Borelean's head snapped up as he sensed . . . something change.
His long tongue flicked out, tasting the scent of possibilities shift and change as whatever had manifested just beyond his senses rewrote the threads of fate he had so carefully arranged.
"What is it, my lord?" someone to his left said.
Borelean's head swayed to the side with a sinuous movement, taking in the wide-eyed expression of one of the myriad of hangers-on he appeared to have collected in this realm. "Did you speak?" he hissed.
The man . . . woman . . . he found it difficult to definitively tell these beings apart visibly quailed and prostrated themselves to the floor. There was the briefest of moments when Borelean considered feeding, but then the instinct passed, and he was on his feet, striding forward to throw open the giant windows to stand on his balcony and oversee the Capital.
As it always did, revulsion surged within him.
Should anyone have glanced up at that moment, they would have been troubled by the flickering nature of Borelean's silhouette standing out against the deepening night. His form - although superficially that of a tall, gaunt man - cast writhing, roiling shadows around it: one moment, a giant serpent; the next, some form of massive lizard.
He sneered as he looked down, the sprawl of the Capital beneath him erupting like a malignant growth from the clay earth. "A labyrinth of stone and squalor" was how he had described it to those from his own realm, and one, in the usual run of things, would barely have been worth visiting, much less setting up this temporary home. From his vantage point, Borelean's keen eyes viewed the winding streets as no more than tangled veins pulsing with the sludgy blood of a species ripe for consumption. To most, the Capital may have appeared to be asleep. To him, it was a corpse that refused to lie still.
The stench of humanity was a personal affront to his senses—a disgusting mix of sweat, rot, and something he always associated with hope, which actively seeped into him, worming its way inside until the only way to block it out was to bathe in blood. Borelean grimaced as he fought the urge to roar back at this sensory invader. He had inhabited this human form for decades, moulding it, perfecting it, yet this visceral disgust was never far beneath the surface.
It was a wonder he had been able to stay remotely sane.
A small part of the creature paused at that, and a small voice, once again, questioned why Borelean had tarried so long in this place. After all, he had seen innumerable civilisations rise and fall in his time; he had watched as mighty empires descended into chaos and once revered God-Kings were reduced to nothing more than whispers in forgotten tomes. Yet here he was, playing the part of advisor to a pitiful king—a puppet in a decaying court. Borelean sneered, his lips splitting in two as they curled in an expression of disdain his human form could not quite deliver.
How he loathed them, these fragile, fleeting creatures. And yet, he needed them.
For now.
But something was different tonight. A sudden change had woken him in the depth of night, gnawing at him, scratching at the periphery of his awareness like a talon resting against his throat. Yet it was not anything in the Capital. He was sure of that now. No, it was something out there which was different. He could feel it—a tremor in the very fabric of reality, a subtle shift that sent ripples through the ether. It was an alien sensation, one that Borelean had not felt since he had finally chased that frustrating mage away from the King's side.
Vulnerability.
The thought of the Duskstrider, Eliud Vila, made Borelean's blood run cold—an impressive feat for a being already cold-blooded by nature. Then, the sensation passed. Vulnerability was for the weak, for the prey, not for those such as him. He closed his human eyes, focusing, stretching his senses to their limits, searching for the source of this discomfort.
The Capital was a grotesque mosaic of vice and decay, unchanged as his senses reached beyond it, scouring the land for answers. And then he felt it—an unmistakable pull, a darkness emanating from the distant Bloodspire Mountains. His eyes snapped open, the slitted pupils dilating in the gloom as a deep instinct took hold, urging him to investigate, to hunt.
Borelean drew in a long, slow breath, triggering a Skill he had not yet used in the realm. As he did so, the air around him grew heavy, vibrating with a force that could not be contained within the limits of flesh and bone. The room of minions behind him moaned as he drew on the life force to empower the technique, his human guise flickering, the illusion wavering as scales shimmered beneath the illusion. In the grip of his Skill, his control of his form slipped, if only for a moment, revealing the monstrous form beneath—the creature that had once been revered as a god. The screams behind him at the sudden reveal abruptly halted as he tugged on the last of their strength. A pleasant silence fell.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The words appeared in the corner of his vision as the world around him unravelled, the threads of reality loosening as his power surged outwards. As it did so, he felt some resistance - that interfering hag, he assumed, seeking to keep him from this prey - but he pushed through and left her floundering in his wake. His vision sharpened, the night becoming as clear as day, every detail laid bare before him. With a smirk, he recognised the festering sores of rot hidden behind walls and beneath cobblestones. His work here was more than taking hold; it was preparing to breach the surface. But his attention quickly moved elsewhere.
His Skill dragged his notice to the mountains lying in the West, far beyond the reach of mortal eyes. There, in the heart of the Bloodspire range, something was stirring. Something old and dark, even by his standards.
Borelean focused, drawing power from the people who slept in the wider Palace, narrowing his perception to a singular point and driving it into the heart of the disturbance. And then he saw it.
The mountains bled.
A dark, viscous substance seeped from the cracks in the stone, a thick, tar-like ooze that pulsed with a sickly light. It flowed down the mountainside, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake. Trees withered and died, their trunks collapsing in on themselves as they were drained of life. Animals that wandered too close were caught in the flow, their bodies convulsing, twisting in unnatural ways before they were consumed entirely. Flesh bubbled and split, organs ruptured, and bones snapped, the creatures’ final moments an agony that defied comprehension.
Yet, the horror did not end with their deaths. The ooze absorbed them, assimilating their remains into its mass, growing larger and more grotesque with each passing second. And stood above that writhing, amorphous mass, Borelean sensed a presence—vast, ancient, and insatiably dark.
A Skuggaseiðr.
Borelean’s breath caught. The Dark God was making his move.
For the first time since that night of blood and fire in the Palace when the Duskstrider was expelled, Borelean felt the cold grip of fear. It coiled around his heart, squeezing until it threatened to crush him. His human guise flickered again, the illusion tearing at the seams as his true form fought to break free. Scales rippled across his skin, his muscles bulging, straining against the confines of this weak, mortal shell. He could feel the power surging within him, a primal urge to shed this disguise and face the threat head-on.
But no. He forced himself to maintain control, to rein in the beast within. His human form solidified, the scales receding as he fought to regain his composure. He could not afford to reveal himself—not yet. The time would come, but for now, he needed to understand what he was dealing with.
He turned his gaze back to the Bloodspire Mountains, his mind racing. The presence of the Skuggaseiðr was growing stronger, its cancerous influence spreading across that land. It was already reaching out, probing, searching for weaknesses. And Borelean knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that it would not be restrained to the West. The world was not prepared for what was coming. And neither, it seemed, was he.
Borelean clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, blood trickling down his fingers, warm and sticky against his skin. The pain was a welcome distraction, grounding him in the present. He could not afford to lose himself to fear, not now. He was Borelean, the Ancient, the Unyielding. He had faced angels and demons alike, and stood against the very tide of time. He would not be cowed by the actions of a childish god who only wanted to destroy what his mother had so painstakingly created.
Borelean went to move away from the balcony, his mind already racing with plans and contingencies. The King would need to be informed, though Borelean doubted the man would grasp the severity of the situation. The fool was too caught up in his own petty concerns, too blind to see the storm that was brewing on the horizon. But Borelean would make him understand, one way or another.
Then he paused. Because there was something else stirring, was there not? A coalition of power right at the heart of that darkness . . .
But even in this reduced state, his Skill made out the shape of what was blooming in the West. No. Not in the West. It was shining in a realm just adjacent to this one but seemingly anchored to that part of the world.
Had he not tasted that light before . . .
The strength of the Goddess's mental slap staggered him, and then a second blow took him off his feet. Borelean barely had a moment to raise his defences before he felt time itself spool backwards, just a few seconds, to just before he noticed . . .
What?
Borelean stood for a moment, uncertain. Something had just happened, but he could not quite put his finger on what. Then the corrupt scent of the Skuggaseiðr came again and he was hurrying through dimly lit corridors, his footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. That dark presence in the Bloodspire Mountains was growing stronger by the second and, with it, an overpowering sense of doom. He could feel it, like a shadow creeping up behind him, just out of sight, waiting to strike.
He quickened his pace, mind racing. He feared that whatever was awakening in the Bloodspire Mountains was beyond even his considerable power.
And if that were the case, his time in this realm was at an end.
The King's chambers were close now, the heavy wooden doors looming ahead like the gates to a tomb. Borelean slowed his pace, forcing himself to calm. He needed to be composed to maintain the illusion of control. The King could not see the fear in his eyes, could not know the turmoil that raged within him.
He dismissed the guards, reaching out, his hand resting on the door handle, and paused. For a moment, just a moment, he considered turning back, walking away from it all. Let the world burn. Let the darkness consume it. What did he care? He was Borelean, the eternal, the indomitable. He had seen the rise and fall of civilisations. He could watch it happen again.
But no. His game here was not yet done.
"Your Highness," he said, his voice filling the chamber with urgency, "I bring terrible news."