Prologue

The muted light of the Pit shines from overcast skies, casting long shadows from obsidian spires. Structures line the unkept streets with dark palaces visible in the distance. The exterior of the buildings lining the street nearly match the standing of the owners in their visage; some crumbling and unkempt, others pristine in architecture. A flinching figure walks down one of these streets, glancing at every noise and dodging every hawker offering him things they can’t deliver. Specters slither from the shadows of the more withered structures to whisper “power” or “knowledge” or “clout,” claiming they know the secrets that could make him a force to be reckoned with here in the Pit. It's all false, he knows. After all, he muses, if they had a way, would they not have used it themselves? Many of low birth or rank succumb to these schemes, their lust for more makes them accept unworthy bargains, leaving them to eventually burn to a pile of ash left to blow away as the sinister peddlers look for other victims. The rulers of this world have created a system that thrives on lies, on the lives of those consumed by greed, avarice, and a constant desire for power. Its parallels to the world they seek to gain are becoming more apparent. 

He darts through the streets into the entrance of his master’s palace, and breathes a sigh of relief as the gates close behind him. With a last glance to the street he walks up the winding way to a grand keep, nodding at guards patrolling the path. They offer appraising looks as he passes until he enters the palace proper. Within the greeting chamber, a new kind of stress boils in his core. The news he has may be his end, but he must tell or the punishment otherwise . . . He wishes not to think on it. Leaving this small room, he enters the statuary. Figures of past rulers and mockeries of vanquished foes line this room, the latter being a warning to guests of any rank. Entering the main hall, he moves toward the dual staircases leading upstairs. His footsteps echo on the marble-like flooring throughout the massive chambers, his legs feeling heavier as he marches toward his Lord’s study. A cold sweat dots his forehead, getting worse the closer he gets. He is an attendant. An attendant is disposable. There are plenty of low rank in The Pit, any suitable to do his job, and he knows it. Plenty would also kill him for his position--if his master doesn't do it just for fun, that is. 

He begins shaking as he approaches the doors to the study. He usually does this with more practice and confidence in his movements. But this time, he has a confession. A confession that vexes him still. What the hell was he thinking, giving that girl all of that information? She tricked him somehow, beguiled him. She must have. He would never betray his master, even with the constant threat of being killed on a whim. There are worse things than death in the underworld--much worse. But he had failed in his duties. Maybe she wouldn't do anything with what she'd learned. Maybe just the information would do. But he knows this isn't true. It is already gone. How did she even get down here? Her kind should not be able to get here, at least not yet. He realizes he's been standing in front of the door long enough to make it strange. His master will no doubt have heard him coming and will likely question him about standing here. He raises his hand to knock, but before his knuckles touch the door he hears, 

“Enter.”

Letting out a last shaky breath and wiping his forehead with the sleeves of his robes of station, he enters the room. The ruler of this keep sits behind a large desk, writing on parchment. His immense figure is large, but made even more so by his renown. This Lord of the Pit gained his seat with public displays of raw power and has held it by maliciously wiping out challengers as they arise. His cruelty is well-known. To those in his service, he is relatively good. To his enemies . . . A shiver passes through the attendant as he considers his position now after his betrayal.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“What is it, Gnat?” his master asks, startling the attendant as he shuts the door. The Lord notices this and looks up from his papers. Gnat . . . Not his given name, but what he is addressed as every day by his betters.

“I . . .I,” Gnat stammers, “My Lord, I–I wanted to inform you that the time is almost upon us. It will start soon.” 

Gnat's master sits back, a slight smile touches his lips.“Excellent,” he says. “This time should prove . . . interesting.” His eyes bore into Gnat's.

Gnat's mind starts to race, wondering if his master knows of his transgression. Breaking the eye contact, Gnat instead inspects the ground. 

“My lord,” Gnat murmurs, flicking his eyes up then back at the ground, wondering how his mouth betrayed him. Now that he has started, it may be better to get in front of it instead of letting his master find out from another.

“Speak.”

“My Lord, there has been a . . . an interesting complication,” Gnat says, trying to soften the blow.

“Oh?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Gnat winces, considering the words. He licks his lips, clears his throat, and continues.

“Yes, my Lord. She was here.”

“She?” 

Gnat lets the question linger in the air then makes eye contact again, holding it this time.

Realization dawns on his master’s face. He brings up his hand and rubs his chin. “Ah, interesting indeed.” There is another pregnant silence before he responds. “What did she want?”

“Just information,” Gnat says, and his master smiles, “at first . . .” 

“At first?” his master asks in the same tone, his smile faltering. “And after that?” 

Gnat swallows and nearly chokes as it slides slowly over the lump growing larger in his throat. “More information,” he manages, “But about something more specific.”

“And that would be?” his master responds, the words coming out more agitated with Gnat's slow speech.

“About the reward. About it . . .” Gnat flinches at the sharp bark of laughter his master emits, knowing he won't think it's so funny soon.

“Splendid! Ambitious, that one is.” He laughs again and smiles, showing nearly all of his teeth.

Gnat starts to sweat more in preparation for the end of his admission and, quite possibly, his life. “Then, she . . . took it, my Lord.” 

The laughing cuts off abruptly. His master glowers, studying Gnat’s face and slowly stands up. “What?!” 

Gnat backs up, nearly falling over in the looming shadow of the hulking figure.

“I am sorry, my Lord. I don't know how it happened. She shouldn't even be able to get here; I don't understand-”

“Don't give me your excuses, insect! Do you know what this means?!”

“Yes, my Lord.” Gnat freezes as his master steps around the desk and walks to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Have the rest of the preparations been made?” he asks. 

Gnat feels heat in his chest. “Y--yes, my Lord.” A whimper escapes his lips as he burns from the inside, his master’s flames coursing through his body.

“Good then. Let the games begin.”