Drunnoc Trellec stood alone in a swirling nightmare, where the trees surrounding him twisted and groaned, their bark peeling away in long, rotting strips. Over the last few months, he had grown familiar with this dark forest, and now every inch of its suffocating decay was thoroughly banal. The fetid stench of wet, decomposing leaves mixed with the unmistakable tang of blood—fresh and clotted, somewhere close. The woods felt alive with death, teeming with silent, watchful eyes.

At the centre of this hellscape stood the Dark God. Or rather, the mass of shadows and viscera that wore the title. It writhed, pulsing with the grotesque fluidity of something unfinished, something constantly shifting. Faces appeared in the black cloud of its form—hundreds of them—screaming, mouths open wide, eyes bulging with terror and agony. A severed arm would emerge from the mass, twitching as though it were still connected to a body, fingers curling spasmodically before being swallowed back into the creature’s bulk. Limbs, jaws, eyes, and slithering entrails drifted in and out of focus, their grotesque shapes lit by a sickly light that seemed to leak from the god itself.

Every breath the Dark God exhaled came with the thick, wet sound of rotting lungs trying to work. The air stank of decay, death, and something far older, something that had not known life for centuries. It was a creature made from the essence of destruction, of chaos, and it wore its horror like a shroud.

And Drunnoc was bored of it.

He stood before it, unmoved, his arms crossed over his chest. His pale face was devoid of expression, his eyes half-lidded as though watching the god was barely worth his effort. He studied it like he would examine one of his paintings—curious, detached, searching for flaws. The twisting, seething mass of limbs and tortured faces that composed the god’s form fascinated him for a moment, not because it inspired fear or awe, but because it was so inefficient. The creature wasted so much energy on spectacle, on presenting itself as terrifying. To Drunnoc, it was almost . . . childish.

"You will go to the Bloodspires," the god rasped, its voice a wet, slithering sound that filled the clearing like poison gas. "You will destroy what remains of Swinford. Their blood must be spilt, their bones scattered across the mountains. Taelsin Elm must fall."

Drunnoc yawned. His gaze flickered lazily toward the Dark God, then past it to the twisted trees beyond. The branches seemed to retreat from the creature’s presence, curling inward as though afraid they might be touched by its darkness. Drunnoc found it all profoundly boring.

The god’s demand had been the same for weeks now. Kill the remnants of Swinford. Bring chaos. Spread destruction. A recurring mantra of a deity that seemed to thrive on carnage but lacked the drive to actually deliver it himself. Drunnoc truly failed to see the point of it all. From his understanding of things, Swinford was a ruin, the survivors little more than scattered prey clinging to their last breaths in the mountains. There was nothing left worth destroying. If Taelsin Elm managed to survive long enough to rebuild, perhaps he would consider it. But as it stood, pursuing the man through the Bloodspires felt like a waste of resources.

He had not met the man during the confrontation his father had precipitated in the Village, but he understood the erstwhile Mayor was well thought of in the West. To his mind, there were distinct benefits in having a focal point for hope running loose in such a misbegotten place. It was hardly like the disenchanted would flock to his banner in the Bloodspires, was it?

Let him rot in the backend of nowhere. And let the people's hope for his return to save them, keep them passive. In his experience, people much preferred others to lead their revolution.

“You must obey me, Drunnoc Trellec,” the god continued, its form shifting violently. A cluster of eyes formed in the centre of its mass, all of them fixed on him, wide and bloodshot. “I gave you power. I made you what you are. You will not refuse me.”

Drunnoc let the silence stretch before answering, his arms remaining crossed, his posture relaxed. The words the god spoke held no weight. It was as though he were listening to the wind rustling the trees, nothing more. He was under no illusions. The god had granted him power, yes. New Skills had bloomed within him, dark and twisted abilities that allowed him to cut through flesh like paper, to crush bones with a mere touch. He very much looked forward to the next time the Darkhelm sought to put a blade at his throat. He suspected he would be a very different prospect for her now. And yet, he felt nothing toward the entity. No gratitude. No loyalty. It had not made him anything. It had simply given him tools. Useful, certainly. But that was where it ended.

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“I see,” Drunnoc said finally, his voice soft but cutting through the god’s droning. “So you gave me power, and now I am supposed to follow your every command like one of your mindless minions?”

The god’s form swelled, darkness unfurling like claws from its body, scraping the ground. The faces within its bulk began to scream louder, their silent mouths twisting into grotesque howls of agony. The air trembled with the sheer force of its rage. A maw formed, lined with jagged, yellowed teeth dripping with black ichor.

“You will obey me,” it hissed. “You will go to the Bloodspires and slaughter them all. I command it!”

Drunnoc raised an eyebrow. The anger in the god’s voice was palpable, filling the air like static before a storm. It lashed out with its presence, its form growing larger, more monstrous with every passing second. But to Drunnoc, it was all so... predictable. Rage, violence, destruction. These were the only tools the god knew. It had no subtlety, no finesse.

And that was why Drunnoc had never feared it.

“You seem upset,” Drunnoc said, his voice soft, almost conversational. “Is it because I am not trembling in fear, as you expected? Or is it because you know that you need me more than I need you?”

The god’s form rippled violently, shards of darkness slashing at the earth. Trees collapsed as the shadows coiled around them, crushing the life from the wood and turning them into splintered husks. The faces in the god’s form screamed louder, their eyes wide with agony as they were swallowed by the blackness. A low, guttural growl escaped the maw, the sound of something primal, something that had existed long before the world had been born.

“I am a god,” it howled, its voice shaking the ground. “I will not be questioned by a mortal. You are mine, Drunnoc Trellec. Your power is mine. Your life is mine!”

Drunnoc yawned. The theatrics were growing tedious.

"You speak as though you are in control," Drunnoc replied, his voice still calm, cold. "But tell me, what have you accomplished? You thrash about like a child throwing a tantrum, destroying everything around you, and for what? You are angry, yes. But you are also... afraid."

The god recoiled. For the first time, the shadows around it flickered uncertainly, the tendrils retracting slightly. The faces within the mass stopped screaming, their eyes dulling as though the fire behind them had been snuffed out. The ground ceased trembling, and the oppressive weight of the god's presence seemed to lift, just for a moment.

"You dare?" it hissed, but the threat lacked the force of its earlier words.

Drunnoc stepped forward, his expression blank. "You are afraid because you know the truth. Without me, you are nothing. You need me to carry out your will. You need me to spread your chaos, to give you form in this world. And that terrifies you, does it not?"

The god's form convulsed, writhing as though trying to reject the truth. It lashed out again, its teeth snapping toward Drunnoc with the speed of a striking snake. But just before they could reach him, they stopped, hovering inches from his skin. The shadows trembled, uncertain.

Drunnoc did not flinch. He stood perfectly still, his cold eyes locked on the god's form. "You cannot touch me," he said. "You cannot destroy me, because you know that without me, you have no power. I am your tool, yes, but I am also your prison. You are bound by your need for me, just as I am free of any need for you."

The silence that followed was absolute. The god’s form quivered, the tendrils of darkness curling inward, as though retreating into itself. The faces within its bulk flickered in and out of existence, their screams now faint, distant.

“You will regret this,” the god whispered, its voice thin, weak.

Drunnoc’s smile was cold, sharp. “Perhaps. But not today.”

He turned his back on the Dark God, walking slowly toward the edge of the clearing. The twisted trees parted before him, their rotting branches curling away from his presence. The air was cooler now, fresher, as though the god’s influence was already fading. He stepped into the shadow of the trees, leaving the god behind, knowing full well that it could do nothing to stop him.

As he walked deeper into the forest, the screams of the god’s stolen souls grew fainter, the oppressive weight of its presence receding into the distance. Drunnoc breathed in the crisp, cold air, feeling the tension leave his body. He was alone now, truly alone. But there was no fear in him. No worry of retribution.

The Dark God was bound by its own weakness, trapped by its need for him. And in that knowledge, Drunnoc found his power. As he disappeared into the trees, his mind was already turning to the next game, the next move.

He had won. For now.

Good luck, Taelsin, he thought. Unless you are as good as the people whisper, I fear there will be quite some trouble coming your way.