Across the sea of rolling plains, wastelands, rivers, and forests, past the Abyss in an undiscovered castle called Gryzlaud, lay the true books that Judas desperately sought. The Kothlus Trilogy. Many hunted Gryzlaud, including the warlock himself, but no one stepped foot inside who did not owe allegiance to the dark lord. For over three legends, it remained hidden, a refuge. Xilor trained from the inception of his tutelage, many years into his life, chosen by the previous Dark Lord—Hadius Lacove—to succeed him. The castle now fell under his rule.

Xilor drew into himself, centering his essence. Derms, his goblin-slave, muttered to himself as he polished a silver bowl used for alchemy. Xilor felt something coming. He sensed his apprentice approaching, but that didn’t bother him. An aspect beyond his apprentice, far off, a new element had arrived and upset the balance. He noticed the ripple effect even from here. All his time trapped in the mirror taught him to be mindful of his sorcery, and he became hyper-sensitive. In a way, Judas helped him as Hagen helped all beings.

Hagen, the Father of Magic, was rumored to have built Gryzlaud ages upon ages ago. The same tale spoke of his introducing magic to all living things, including the elyves, unicorns, dwaven, vampires, and the like. The fable of Hagen ended with him going mad as he discovered new uses for his power until he became the first dark lord.

The irony of the legend: vampires didn’t exist until many ages after Hagen’s death. Xilor, like others before him, knew the truth. The second dark lord created the vampires and, in turn, became the first vampire, Vlad Vikal. The mountains far to the north, which Ralloc nestled against, were named after his family: the Vikal Mountains. The Krey and the elyves resided there now. Vikal, however, wasn’t the name most associated with him. He was more commonly known as Vlad the Insane, Vlad the Horrible, and Vlad the Impaler.

Because of this truth, Xilor excused the failed prodigies of one of the greatest Dark Lords. He tolerated the vampires’ floundering as a sign of respect to their origins. Though he failed in the end, Vlad’s tinkering with alchemy and enchantments lead Xilor down a similar path with his creation of the xcix. But for all his greatest achievements, Vlad, unlike Xilor, couldn’t cheat death. Even though Xilor still lived, he hid, vulnerable in his current state.

Gryzlaud, a monument to the past masters who resided here, was now a mausoleum filled with artifacts, trinkets, amulets, rings, and the like. An expansive throne room the envy of any ruler; the towers and walls rivaled Ralloc, defenses bolstered by eons of channeled dark energy. The castle, though a fortress, was only as safe as the strength of the residing Dark Lord. In his current state, even Xilor needed his refuge, utilizing all his acquired secrets, hiding in the labyrinth of his home, the unseen underbelly.

A soft creak of the door, a hushed stirring of air, and the near-silent footfalls drew Xilor away from his musings. Though alive, he didn’tcommand his body. When he did, he planned to exact revenge and return to the war, but with a new focus.

The footsteps grew louder; Xilor opened his eyes. His servant, one of his apprentices, strolled confidently forward, carrying three giant leather-bound volumes ravaged by time. He set the tomes on a long table filled with scales, herbs, brewing cauldrons, and other concoctions. Xilor couldn’t use alchemy himself—his consciousness imprisoned in the mirror—but he could instruct his servant. The apprentice smiled, triumphant, his face tilting up toward the giant mirror.

“Is it time?” Xilor’s voice rattled from the mirror. The voice rasped, like glass shards grinding together.

“It is, my master.”

Xilor regarded his beaming apprentice, smug in his success, overconfident with pride. Sidjuous needed to be reminded of his place and the price of arrogance.

Sidjuous was one of many of the Dark Lord’s apprentices, a student of his arts. The highest levels of forbidden ways eluded him, but he was powerful enough to snuff out the lives of a few who meddled and came too close to discovering Xilor and his location. He was, in all aspects, the most trusted apprentice, but his extreme jealousy of the other apprentices distracted him. Thoughts of betraying his master never entered his mind. This, in Xilor’s opinion, made him the weakest.

His tall physique was framed with long, flowing blond hair. A broad chin and delicate, haughty features gave him the visage of imagined noble pedigree, an amusement of Xilor’s, knowing his apprentice thought of himself from a royal bloodline.

He understands so little of royalty.

“The books?” the mirror asked, soft and hesitant.

“Here, my lord.” Sidjuous laid a longing hand upon the ripped bindings, his finger tracing the frayed spine. Xilor breathed a proverbial sigh of relief. He couldn’t breathe, not in the mirror. The Dark Lord let the warm glow swell within, basking in the moment. A victory. A huge step to returning to his body, but small to the grand conclusion. Xilor beheld his arrogant apprentice who paused, looking at the texts, before turning his attention to the bent and twisted goblin. Sidjuous walked away from the table towards the mirror.

“Bring the Kothlus Trilogy, slave,” Sidjuous commanded. A malicious sneer crossed his face as he waited for the goblin-slave, Derms, to obey.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Whenever Sidjuous got the chance, he gave simple, mundane commands to the goblin, never missing an opportunity to flaunt his higher status. It would be quicker and easier for Sidjuous to do it, but it wasn’t his way.

Vanity is unbecoming, Xilor noted.

His apprentices, like his corrective measures, were diverse; some needed overt control, others subtle nudges. With his Betrayer, he took a ruthless approach, coercing his continued service. He couldn’t with Sidjuous. At least, not now.

There were times when he needed to remind his apprentice of his place, but he wasn’t overly harsh. He feared Sidjuous would break and leave him stranded. He needed Sidjuous, but the apprentice lost his fear of his master. He needed to find it again. When Xilor returned to his body, Sidjuous would be rewarded with a stay of execution. Loyal-to-a-fault made him unworthy, but unwavering loyalty had its uses.

“I’ll bring them if my master commands. I don’t take orders from his sycophants,” the old goblin croaked. Xilor broke his spirit, but Derms never gave in to his apprentices. Xilor admired spirit.

Sidjuous pulled his wand and barked a curse, throwing the dwarfed goblin against the wall.

Derms slumped and held himself, rocking back and forth. He muttered aloud, “How can I complete master’s command when I’m not able to walk?”

“Quit your whining, get up, and get the books!” Sidjuous ordered again, this time taking a few more deliberate steps away from the table.

Derms, reaching his feet, grabbed the leather-bound tomes with reluctance. Sid glanced back at the blinkless gaze staring out from the mirror, ignoring the little goblin. A shadow of anxiety clouded Sidjuous’ eyes, an unspoken question if he went too far.

Xilor ignored the look. “Whose blood will we mix with mine? It must be suitable.” Xilor kept his counsel, but more often than not, more voices gave rise to better reasoning. He posed questions to judge his apprentices.

“We will use the blood of the enemy’s nieces. Both of them.”

“I don’t trust Miza. Olga could be a powerful wizard, but her sister Miza … she warrants scrutiny,” the mirror said.

“What makes you say that, my lord?”

“Miza has yet to give in to the teachings I supplied, however, Olga will be an asset for us to obtain.”

“Yes, she will, and she’s a beautiful, young woman, too.”

“As beautiful as she is deadly,” Xilor replied. He turned his gaze upon the goblin slave. “Come, my faithful servant.” Derms obliged with alacrity, moving towards the books.

“Master, your servant has done what you have asked. Might I retire this evening?” Derms inquired, fearful. He approached the mirror with reverence and laid the texts on the floor, his eyes turned downward, submissive.

“Be gone,” Xilor granted. Derms swept from the room as quick as he dared. The eyes in the mirror shifted to the apprentice that remained, then to the books.

I’ve waited so long, and the moment is here at last. So much time wasted.

The books bore his scrutiny. The thought of being whole once more was so tantalizingly close. The wretched Judas Lakayre put him here, turned on him, destroyed him. Xilor did much for him in a previous life. His hatred for Judas ran deep as did his respect. He never liked or trusted him to begin with, but he did grant respect, even if he was a misguided fool.

Xilor couldn’t blame Judas for rising against him; the warlock didn’t know who he was beneath the cowl. But, Judas did know him, though unaware of the connection. He often wondered whether things would have been different if Judas grasped the truth from the start. Would he have joined him in his quest?

Xilor mentally shook his head. Probably not; Judas couldn’t cast aside his well-known morals and rigid beliefs.

But there was the slight chance he would have. If he did, could he be trusted? Would Judas take his place at Xilor’s side, or would he try to be greater than the dark lord himself? Who knew? There was yet a way to change the past, at least as far as Xilor knew. An unchangeable constant, something always beyond his reach, like invisibility and bringing the dead back to life. Their souls, no matter how powerful the wielder, would never be whole like before. Only one controlled that power.

Tearing himself away from his musings, Xilor spoke. “Let us begin. Bring forth the vessel.” Sid summoned the kettle, maneuvering it near the coffin-like statue that was the vessel.

“Now the tomes, hover them over the bowl and burn them. Make sure all the ash makes it into the bowl.” Xilor lead him through the precarious instructions, blending the fourth branch of magic—Derengi—and alchemy together. The pace was ponderous, the instructions tedious, but Sid followed his edicts like an expert

“Begin the siphon,” his grating voice commanded. On his word, the apprentice cast another spell, the ashes spinning in a cyclone. He laid on another weave of conjury, drawing out the essence of Xilor’s blood out of the spinning ashes and sent it weaving across the air into two casks filled with water. The water turned red.

“Into the vessel,” Xilor bade him.

The vessel, a form-fitted coffin far from ordinary, molded for a humanoid nearing nine-feet tall, designed for a giant. Some people whispered Xilor was half-giant because he dabbled in more magic than full-blooded giants could tolerate. Giant’s blood had nothing to do with his towering frame, it was more his dark ambitions and magical machinations that twisted him into the towering wraith.

That and a little help. The creature he became was the dark lord everyone knew and feared.

“I need my soul from the Abyss, which I arranged, and my skin and bones, what’s left of it. Dispatch the Inium clan to send a squad of trolls to the City of Despair where they can retrieve the powder of my bones.”

The apprentice bowed low and hurried away through the same doors as the goblin.

Sidjuous did have his uses, Xilor thought, and was glad he did not kill him when he initially wanted to. Weak, unworthy, but he also had ambition and cunning. Xilor kept him around for many reasons. Sidjuous was one of the select few allowed to see him in his weakened state. When the time drew closer to his return, he would bring others into the fold, one being the vampires.

Speaking of which, Xilor thought. The Betrayer needs more incentive in his dealings with the vampires.

“Psimond.” Xilor cast the spell, projecting his will into magical accumulation. An eerie green glow came from the mirror and illuminated the room.

“The Betrayer in Shadow City,” Xilor completed the magical command.