There were a few opened vents on the mountain’s faces about Surton Spire. They were all well-hidden or had illusionary magics cast over them—some new and some very old. These vents allowed fresh air and some natural light to flood in. Certain devices, technology, and even magic had been utilized to further spread the light throughout specific areas in The Spire. Crops that were cultivated deep beneath the ground had several funneled systems to provide them light. Some with magic, but the natural light of day always proved to be more beneficial.

Through the different levels of The Spire and the different minor towns set into the hollowed-out stone, there were all manner of beings going about their daily lives. Off to work and off to rest, they moved about breathing in the vented air from the outside world. It was business as usual.

Except for the newly nourished whispers that kept to the shadows between the offered light and the busy paths. It had started with a few of the underlings amongst the goblin population, but it had quickly spread as all rumors do.

Hushed voices spoke of one topic in particular—different from the nonsensical discussions of the underground. These shadowed figures have been obsessed with one thing.

Gohdin had changed.

It wasn’t such a simple idea. Changed? Of course he’d changed. He’d taken his own soul and tore it from his flesh and bones. He’d fallen to the ground, dead, for three days and rose again with the immortal body of a Lich.

Of course he’d changed!

It wasn’t just the physical change that worried the darting figures as they passed the whispers from ear to ear. It was the sense that the iron fist which ruled The Spire had rusted away to a pile of dust. Strength had turned to weakness—the emotional aspects or logical reasoning be damned.

Strength was all that mattered to many.

Strength was what kept the masses toiling away, kept order in the streets and on the job, and kept the hidden nation within the mountain safe. It was the force that etched law into stone and sharped the executioner’s blade.

They were questioning that strength. Some had seen the master strolling about with his Captains and sharing conversation. They’d seen him speak calmly with them. Not once since he’d risen had anyone seen him strike down the insolent or string up the violator. It had been pleasant speaking, solitary time, and… the most disturbing to those that knew the stories of his demeanor… he had thanked a servant.

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Disturbing as that was to the monsters that had been minorly domesticated, they’d accepted it under the banner of their glorious king. Change occurs and life moves on, but some creatures retained more of their primitive ways. Some believed that strength, no matter the brutality, was the only just claim to the throne or crown. Any that showed weakness were torn apart and replaced—like the savage animals that eat the old and the names they carried.

“Gohdin’s weak.” The words were quiet like the soft hiss of a snake. One small shadow nodded and continued to speak to the few that gathered to hear him. “Gohdin doesn’t deserve to lead.”

The other shadows didn’t seem convinced… not yet, anyway.

“Gem seen it with Gem’s own eyes.” The shadow peeled back his eyelids so one yellow-tinted, bloodshot eye stared out of the darkness. “Gohdin’s magic is powerful, but Gohdin cannot control! Gem saw Gohdin’s shame in the arena!” His hand pointed off in one direction toward another level of these underground communities.

It was this claim that made the gathered listeners to murmur between themselves. These citizens of The Spire conversed for a few seconds before one turned toward Gem.

“Howww dooo weee knowww youuu speak trueee?” One shaded creature leaned forward, closing the gap between Gem and himself, with his larger, liquid-like form. His eye that floated within the gelatinous body looked over the goblin.

“Gem does not lie. Gem does not follow the weak!” He spit this last word with all of the hatred one goblin could hold in his heart. For all his years of servitude, he’d found himself longing to return to the forests and fields to act as goblins had for centuries. Looting and pillaging… the mindless life of the murderous vagrant.

There were more hushed words between the citizens. Gem had been careful. He’d only spoken to those he thought already had doubts—those that had histories of lashings or punishments. The wounds might have healed, but the scars had remained as faded reminders of the fear that kept them in line. Those scars, once holding meaning and promise, were now a shameful stain on their own names.

“Now is the time. Now, when Gohdin rides out. Now is our time.” Gem leaned in toward the creature that had approached him. The creature’s floating eye was examining the shadows that were whispering behind him… agreeing with the small one. “Are all with Gem?”

Gem’s goblin hand stretched out and waited. It took a moment before the liquid-like being’s eye swam from the back of his head to the front and saw the offer.

They took one another’s hands, and the deal had been struck.