The Betrayer eased into the room, shutting the large, oak door silently behind him. His mouth fell open as he surveiled the dark, spinning cloud.

Shades, he’s done it.

The thought of being far away while Xilor returned to his full might was a compelling one. He could run, but the chances of being found were high. If the Betrayer wasn’t present when Xilor returned, there’d be no escaping his wrath. The dark lord would hunt him down without remorse before turning his attention back to his envisioned war. For him, the war never ended, just halted. He’d resume, and Ralloc would reel in the sudden onslaught.

The Betrayer’s eyes flickered, wavering from the dark band of smoke and the mirror. He offered up a silent prayer.

Whatever gods or god may be up there, please let him fail, and I swear, I’ll make things right.

“Bring forth my soul, Vlukus, and let us be done with it,” Xilor commanded.

The Betrayer’s breathing came in rapid pants, his throat constricting. Please, let him fail; please, let him fail; please, let him fail, he chanted to himself.

The dense fog rolled across the foyer, surrounding the ornate mirror, expanding, consuming nearly all the light in the vast hall. A cold, impenetrable darkness spread.

The mirror, Xilor’s prison for many years, was tall and broad. The frame was made of white-rose, a tree only found deep in elyfian territory near the Virgin Lands. The wood’s name came from the color and texture of the wood; the exterior stark white like bone while the interior shifted in color from pale pink to vivid red to a deep reddish brown core. Elaborate carvings of gods and animals beautified the frame, each figurine a medley of hues, giving the ornaments a life of blood and snow.

While white-rose graced the most visible aspect of the mirror, the sides were crafted from shadow wood, found in the forest of the Trees of Life and Shadow. Blacker than coal, from bark to core, served as side paneling with etched magical runes and inlaid with gold. Four legs sporting four curved feet made of platinum served as the base of the mirror. A guide rail supported the mirror on the floor so it couldn’t be easily toppled.

“Yes!” Xilor’s voice screeched from within the gloom. The fog spun around the mirror, building speed.

“Release me!” a dark, gruff voice filled the chambers. The Betrayer shuddered as if cold. The malevolence infiltrated the air, clinging to every surface, festering in his lungs. Evil of the purest form.

A sudden urge to gag stole over him. He felt sick. Why couldn’t anyone else feel it? The fog turned into an obsidian sphere, the surface glossy, inky. All sense of movement ceased but the Betrayer knew better. The chamber shook. A gush of wind ripped through, the wall beside the Betrayer groaned from the stress, trembling from the strain.

“Release me!” the demonic voice screamed again.

A cold sweat broke over the Betrayer’s body. He shivered. Ice poured down his spine, clenching his innards. The voice still boomed, resonating in the chamber, building to a crescendo. A hum pierced the room, a vibration, an irritant even in his teeth! The floor fractured at his side, cracking, a spiderweb of dust and fragments.

What little light managed to survive the onslaught folded in the expanding blackness. The Betrayer scrutinized Sidjuous as he fell to the floor in a fetal position, rocking back and forth, burying his face with the black cloth in his hands. A scream echoed out, not from Sidjuous—a scream not of a man, but omnipresent.

A burst of bright amethyst fire broke through the obsidian sphere, the silver looking-glass blowing out. In a rush, the darkness retreated to the furthest corner of the room. Shards of silver spewed forth. The silhouette of a man, a ghost or apparition floated forward, too small to be Xilor. The ghostly figure shook violently before submerging into the vessel, Xilor’s form-fitted coffin. Smoke billowed from the casket like rising steam.

A hand breached the sarcophagus, clamping down on the railing, pulling the body out of the confines. The Betrayer gazed in horror as the pale, pink flesh turned ashen gray, riddled with blue veins tunneling the length of his body. Xilor’s face remained unformed, his eye sockets a deepening gray and turning black. The flesh around his lips grew taut, peeling back over his teeth in a vicious sneer.

The Betrayer was so engrossed by what he witnessed that the sudden flurry of black cloth snapped him out of his revery. Sidjuous moved to robe Xilor, throwing the hood over his still forming face. The Betrayer exhaled, the horror easing out of him now that he couldn’t distinguish the dark lord’s face. A sick fascination ran through him, wondering what he’d look like when the transformation came to full fruition.

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The fiend stood to full height.

A cold panic flooded the Betrayer. It’d been many years since he’d seen Xilor in the flesh, but there was no mistaking him. He towered above Sidjuous. The deep shadows of his hood turned towards the Betrayer, and he froze, hoping to go unnoticed. There was a perceptible dip of the cowl.

Was that recognition or just my imagination?

“I told you, Sidjuous,” Xilor sneered. “I told you I’d return, even though you doubted me.” Smoke from the sarcophagus swirled around him, ruffling his black robes.

“My lord.” The Betrayer watched Sidjuous cower at his master’s feet. There was no mistaking the terror in his voice. Sidjuous had always doubted. The Betrayer hadn’t. He always knew one day, somehow, Xilor would manage it. He was grateful that it was now rather than later, a hope manifesting in Judas Lakayre still being alive. The warlock stopped him once, he could do so again, but could he stop the dark lord permanently?

“All is forgiven but never forgotten, Sidjuous.”

“Master,” Sidjuous trembled.

Xilor stepped over the broken shards, his long robes trailing across the glass, a slight tinkling sound rustled in his wake. “Cleverly crafted deceit is lost on you, that’s why you remain. I still have uses for you.” The looming shadow walked away from his cowering servant and stepped in front of the Betrayer. A quiver of trepidation ran through him.

“Surprised, Turncoat?” Xilor inquired. The Betrayer imagined a sneer curling across his unformed lips.

“Should I be?” Oh gods, what the fuck did I just say?

“As always, you’re never unnerved. I expected as much, unless you count the first time we met.”

“I hide my emotions well, my lord,” the Betrayer said cautiously.

Shades of the Underworld don’t kill me, not yet! We’re fucked, we’re all so fucked!

“Really? Funny, isn’t it? I only detect a trace of anxiety from you, but my apprentice…” he motioned to Sidjuous who still trembledwith fear, “is still affected by me and you aren’t? Why?”

Thinking fast, he blurted. “The duties I perform in your name have dulled that edge.”

“Really? Accustomed are we? Or does your concern lay elsewhere?”

“A man who lives in fear doesn’t live at all.”

Xilor’s head cocked to the side. “You don’t fear me but another, one you perceive more powerful. Would it be Judas Lakayre?”

“No, my lord!”

“We shall see, Turncoat. And if you don’t dread me, you’ll learn to again.”

Xilor turned his attention away, scanning the room. “Ah, Derms. My faithful goblin servant.” The dark lord glided in his direction. “I shall reward you, my pet.”

Derms bowed low and spoke reverently. “An honor it is to serve you, master.”

Xilor turned to the next person in line. “Clan King Niam, did you enjoy the dark moments ago? Deeper than any you have ever encountered.”

“Yes, rich with coldness; it rejuvenated me,” Niam said. Niam was the king of the vampires. By direct edict from Xilor, the vampires attacked Dlad City, reigniting the ancient war.

“You did well on your raid. Make sure your service never falters. I’ll hold your attack as a line by which to measure your future assignments.”

He turned away from Niam, scanning the room. A hiss of disgust escaped the gloom beneath his hood. “The Witchen beast-riders of the Grymulohr phyles failed to answer my summons. I won’t forgive this transgression. They’ll get what is coming to them.” Circling where he stood, he called out, “Where are my xicx?”

“Most try not to disturb the Kothlere Order. They’re afraid if they’re caught—” Sidjuous explained, rising to his feet.

“They have something new to fear!” Xilor screamed. “Never mind, I cannot stand to listen to you talk,” Xilor said with contempt. He shushed him, this eliciting a giggle from Olga.

“High One,” Vlukus spoke up from the fog in the corner.

“I shall fulfill my promise this night,” Xilor promised.

“Why not now, Powerful One?” Vlukus countered.

Silence ensued, a brittle sliver. No one stirred.

Xilor broke the tense, growing atmosphere. “I shall walk my halls first.”

Perplexity rippled through the room. The Betrayer scrutinized the dark lord as he left the chambers, hushed misgivings furled.

“Find the xicx and bring them to me!” he ordered.

A shudder ran down his spine when the dark lord glanced his way before exiting. If anything, Xilor wasn’t nostalgic. He probably wanted to gloat, a meaningless gesture to his underlings. No, Xilor yearned to boast to someone who he held in regard, someone like his old master, Hadius Lacove. Again, the Betrayer shuddered, knowing what cruel fate the tyrant visited upon his elder. To the world, and the rest in Gryzlaud Palace, Hadius was dead.

Secrets bear a cost, and the tariff for initiation was high; in this case, his life. But Xilor had been gone a long time, and secrets have a way of circumventing their trammels. If the dark lord realized the Betrayer knew Hadius still lived, a swift and terrible retribution overshadowed his near future.

Letting out a breath of relief, the Betrayer sagged against the wall and waited for the coming storm.