Night blanketed the land and wrapped Gryzlaud Palace in shadows. The cold lingered, seeping through the stone. Xilor sat, sprawled upon his high-back throne. In a previous life, he’d filled his waking eyes with vast amounts of precious treasure. The trappings of his old life clung to him like rotten flesh. A new obsession curled through him: control, those he commanded, and those he wanted to.

Simplicity ruled his life now, only necessities.

Once, there’d been a time when rich wines, fine meats, and delectable vegetables and fruit filled his plate. The expense of his lavish life cost more than the earnings of five families in a year. Now, he only ate if he needed to conserve his strength; power sustained him and warded off sleep, both a necessity for the weak. Hunger drove his anger and frustration, which fueled the hate, and urged his body and potential. A continuous cycle, a key component for his abilities.

The world slept while he stayed awake, planning, plotting, scheming; destinies forged and abolished while his slaves slumbered. He searched for weaknesses to exploit, noting several—their defenses, their strategies—in the magic they used. Other fragilities existed too, like the spirit, the heart of emotions, and the mind of choice.

Xilor’s brilliance for strategy and tactics came from a long life around the right people. He learned by their guidance and strived to be the best. Studies prepared him in his youth; tutelage sharpened his skills, and apprenticeship under his former master, Hadius Lacove, turned him into a weapon. Xilor’s acumen orchestrated Hadius’ fall. Though his former mentor boasted his own brilliance, he failed to use his wit and cunning to exploit the realm. For all his guile, he never envisioned Xilor’s betrayal or the actuality to foresee his success.

Perhaps with greater sagacity, the more you forget personalities and character, becoming so engrossed that you’re ignorant of reasoning.

Though the thought troubled him, he didn’t want to believe it. He always watched his back, specifically around his apprentices. One person gained his trust, Judas, and the morals that shackled him.

“Judas,” Xilor sneered into the quiet cold. Hatred boiled within him at the mere thought of the man, yet, beneath the hate, a grudging respect interred. How could someone younger and less powerful defeat him? Comparatively speaking, Xilor believed he held the edge regarding potency.

The truth about Judas—one Xilor denied confronting—was that Judas wasn’t weak. The warlock chose to hold back instead of unleashing his true potential, and to Xilor’s appraisal, this made him weak. In Judas’s weakness, he fostered a secret and garnered the advantage when they last met. After all those years trapped in the mirror, the sorcerer was no closer to the answer.

Xilor had his own secrets; his biggest trumped all others, including the warlock’s. He gloated silently, savoring his prize. It was so perfect and earth shattering, and when revealed, it’d deliver a blow to the realm and Ermaeyth.

Especially to Judas.

Nothing’s more satisfactory than reaching into the heart of someone or something, person or idea, and ripping it out.

The world needed cleansing. He promised to raze it unless someone gave him Judas. Even if, by some lucky chance, someone turned Judas over to him, Xilor would still reforge the world. True, his process deviated from his original intent, but sacrifices bowed to unavoidable eventualities. Other reasons helped forge his chosen path. He only started to truly understand before Judas defeated him. Confinement opened his eyes.

A familiar presence brushed his consciousness, one he felt many times before, one he created. A sole, faithful xicx returned. It was still far enough away that the xicx couldn’t feel him, but the master sensed the nearing slave.

Saihk returned from his assignment, one of utmost finesse. Xilor’s plans hinged on the xicx’s success. Black cloth and smoke swirled, forming into the half-corporeal, half-apparition form. Saihk was not just a xicx, but the Lord of the xicx. Xilor selected his minions from wizardkind, goblin, or any other follower, and converted them into a sheol.

Sheol, half-ghost and half-physical in form, survived with twisted souls. Xilor’s genius harnessed the latter and bound them to the former. The dark lord discovered only the tormented would exist inside the sheol if bent, commanded by another. Xilor himself constructed the first sheol, binding the spirit he called forth to his will, and then created another to bind to the first sheol. The two original sheol regenerated quickly, multiplying into a race of their own.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Xicx, though similar, differed. The first he made was the xicx lord, taking a mortal he favored, binding his soul to the mortal spirit, and placing it into the body of a sheol. Saihk, given liberty, converted anyone he chose, and those that followed tethered to him. The process, a beautiful, dark design from the twisted, arcane mind of Xilor. Simplistic yet infallible. He controlled one soul, the xicx lord, and through him, everyone else followed.

“My lord,” Saihk rasped, kneeling. “I located this prodigy per your orders.”

Xilor allowed himself a small, cruel smile. “Excellent,” he said with a quiet cold. “And did you complete the second part of your mission?”

“Yes, my lord, though with great difficulty. For reasons unknown, she was aware of my presence while I carried out the task. However, what you asked for is done. Even in her sleep, she fought me, but I succeed in placing the trace on her.”

This bit of news troubled Xilor. If she was an amateur like he sensed, how could she detect Saihk? Could she detect what they did to her? Only time would unfold this mystery, but for now, he turned his attention to more important, looming events, satisfied with Saihk’s success.

Xilor leaned forward, peering down on his creation. “You’ve done exceedingly well,” he praised Saihk. “You may go.”

Saihk bowed his head to the floor and vanished.

Xilor rose. Now that he was alone and awaited none, he set out to learn more about this prodigy. With a nudge of intent, he vanished from the throne room and reformed in a small, near-empty room high in his palace. No one knew of this room, and if they did, he’d kill them for the knowledge. This room held one of his most prized secrets. The walls mirrored the stone as the rest of the castle; an ever-persistent chill enveloped the room.

“I’ve returned,” he cooed softly. A grin spread across his face beneath his hood, the gloat bleeding into his voice.

“I knew you would,” a voice responded.

“Does that frighten you?” Xilor heckled.

“Why would it?” There was no one in the room with Xilor, nothing but a cabinet in the otherwise empty chamber.

Xilor, seeing his gloating failed to elicit the desired response, tried a different tact. “Has anything happened in my absence of form?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“You’ll fall because of it.”

Rage surged in his chest, but he restrained himself from destroying the room. He was unstoppable, the master of death.

Who dares to stand against me now? he seethed. “How?” the sorcerer breathed, barely controlling his trembling rage.

“She’ll keep you from your destiny, but she may also take your place.”

“She? Who is she?”

“A myth, a legend manifested. Where she hails from, I don’t know. How educated are you in the histories of the races of the domain?”

“Depending on the race,” Xilor responded truthfully, grudgingly.

“Depending on the race?” the voice screamed. “Surely, I taught you better!” The room reverberated. Power emanated from the voice, and it rebuffed Xilor. Even now, defeated, strength radiated from him. Perhaps too strong. Doubt whispered in the back of Xilor’s mind. Was it possible for the voice to gain strength since his departure? The thought required investigating.

“The fairies,” the voice continued, “believe in a legend of a powerful mage who will eventually be brought forth, from beyond Ermaeyth. This mage will form a perfect balance of light and darkness. An elder fairy must give up a wing for the mage, and form a bond between the race and the mage. This legend is from long ago, almost at the beginning of magic.”

“Skip to the part about how I kill this mage, or how I can bend this mage to my will?”

“You cannot bend her will to yours.”

“Who is she?” Xilor growled.

“I’ve answered that question.”

“Fine. Where is she?”

“Far Point.”

The prodigy? Impossible!

Xilor whirled around and wrenched the door open, robes billowing in his wake. He could teleport away, but the walk gave him time to contemplate his next move. Need urged him to watch the mage, observe her, and find a way to bend her to his will. If she refused, he’d kill her.

Though tempted to devote more time to the conundrum, he had other plans already in motion. His feet carried him back to his throne where he sat and decided his next move.