The towering despot scanned the distant horizons, searching for a familiar presence. Xilor stood alone on his terrace, facing the west. The breeze clutched at his robes, the frail gust running invisible fingers through the cloth. Above, the stars twinkled, their delicate light unappreciated and cruelly spurned.

Minor trickles called out to him, faint traces of auras. He could feel them, could they sense him? The subtlest aura echoed from the north, in the distant capital, wan but obvious Judas had been there. His exploration guided him away from Ralloc to the southwest, towards the notorious warlock’s manor. There, strong tendrils hooked Xilor, drawing him in, attempting to siphon him. He smirked. Undoubtedly, the wards he placed at his residence. Yet, Xilor only sensed an echo of his presence.

His gaze shifted, following the sporadic, faded trail from Dlad City to Cape Gythmel and finally to the Corridor. The trail he followed was like a striation of light in his mind’s eye, the longer Judas remained at a location, the brighter the glow became. A quick layover only peppered his vision in a muted shimmer. It wasn’t until he traced him to the Corridor that he felt another presence.

A protegé? Xilor speculated.

With keen interest, he followed them to the Swamp of Sorrows where they toiled until the other presence shown like a beacon in the night. Xilor mentally reached out to caress the essence. Upon first touch, a violent recoil shot through him, jerking away. The essence arched out, a bolt searing him. He reached again, a delicate probe, compensating for the impending surge. A glimmer of smugness overcame him. The aura was nothing like he’d ever experienced before, unbridled, untamed, prominent. Once properly trained, the marvel would be a force to reckon with.

Not a protegé, Xilor amended to himself. A prodigy.

Xilor followed the new essence as long as he could, leaving the swamp before becoming obscured from his sight. He searched in vain. Disgruntled, his regard shifted to Judas. His own essence flickered and vanished, moving to the east and came to stop at Wizard’s Pass. A smile spread across his face.

You’ve come so close and won’t slip my fingers. Xilor bent his magic to his will and teleported to his throne room.

“Vlukus,” the sorcerer called. “I shall fulfill my promise to you!”

“You bring greatness to your name.”

“My name is already great,” Xilor corrected, a note of disgust entering his voice. “And when I’m done transforming this world, everyone will know it, too.” His anger shimmered beneath his composure, and he savored it, letting it build, but he wouldn’t release it, not yet. He’d let it fester, feeding it, preparing for its release. “Failure has its consequences, Vlukus.”

Xilor turned his gaze to the xicx who heeded his edict and returned to his palace. Though their faces were covered with the skulls of dead animals, they animated, displaying the emotions beneath. Terror gripped them now, an initiative for unquestionable obedience.

Xilor lowered himself on his throne, his back rigid and straight. His hands rested daintily on the arms. “Where were you in my most desperate hour?”

“Master, we—”

“Silence! You incompetent fool. Did I tell you to speak?” Xilor’s scrutiny pierced the trembling xicx before him.

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“No, master, no! Forgiveness, I beg!” The xicx flung toward the hem of Xilor’s robes. Before he could reach him, Xilor moved his feet beyond reach.

“You dare to touch me?” Xilor scoffed. He rose, a slow and smooth movement. “You failed me with incompetence, and you arrogantly flaunted my summons.” He held out his skeletal, ash colored hand, fingers poised to cut deep into the Xcix’s flesh like daggers. They hovered, waiting.

He slowly spread his fingers apart, the xicx morphed, stretching. Sickening pops pierced the hush. The dark fog slowed, becoming still as it watched. Screams bellowed from the victim; mangled flesh tore, the wet noises drowned out by wails of anguish. Bones ground together, snapping, puncturing skin and clothing.

“This is the price of failure, Vlukus,” Xilor informed. His right hand reached through the chest of his victim, pulling out the spine and skull. The limp body fell to the floor. Clawed hands squeezed the skull, shattering the blood covered ivory. Brain matter slithered out between the cracks, clinging to his fingers.

Xilor tossed the remains on the steps and turned to face the gathered. Without prompting, each knelt, heads bowed. Xilor called to the hovering fog. “What you wish is still yours. Are you certain?”

A slight hesitation. “Yes.”

In a fluid motion, the grisly wand cleared his robes, a blast of energy erupting from the tip. The wand was fashioned out of several black, twisted metal pieces, spiraling around the core and bound in the curved hilt.

The fog segregated, breaking up to form individual clouds, shaping and solidifying into new beings conjured from Xilor’s endless dark imagination. Shapes emerged carrying the same hue as the oily miasma.

The channeled conjury ceased abruptly, like halting in the middle of expounding soliloquy. Fatigue washed over Xilor; he stumbled, legs trembling. He shuddered, then slumped forward, taxed by the excess of power that left him, and the throne broke his fall. He called his rage, bolstering his strength.

The abyssians, newly embodied, scuttled and thrashed about, growing accustomed to the sudden equilibrium and legs. Corrupt, perverse hybrids, that of man and centaur. Six legs shot out from their flanks and splayed like spindly spider limbs. A strong, lithe body supported the torso of a man with arms. The hands boasted two large, wide fingers and an opposable thumb. Long, curving nails extended from the fingers, sharp enough to lacerate flesh. Reptilian scales covered the body to include the face. A long snout protruded, lined with serrated teeth; the end of the lower jaw extended beyond the top and curled towards the face, forming a deadly hook. A crest as hard as stone sprouted from the back of the head, curving downward, flaring out, protecting the back of the neck.

One abyssian gingerly stepped forward, still unsure of his feet. “High One,” he rasped.

“Vlukus.” Xilor rose to his feet.

The abyssian lowered his body to the deck. “You have our allegiance, Master.”

“I’ll use you as needed. Until I send you out, you’re to remain here at the palace. Am I understood?”

“Completely.”

“Your bodies are extraordinary,” Xilor declared. “Your tongue has healing properties in your saliva to heal wounds from battle. Your legs can carry you at high speeds and help defy gravity. We’ll put such wonders to test later. When in war, like gambling, you don’t reveal your entire hand at once. But now, I have a task for you.” Vlukus rose and neared Xilor. Bending at the waist, Xilor relayed his instructions.

“It shall be done, High One.” Vlukus turned and retreated from the hall, his abyssians following on his heels. The clacking of their six legs against the stone was the only noise disturbing the somber setting.

Xilor lifted his head to others in the room. “Leave me.”

The xicx, various attendants, and apprentices departed, filing out of the room with haste. When the door shut behind the last minion, Xilor turned to his shattered mirror. With a wave of his wand, the pieces reformed. The seamless glass glowed bright yellow-green.

“I’m free,” Xilor rasped through the Psimond, knowing the whole realm witnessed. “I’ll have revenge on every mortal in the realm.” He relented, stepping closer to the mirror. “Here’s my promise to you. All will die. None will be spared, no man, woman, or child, creature or pet. Genocide and enslavement await you all. Nothing will be left in the wake, except the person or persons that deliver Judas Lakayre to me, alive!”