to achieve victory. Even if it means we must cling to the dark for a time.”

The dungeon’s air felt colder now, even as Elric’s boots clicked sharply against the floor. He was getting closer to the trap door at the end of the row of cells which would allow him to descend to the underground tunnels where Basidin lay in waiting. A voice brought pause to Elric’s steps.

“Windem is no longer the same nation as I remember it,” snarled a man. “How can I enforce your policies on my people when I’ve already made promises…promises that originated long before this land descended into shadow?”

“Baron,” said Elric. He had never been able to remember the man’s name, even before he had been thrown into the dungeon. “To answer your question--It’s quite simple, actually.”

“Yeah?” the Baron snorted in derision, his hands bound to the cell bars by thick hemp rope. His wrists were raw and bloodied. “And how’s that?”

“You either adapt and obey…or you rebel and lose everything. You had a choice, and you chose poorly,” said Elric. All friendliness had left his tone.

“I am a man of honor. I will not turn on my own people.”

“And how has that fared for them? Hmm?”

The Baron snarled. He yanked his arms, rattling the bars of his cell.

“Your people,” began Elric, “have raised enough hell to warrant some serious punishments. They ought to be thankful we have tolerated their rebellion thus far. After we sent Akar and his newfound gang, things have settled down a bit. It just took some burning…and some hunger.” Elric smiled, pressing his face against the black, rusted bars.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” stammered the Baron. “Destroying your own land.” The Baron tried to pace the span of his cell but his bound hands kept him closer to Elric than he would have preferred. “Rotting the crops with…whatever that dreadful disease is. The Rot, as they’re calling it now.”

“You think I enjoy all of this, Baron?”

“I think you do.”

“I do what I have to in order to maintain my station. In case you haven’t noticed while you’ve been rotting away down here, there’s a force within this castle now that’s more powerful than anything Windem has seen before. I don’t reckon it ought to be messed with.” Elric backed up a pace from the bars of the cell. His cheeks flushed red and his jaw was firm.

The Baron’s face remained stubborn and unchanged. “I understand that. But I. Do. Not. Respect it.” The Baron was snorting hot air through his nostrils, seething with contempt for Elric. He had failed his people as Lord Commander and allowed this evil to infest the land instead of fighting it. “I stood up for my people,” said the Baron. “Protected them.”

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“And how did that turn out for you?”

“Look at me. I lost everything. And yet, I wouldn’t change one thing. You know why?”

“Because you’re a fool, Baron. You’re just a fool.”

“No. I’m not. It’s because some of us have morals. Convictions. Beliefs. I’m not willing to compromise those things, not even if it costs me everything.” The Baron had softened, believing Elric was beginning to understand.

Elric shrugged, giving a couple of light taps to the Baron’s cell as he slinked away into the shadows. “Inspiring, Baron.” Elric paused, turning before he left, “You know--we banished our castle’s chaplain. Perhaps we ought to consider you as a candidate to replace him.” Elric slipped away, wandering down the long row of dungeon cells.

Elric passed cell after cell of imprisoned men who had once faithfully served the crown. He tried to keep his gaze straight ahead. He heard a voice cry out. He lingered. I should keep moving. He had no time for those who didn’t understand the stakes. The bottom line was that there was no other option. Basidin was too powerful and too manipulative. There was no sense in defying him. That would spell an end to him.

In the eyes of the imprisoned and the oppressed, Elric was the enemy. But Basidin…and the King…they had promised order, and it was that promise which held Elric to his solemn oath. For all the madness and cruelty that came with it, it was still a better path than an endless war with the Denderrikans, the Solarians, and the Brantish. The young and the foolish didn’t understand that. All they saw were chains and hunger. Poverty.

Another few steps, and Elric came to a cell where an older man stood against the bars, his once-proud armor now rusted and battered. His face was pale but hard and his cheekbones were high on his face. He was dangerously skinny now, whereas Elric had always remembered him as a plump and jolly man. He had been a great spy once, until the King had changed his ways and this man had decided he would not serve this new twisted King.

“Lord Commander,” the man said with a sneer, his voice hoarse from weeks of disuse. “You have no shame, do you? None at all.”

Elric huffed a breath of hot air and turned away from the spy. His chest tightened. “There is no shame in honor.”

“The things you’ve done for that cursed throne…for that…whatever it even is that you’re about to go and visit with. That vile creature…you’ve lost more than your honor and brought on more than just shame. You’ve lost your soul, dear Elric.” His voice, though raspy, was full of wisdom and undeniable conviction. He was one of the most revered spies to ever serve Windem.

Elric turned toward the spy, though his gaze never softened. “I didn’t come here for your words, old man. And I certainly didn’t come to hear your lectures. You think I’m unaware of what’s been lost?” His voice was low, but cutting. “I’ve seen hunger…children starving. There are villages out there who are resorting to cannibalism. Some are eating the crops anyways and keeling over in the streets from poisoning. I’ve seen more deaths than you can imagine, and that’s not even including the death toll from the war.” His gaze flickered to the spy’s hands which were shackled with iron bindings rather than hemp rope like the other prisoners.

“Then why?” The man’s voice cracked. “Why, Elric? Why follow this madness?”

Elric stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Because sometimes you do what’s necessary. Because sometimes, the only way to stop madness is to become it.”

The older man shook his head, disbelief mingling with disgust. “I thought you were better than this.”

“Better?” Elric’s eyes darkened. “I’m better than most. That’s what matters. You had a choice too, old man. And you made the wrong one.”

“Is that how you sleep at night? Telling yourself that?” The man spat what little saliva he had, a thin dribble sliding down the rusted bar of the cell. “There’s a war going on out there, and lives are being taken. Men are being held captive. And yet, you would entrap your own men--honorable men, at that time.” The spy leaned closer to Elric. “Think of Bodry Tenthill, Chief of Spies. Sir Crowley Begg of the Kingsguard. All gone because of the war. Isn’t that enough tragedy for one kingdom? Hm? Is it?” The spy was shouting now. Elric backed off, slowly turning his back on the old man.

“And what about them?” shouted the old man. Elric knew where he would be pointing. The old man coughed, a rasping, broken sound. “Look down there,” said the spy, his voice thick with contempt. “Tell me that doesn’t haunt you.”

Elric’s gaze followed to a lonely cell at the end of the long cell block where the torchlight hardly reached. The cell was dimly lit and the iron bars looked bent under the weight of despair.

“Do you see them, Elric?” the spy sneered. “Prince Darin, Princess Aliyah, and the queen…”

Elric’s breath caught in his throat, though his face remained impassive. The prince was hunched in a corner, his youthful face gaunt and pale, his once-pristine clothing now a ragged mess. His eyes were wide, like a man trying to wake from a nightmare but unable to escape its grasp. Beside him, his sister, Princess Aliyah, sat with her back against the wall, staring at nothing, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her regal beauty was marred by the hollowness in her eyes.

And in the farthest corner of the cell, lying still and unnaturally quiet, was Queen Adalisa. The once-powerful queen now lay lifeless, a faint pallor to her skin, her body twisted in a way that suggested the end had been slow, painful, and inevitable.

“Their fate was sealed long before I came to this station,” said Elric, his voice faltering now. You know that as well as I do.” A tear rolled down Elric’s cheek as he stared at the pitiful cell.

“Tell me, Elric, as you stand there with the power to release them. To release all of us…how does it feel to have their blood on your hands? You have sealed the queen’s fate, but it’s not too late to redeem yourself.”

A tense silence hung between the two men. Elric’s eyes locked with the lifeless face of the queen. Elric had always enjoyed her company, and had been a great friend of his alongside her spouse, King Tarren. His voice, when it came, was cold, distant. “I do what I must. And you, old man, would have done the same.”

The spies’ laughter echoed after Elric as he walked down the dingy hall of slim and mush, his cloak dragging behind him and collecting filth. He opened the last cell door on the left, the clanging of the keys bringing any prisoner within earshot to their knees or feet to see who might be getting released.

“You’re just as much a prisoner as we are, you know that?” shouted the spy. He cackled again, this time even louder. “This blood is on your hands, and you’ll have to live with that forever!”

Elric moved to the remote corner of the cell, where a neglected bale of hay sat in a shadowed heap. There was something strange about the corner -- a sense that the very air here was different, thicker, colder. Elric had done this every morning he could, but it never got easier. His fingers enclosed around the latch of the hidden door, which seemed to blend right in to the brown, earthen floor. He lifted it up and a cold blast radiated throughout the dungeon. He heard several prisoners moan and shriek with pain. The cold was painful on their malnourished, stretched skin.

A narrow stairway awaited before him. He hesitated a moment, listening for the sound that always made him uneasy. There was the distant sound of dripping water, accompanied by an eerie hum that made the whole tunnel feel alive. It was a pur that made the whole ground vibrate as he held the trapdoor open.

Stepping into the darkness, Elric pulled his cloak tighter and closed the trap door shut behind him. He was descending into the heart of the ancient underbelly of Stormhold.

The air became thicker and more stagnant as he pressed on. A dank muskiness gnawed at his senses. His eyes watered. Each step he took seemed to stretch time. The silence of the tunnels became oppressive as he went on. The dank smell of the dungeon eventually evolved into something more unnatural, like the decay of some ancient being--like the very bones of the earth were hidden here and waiting to be found. The dim torchlight along the walls flickered along his path as he went on. He coughed as dust and cobwebs hung from the walls and the low ceiling.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, Elric emerged into a narrow passageway that led into a large chamber. The air was thick with the stench of something foul. Elric gagged. He always did.

Elric’s heart raced but he forced himself to remain calm. The part that always alarmed him was the smell--like something foul had died but had never truly been alive in the first place. Something that was just wrong, and inherently contrary to nature. A feeling would overcome him in these tunnels that made him feel as though this creature he was about to encounter was an egregious sin simply by existing.

He stepped into Basidin’s lair.

The walls were doused in the glistening, black veins of organic and pulsating with repugnant life. In the center of the room, on the farthest wall, was something more grotesque than any living creature to ever have existed.

It was not human. It was not even animal. It was an abomination.

A splattering of flesh, a dark, oily mass that seemed to ooze and rippled as though alive. The surface shimmered with a multitude of glittering eyes--hundreds of them. They were scattered sloppily across the fleshy, amorphous body like a million tiny stars in a sickly, fleshly void.

From the twisted mass, long spider-like protruded with jagged ends that could pierce like a sword. They twitched, rather than moved, like a dead bug whose nerve endings were still firing even after it died. The creature’s body was slick and moist, like a dripping, pulsing wad of goo.

“Basidin, my master…” whispered Elric. His mouth went dry as he approached, each step deliberately placed as if he could fall through the floor with a misplaced step.

The air was thick with a malignant power and an energy that seemed to infect the soul and turn every normal, moral thought backwards. There was no discernible face to speak of, only twitching, dripping alien form that reeked of corruption and dissension.

“Lord Commander,” Basidin rasped, though it had no voice. The sound was like a thousand rasping whispers. “You’ve come at last. You are late today.”

Elric didn’t flinch, not like he used to. “I’ve come for your power…for your guidance.”

Basidin’s mass pulsed, shimmering with dark energy. The eyes all blinked in unison, slowly, as if lazily processing Elric’s words. “The King’s throne is weak. You are weak, Elric Drakonstone.” The voice flashed through Elric’s mind like a thousand little whispers. “Though, you understand better than most. You understand the true price of complete power…there must be control.” The word control echoed around in Elric’s brain, becoming louder and louder until Elric could hardly conceal his agony.

“I do,” said Elric in fearful agreement.

“We have many enemies,” the voice slithered and writhed around like a snake. “The Denderrikans wage a war they cannot win, led by their pitiful sorceress, Saphira.” The sorceress’ name was like poison, stinging Elric like electricity. He grimaced. The air grew colder still as the creature’s presence seemed to suffocate the very space around them. “You have done well, Elric Drakonstone. I knew you would be faithful from the moment I watched you betray your friend all those years ago. The death of Gareth Blackthorn was the sacrifice that brought me out of my dormancy.” Basidin’s spider legs twitch wildly. Black ooze shot out from its body, painting the walls and dragging down a few spider webs.

“For that sacrifice, you are being justly rewarded,” said Basidin.

“Thank you, master,” stammered Elric, bowing his head in reverence.

“My servants…Kael, Festal, Breen, Marsh, Fed…you have sent them and they have served me well,” said Basidin.

Elric shuttered. “Indeed, master. Akar did well with them. In his recruitment--I mean.”

“Yes, yes…I agree.” If Basidin had a tongue it would have slithered up and down like a snake. “They are due to meet one of our biggest adversaries. The Blackthorn boy.”

“I have arranged for his assassination, master. It will be taken care of,” said Elric.

Basidin chuckled, which sounded like a pair of rusted blades scraping. “Oh, you will see, young Elric. If fate aligns as the Sorceress Saphira has envisioned, you are due to meet this boy. You have something that belongs to him…something that was gifted to his father by Saphira.” Basidin’s words rattled around in Elric’s mind like a genie trying to escape a lamp.

“He will never make it here,” replied Elric defiantly. He gulped, sweat streaming down his face despite the chilling temperature of Basidin’s presence.

“Fate will decide that,” said Basidin with a cool, calm voice. The way it sounded nearly human bothered Elric more so than his chilling voice of whispers. “You must be ready if he arrives at our doorstep, for whoever claims the other half of that sword will have immense power before them.”

Elric withdrew his sword, admiring the hilt. It looked like any other hilt he’d ever possessed. It wasn’t encrusted with jewels, it didn’t glow or have any special powers. It was just a piece of ivory and metal melded together by a blacksmith, or so Elric assumed.

“Understood master,” said Elric. “What would you have of me this day before I depart?”

Basidin’s form shook with a thundering jolt. The entire room shook. The low ceiling threatened to crack and collapse.

"Prepare yourself, Lord Commander," the creature hissed, its voice like the scraping of bone on stone. "The final battle is upon us... and when it is over, there will be nothing left of Windem but ash and ruin."

A low, guttural laugh bubbled up from the creature’s depths, sending chills crawling down Elric’s spine.

"Not even the memories will survive."