A bead of sweat gleamed on the Betrayer’s brow. He had teleported recently, leeching his magical strength. He regretted making the journey without a horse, but he had no other recourse. The suns scorched him from high above. A dull ache festered in his feet. Without companionship and conversation distracting him, he obsessed over his ailments. His feet occupied his waking thoughts, but something else hurt, too.

His pride.

Admittedly, he was a coward, and the wound remained fresh. If he’d come to terms with his choice long ago, he could find peace. But he couldn’t. Beneath all his cowardice, a weak will afflicted him.

I’d like to see others try to live my life.

The tenacity for conflict fled him, if it had existed at all. Thoughts of youth brought back fond memories and a tinge of bitterness. In retrospect, he had been an arrogant sycophant, basking in his personal gratification and shunning anyone who rightfully deserved attention. If they grasped his insecurities, his image would crumble away, abandoning him as hastily as his followers. In his false bravado, he hoarded many friends who desired to be like him, but in truth, he couldn’t measure himself to anyone. Life, back then, had been a competition, and he won on charisma alone.

He loathed himself for the stupidity of youth.

Blisters formed on the bottom of his feet, and sweat clung to the spaces between his toes. His socks drowned in perspiration. The grass, thin and withered, a faint green from lack of rain.

In school, one of his classmates had been Judas. He couldn’t stand the brat. Now, he wasn’t sure if his opinion remained true or if misguided by youth. Truth or perception? Perhaps he’d been wrong in viewing Judas that way. Did the fault lay with him? If so, it was almost as hard as accepting his cowardice.

Beneath the unforgiving Apor and Praema, the dual suns, his sweat didn’t cling to his shirt and cool him off, but evaporated swiftly. His tongue swelled, sticking to the roof of his mouth. In silence, he cursed his decision to forgo a horse. When it came time to teleport, he couldn’t port the horse, too. He didn’t possess the magical command for such a feat. The Betrayer shrugged his pack higher on his back and cinched the straps tighter.

His frown deepened while his mind churned over the past. As an indentured servant of Xilor and on a personal level, his life seemed to be a series of failures. Pondering such circumstances made his stomach clench. The gods granted one reprieve in the gloom of his life. In Gryzlaud, sealed away from the rest of the world, two young women resided. Born a little under twenty-three hundred years ago, during the Wizard’s War, Xilor held their lives in his hands. He used them as means to threaten the Betrayer into continued service. Whenever he became unruly, his master reminded him the cost of his service or lack thereof. Without those two girls, the Dark Lord held no sway over him. Death wasn’t an option for him. He was certain if he died, his volition or otherwise, they’d follow him to the Underworld. Xilor would make sure of it.

A faint, gentle breeze floated towards the weary traveler, and he reveled in the simple pleasure while it lasted. The cooling wind was a balm against his sweaty face. He raised the girls, Miza and Olga, since their infancy, taking pride and joy in their presence. When they neared the Age of Maturity, the girl’s personalities shifted, growing apart in their contrasting individualities.

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Olga, prickly by nature, blithe and scathing, hungered for power and glory and was willing to do anything to achieve it. Her personality mirrored his in his youth. Miza was the antithesis, soft, sweet, and naively innocent. She yearned for knowledge, not power, which marked her as the outcast among the three of them. Despite Miza’s differences from him and her sister, the Betrayer found her to be more fascinating, charming, and engaging. Unconsciously, he devoted most of his attention to her, but it was treacherous footing on a steep incline. If Xilor ever came aware of his attachment to her…

Olga roiled with disdain, jealous and spiteful at the lack of attention. Olga’s heart hardened against him and sought neither comfort nor pity. It was his fault. When he realized what his actions wrought, he tried to turn the young girl away from her path of resentment. His actions only drove her further down her path.

When Olga reached the Age of Maturity, she banished the Betrayer from her sight. Even though he wandered the same halls as she, he hadn’t seen her for many years. He wasn’t sure he desired to anymore. He still loved the little girl he remembered, but she’d changed long ago. Even though they resided in the same palace, they might as well have been continents apart. Olga, he feared, was a lost cause. His heart rent every time he acknowledged that.

Miza, however, still enjoyed his company. She understood the good in him, the sacrifice he made, and his unbridled shame. He denied the goodness for a long time, the good that clung in some deep, dark corner of his heart. Where he proclaimed failure and weakness, she boasted his courage and strength. Miza knew the story of how she and her sister came to be in Gryzlaud Palace, how his actions spared her from the Underworld as an infant, and what he gave up. Most importantly, she was grateful. The Betrayer had nothing to live for, except her, his redeeming grace.

Her warm smile filtered through his thoughts, taking his mind off his aches and pains. Memories of her soft, sweet voice and merry laugh filled him with a buoyancy. He hoped once his current task concluded, the Dark Lord would allow him to return to Gryzlaud Palace. He longed to be near the vibrant young woman who saved him from self-pity.

He felt the slight pull of magic, a familiar sensation warning him of the approaching summon. He stopped and pulled the small shard of mirror from his pocket, grateful for the reprieve in his journey, but the face on the other end was not one he expected or wanted to see. Krurik, the dark lord’s chosen successor, glowered on the other end.

“Tell the dark lord Judas has been summoned to Ralloc and instructed to bring the Wcic,” Krurik whispered. “The council wishes to see her. I’ll arrange her stay overnight. After he leaves the city, she’ll be slain. No one will suspect my involvement.” Krurik cast a glance over his shoulder, towards the door he secreted himself behind. Though hiding in plain sight, he was still in the heart of Ralloc.

“And if he does not heed the summon?” the Betrayer asked.

“I know where he is. I’ll personally oversee her death.”

“Makes my job easier. I need to give our master the good news,” the Betrayer said. Relief washed over him at the chance to get back into Xilor’s good graces.

“Only an incompetent fool like you would,” Krurik scoffed. “The Betrayer is a name unsuited for a cur like you. You’re nothing. My betrayal is real, visceral, and daily. I hide in plain sight among the fools. I bring my master pride, not you.”

“Don’t you mean our master?” the Betrayer insisted.

“No, mine! You’re not an apprentice but a slave, a dog brought to heel.”

The Betrayer moved to cut the communication between them when Xilor’s apprentice spoke. “When I rise to take my master’s place, you’ll be the first to go, along with those cunts you love so much. I’ll destroy all you hold dear, make you watch, and after you suffer, I’ll kill you, too.”

The green fog swirled, and the image faded before the chastened Betrayer could come up with a retort.