Ten years before the Malirran invasion…

Drunken laughter rang out from the great hall. The Malirran people were enjoying the revelry after enduring ten years of oppression by Morrich the Brutal, King of Malirra. During his reign, villagers and townspeople, alike, hid away behind locked doors, lightly sleeping with sharpened weapons for comfort. Even so, people were said to vanish into the night amidst the screams of the damned. The coppery scent of blood began to pervade the castle grounds, making the people leery of King Morrich’s supposed benevolence. After five years of such cries, a small band of Malirran warriors rose up against the brutality of the King’s Court. These rebels were marked as traitors of Malirra, causing sweeping fear to reside in the hearts of the people.

But over time, the Malirran people began whispering about the twenty men who would overthrow their ruler and his noblemen. They became the people’s heroes, saviors of their kingdom. Only thirteen brave men stood against the evil pervading their kingdom, with seven having lost their lives against Morrich the Brutal’s dark assassins.

Lukar smiled as he strode from the festive hall for the quiet of his new chambers. Though he tried to leave the great hall unnoticed, his silent, watchful guards followed him out. All three wore dark clothing, making it easy for intruding eyes to dismiss them to the castle’s shadows.

He touched the heavy crown sitting on his head. He had been crowned king that afternoon, yet he still felt a mixture of sadness and awe at the recent events. The cost for their success was high. Many lives were lost, with some tortured for the information they knew. He was proud, though, at the steadfast courage of his people and his small band of warriors—now his council.

Swinging the massive doors shut behind him, he left his guards standing out in the hall. His distaste growing to disgust, Lukar studied the rooms that had, until recently, been occupied by Morrich the Brutal. Aside from dropping a few belongings and his weapons cache into the ornate room, he had not spent time searching his surroundings.

He left the festivities for this purpose. His curiosity of the previous king’s things had been nudging at him the entire evening, making him wonder about the horrific smell that hit him upon opening the door the first time.

In the blessed silence, Lukar wandered through the suite of rooms, trailing his eyes over the artifacts left behind. The sitting room had been transformed into a dark room, with the walls and rugs changed to an abysmal black. The once magnificent windows had been boarded sometime during the last five years, though the heavy curtains still hung from the valance.

He walked closer to the windows, wondering if the boards could be pulled from the walls without causing any structural damage. Lukar sniffed as he moved closer to the window. The smell of rotting meat worsened until he was forced to pinch his nose before walking any closer.

And then he saw it.

Nails had been hammered into the wood. But that wasn’t what had him almost losing his meal. Pieces of human skin in different stages of putrefaction dangled from those nails. What was this? Were the stories all true? With increasing horror, Lukar crossed to the other side of the room for the candle.

He jumped back from the windows in revulsion.

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The blackened walls were stained with blood. The blood had dripped down into the rug below the windows, only to spread outward when it became saturated. The blackened rug was hard with the dried blood of years of murder.

Unease snaked down his spine. These rooms were unfit for his needs; he’d have to find another place to sleep. With one last look, Lukar shuddered as he retreated to the other side. Cleaning these rooms would take a monumental effort by the castle staff. He might have the chamber doors boarded, leaving the rooms hidden from all Malirrans who entered the castle walls.

Taking the flickering candle with him, now wary of what he might find, Lukar entered the capacious bedroom. As soon as he passed into the room, the center of the floor held him transfixed. A large, white stone altar sat at the foot of the wide bed. Heavy chains had been hammered into the ceiling and the floor at each corner of the altar, and thick leather straps were draped across the white stone. A wide ring was attached to each of the four, long chains. Lukar rocked back on his feet when he realized what he was seeing.

It was a human altar. The leather was strapped to all four human limbs and then hooked to the chains, making it impossible for the person to escape. Lukar’s hands clenched into tight fists, horrified, sickened. He averted his eyes, only for them to latch onto a stone idol.

He crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, determined to see all of his fallen king’s evil. Against the wall, the idol sat on another but smaller, white altar. It was of a naked woman. Her legs were crossed in front of her. One arm was held out in front of her stomach, a miniature man caught in her grasp. Her other arm was caught between her fang-like teeth. The idol was so detailed Lukar could see the skin and flesh of her arm being pulled apart by her own teeth. He reached for his sword, then remembered the decorative sword and sheath hung in its place.

The dark room, the blood, the sacrifices all made sense. Morrich the Brutal had worshiped Semnac, the Goddess of Flesh. Centuries ago Semnac was worshiped, but the advent of new gods slowly took her place. Few dared to worship the Goddess now. As one of the old gods, Semnac gave power—magic—to those who ate the flesh of men during religious ceremonies.

The magic was true, but it came with a cost. Many whispered it was the eventual loss of the human soul. The Goddess was the reason for Morrich the Strong becoming Morrich the Brutal. Lukar’s head bowed at the knowledge, mourning the loss of his once great king.

He left the room without taking his eyes off the idol. Searching through the pile of his things, Lukar unwrapped the leather protecting his weapons with a flip of his wrist. He hefted the double-bladed axe in his hand, and the familiar weight of the weapon steadied his nerves and strengthened his determination. He strode back through the sleeping chamber, making a wide arc around the stone altar.

Reaching his destination, he stood and stared at the stone goddess. Then he shifted his head to look down at the axe in his hand. Nodding once, Lukar clenched his jaw and grabbed hold of the battle axe with both hands. With a fierce cry filling the silent room, he swung the weapon toward the stone altar, knowing the stone was more brittle than most rock. The blade hit the stone with a loud, grating noise. He yanked his axe out of the shallow line left behind, lifting his weapon to hit it again.

The stone never moved. Never rocked.

As he stared at the idol, something pushed at him. He flinched at the weightless touch. With another battle cry, he swung the axe toward the idol’s neck; but at the last moment, he changed the angle of the weapon. With a loud crack, the axe made contact with the wood paneling behind the stone idol. Breathless, he left the axe in the wall and took a step back, his hands shaking.

A slither of a thought took root. His new reign could use the power of the Goddess. He’d use the power for only good. The Goddess of Flesh would help him rebuild his ruined cities, rebuild a war-torn Malirra. He frowned in contemplation, knowing his decision balanced the kingdom on a precipice. His eyes scanned the small deity as she bit into her flesh, frozen in stone.

The idea of eating sacrificial flesh was abhorrent, yes. But the power he gained—and his councilors gained—would be used for Malirra. Morrich had been weak to fall into madness; he was not. Having gained the Malirran kingdom, Lukar knew his willpower was strong. Lukar knew he could control his power, his magic.