A nondescript pine box floated in the air, mired by grime and dirt, stained by its interment. Sidjuous’ flowing locks were matted with sweat, his supercilious face flushed as he marched towards the mirror, the box preceding him like a vanguard. He muttered an incantation and the box settled on the floor.

“So you have returned,” Xilor intoned, a touch of amusement entered his voice. Sidjuous’ face faltered, having expected a gush of encomium.

The Betrayer stepped away from the mirror, sliding back and out of view, his blue eyes watching Sidjuous with indifference. He didn’tdislike the man, but he had no cause to call him a friend. Sidjuous was the least of his worries.

“I dispatched the trolls who toiled there, Master,” Sidjuous said with a flourishing bow.

To this, the mirror said nothing. The arrival of Xilor’s other apprentice in the commodious room made it seem all the more confining, restrictive. The Betrayer kept quiet, hoping to keep Xilor’s scrutiny at bay.

“Open it,” the eyes commanded.

Sidjuous stretched out his hand, summoning his essence in silence, in the hopes of calling forth his power without incantation. Nearly all Xilor’s apprentices were adept at Rumigul; only one far exceeded all others: Krurik. Even the Betrayer could manage some small acts without incantation or wand, but the current task far exceeded his abilities. The same could be said of Sidjuous now. Upon failure, he pulled out his wand and muttered the incantation.

The pine creaked, the nails ripping from their burrowed homes, splintering the wood. With a clatter, the lid fell to the floor. A wispy plume filled the air. Unconsciously, the Betrayer took a few steps to peer inside. Copious dust littered the interior. A tight grin tugged at the corner’s of the Betrayer’s mouth before he remembered where he was. Sidjuous knelt, running his fingers through the fine powder.

“Are we sure this is the one?” he inquired, his voice quaking with fear.

He worries that he got the wrong one and what the Dark Lord will do with his failure.

“I’m sure,” the mirror confirmed, the voice distant. “Soon, I’ll be complete again.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sidjuous said, rising. “Soon, you’ll reign, and no one will stand in your way.”

“That’s not true.”

“What do you mean, my lord?”

“Judas Lakayre still lives, and I sense something … strange.” The news prickled the Betrayer’s ears. Judas consumed Xilor’s thoughts, the fact that he mentioned another was both odd and disconcerting. It bode both trouble and opportunity. Who’d would be worthy of his notice?

Who could Xilor be referring to?

“You shall brush both aside,” Sidjuous blustered.

“Fool!” Xilor hissed, his voice shrill. Agony pierced the Betrayer’s ears. He winced. “It’s an aura I know not.” Sidjuous fidgeted, waiting for the dark lord to expound. When nothing came, the golden-haired apprentice spoke. “You’ll crush all resistance across Ermaeyth.” The Betrayer released an undetected sigh.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“An aeonian reign. Eternal.”

“Fitting for one such as you, master.”

“And for his wife,” a light voice called out, concluding Sidjuous’s statement. The Betrayer blinked, shocked at the interruption. Disbelief followed swiftly, recognizing the voice. He turned his head in the direction of the door.

“Ah, yes, you’ll reign with me, my betrothed,” Xilor purred. The Betrayer’s face fell. Olga strode to the center of the room. Her coppery hair shimmered. A sheer, dark green sybaritic robe with a plunging neckline adorned her body. She left little unseen. Dismay washed through the Betrayer. Olga was one of the young children he sacrificed his future for. She always flaunted his steadfast advice; she now seemed supplicant to Xilor’s teachings.

Olga worded her response delicately. “What worthy gift could I offer my master as a token of my devotion?”

“Gift?”

“A sacrifice, my love,” Olga offered. “Would that be sufficient for you, my lord?”

“Yes, a sacrifice would suffice; what would you deem worthy to forgo? To lose your life and for me to revive you would be a sign of your growing passion and trust, would it not?”

“A sacrifice of my blood, my lord,” she hesitated. Her eyes betrayed her inner turmoil. She didn’t envision dying and coming back, but she needed a sign that showed her commitment to him and his cause.

“Intriguing. You wish to lose your life-flow and be filled with my blood?”

“No, my lord,” Olga said quietly, a coy smile curling on her face. “I wish to give you my dedication. As a sign of my undying devotion, I’ll give you the soul of my sister, Miza.”

“No!” the Betrayer barked suddenly, startled by what he heard. He cast aside all pretense of invisibility. His mind erupted in panic. How could Olga be so evil? Hadn’t he taught her better than that?

“You object to this, Turncoat?” The eyes slid to the Betrayer as he took urgent steps forward.

“Yes, my lord,” he protested, trying not to stammer. “Surely there should be another way to display her loyalty to you.”

“Yes, her loyalties, but since you object, I begin to wonder of yours. Your amative passions reveal your weakness and duplicity.”

The Betrayer knelt on the hard stone in front of the mirror, this humbling action arousing a snigger behind him from Olga. She moved forward, watching the Betrayer’s face as he spoke. “My lord, when I entered your service, I did so under the pretense that my servitude, along with your mercy, spared the life of my own.” He swallowed hard, knowing his next words skirted close to outright defiance. “I’ve never known you to be without honor or backing from your bond. My only wish is to ensure our agreement is honored.”

Curiosity prickled Olga’s face as she looked between the Betrayer and the mirror. He worded the statements to be ambiguous. Only he and the dark lord knew what transpired, and all attempts to find out by his other apprentices went unanswered.

“Noted,” Xilor avowed. “I shall decide after my return and when the war is well underway.”

Relief washed over the Betrayer, but doubt and worry gnawed in its wake. He carefully masked his feelings behind a placid face. Bowing his head, he thanked Xilor and rose to leave.

“Going somewhere?” Xilor asked.

“Yes, master. I wish to change and bathe, and don fresh clothing. The stench of trolls still fills my nostrils,” the smooth lie came. He bowed his head, waiting for permission.

“You may go,” Xilor said. “Sidjuous, begin transferring the ash. Only one thing remains and the hour grows near—”

The Betrayer shut the door behind him, cutting off his words. He’d do as he said, but Miza was who he wanted to see. Another whiff of his robes reminded him that a bath was in order first. Relieved to have postponed a calamity, he set off for his rooms.