Gohdin sat upon his throne. His yellow eyes, with the thin veins of crimson, danced about the material glory of the room. The grandness of the architecture, such wondrous riches, and the gathered members of his trusted guard… it was all more than he’d ever thought possible. A farm boy had become king of the monsters—a domain he hadn’t even known existed. Let alone that it was within his homeland.

How did I get here? It seemed an odd question after all he’d been through. What does it matter now? His head rested against one risen fist. The jewel embedded in his throne dazzled behind his back; protected at about shoulder level. Its colors moved from vibrant greens to a deep red.

“Our glorious king!” Sashro bowed along with the others. The Captains and only a select few from their personnel had joined together to report. They’d gone over the data and were convinced of the revolution’s end. “That is the end to our findings.”

Sashro had gone through every detail. He’d provided the names of each of the accused—many no longer in need of judgement. Any that had survived were placed into Jeseph’s care. The goliath had grinned wildly at the chance to prove himself at the command of his king.

Intel had been gathered. Proceeding the battle, fear and loyalty had increased substantially. It seemed there was not a soul willing to even utter their disapproval in the smallest of matters. Should this king claim the night was too dark or the day too warm, the masses would nod and agree.

Fear works. The king tried his best to rest before his precious jewel. Within its reach, he felt the cooled relaxation of some magical aura. It washed over him as if he were asleep—the closest to rest he’d had since awakening within that accursed spire. Will it continue to work?

That is a matter for tomorrow’s Christoph… Gohdin. Christoph’s mind corrected itself. I am Gohdin. Gohdin. Gohdin. He repeated it to himself as he half-listened to the finalized reports of his Captains. All in attendance were bowing and on one knee (if their anatomy allowed that sort of stance).

After a long silence and the careful glance of the guardians, the king corrected himself. “Mhm. Yes. Good.” Gohdin rolled his shoulders and straightened. He looked at his arms extended beyond the curled up cloak. The wounds he suffered were gradually closing or regenerating. It wasn’t quick, but he’d sat within this room for several hours before the Captains entered. A few scales were even beginning to solidify about the carved flesh. “I’m glad it’s done.”

He felt days away. The presence of the jewel was so peaceful. It was as if he could feel the cool winds coming off the river and bending the wheat of his fields back home. He could almost make out the silhouettes of five figures down the golden rows. No boiling pitch or burning skies, just the peaceful expanse of his bloodline’s kingdom.

It was a domain unlike anything in The Spire, and he knew it could never be again.

“We will continue as before, my Lord.” Sashro nodded and stood. “Is there anything else our master commands? If not, we shall take our leave and allow you the rest you deserve.” All in attendance stood but kept their heads low.

“No. I am content.” The King’s eyes found their way back from that distant field. “But I do have something to say.”

All eyes were on the king—even the blackened eye of one that rolled a peculiar gem between the fingers within the sleeve of his cloak.

The dragonkin stood and moved down one step before his throne. Appraising those gathered, the king exhaled and nodded with satisfaction.

“I believe the punishment dealt was justified.” Only the echoing voice of the king answered. Each ear was opened wide to hear every word; gloriously repeated off the stones of the hall. “Has your king done what was best? I pray that I have.”

Those golden fields and distant shadows plagued Christoph. Like specters trying to pull him into another dimension, the visions faded out and into existence as he looked over the various features of his subjects.

Silence had gripped the hall. The King of the Undead stared forward as if he’d fallen asleep standing—the eyes too exhausted to close. Some of those in attendance carefully glanced from one side to the other. None could discern what was asked of them.

“Have I done what is right? Do you remain beside me? Or,” the dragonkin shook his head slowly. The horror of the goblin’s blood still stained his tongue, yet he still played his role instead of reaching out to those hallucinations. “Have you all lost faith in me as well?”

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“Never-r-r!” Corallan was the first to shriek. Her clicking voice chattered like someone unable to warm up.

“You are our king!” Bo’Ra’Set growled in agreement with the insectoid Captain.

Jeseph simply grunted loudly and dropped his head down into another bow.

Sashro fidgeted for a moment and followed Jeseph’s example.

“Is that so?” Christoph was now at the bottom of the stairs before his throne. His eyes were locked on that distant paradise that was only visible between the head figures of The Spire. As if his brother were running behind the bowing forces, he watched the deceased boy’s shadow in brightened lands where he couldn’t go. “Then I’m here to stay?”

“Of course.” Sashro answered for all. “As long as you desire.” His black eyes narrowed—if ever so slightly. “My King.”

“Then those golden fields are not meant for me.” All watched as Gohdin’s lips curled back. His eyes shook gently. The king’s voice was soft and risen; a voice unbefitting a dragon before his legions. “Not me.”

One could have felt the chill spread over the room. This was not the same aura that Calzion had fallen prey to. No… this was something more akin to a loss of the will to live. Projecting outward, all were assailed by waves of a vastness beyond any ocean or sky.

It isn’t that they knew his feelings. It was that they could feel a pain. This agony that was shown clearly on their king’s… their truest reason for existing, face.

“My King?” Sashro’s voice was obviously disturbed by this change.

Of all the years the dragonkin king stood within these chambers, none had heard his voice crack or his eyes look beyond what lie directly before him. Whatever caught his mind must have been beyond the collected madness of The Spire. The kingdom Gohdin had created upon the backs of the weak rose up in glorious exaltation around him… yet he looked out to that which was beyond his grasp with something more than unbridled, primal rage.

“It’s forever,” the dragon’s eyes fell to the wizard, “isn’t it?”

Sashro’s black burning eyes peered into something that hadn’t existed within this room since it was constructed. There was an emptiness like pits dug about oneself; just large enough to place a piece of you within.

The wizard with the darkened eye had almost forgot that feeling. It was distant, yet he, too, had his own refilled trenches. His past was littered with disturbed earth and tainted soil.

“It is.” Sashro nodded in agreement with his master’s obvious pain. His hand released the object in his pocket and lifted before him. “And I,” he turned slightly to view the others around him, “We will be here.”

Sashro’s arms spread open that their king might see the wealth of his kingdom. The Captains and their trusted subordinates nodded in unison. A sure nod that cast out the chill of the grand hall. Though the raging blackness would not turn away from the king, the wizard’s eye softened in the most miniscule of ways.

“Thank you.” Christoph… Gohdin, returned the nod. His eyes glanced once more, for the final time, to the golden fields that would exist beyond his boiling pitch and burning skies. “I’ll keep them golden from here.” He turned toward his thrown. “I will need all of you to do it.”

“Always, my Lord-d-d.” Corallan clicked away and swept the floor with her false-human’s hair. A delicate maiden’s dress of innocent blue bounced about with her delight.

A grunt of approval came from the gathered members of The Spire. They looked to their king who took to his throne as an exhausted skeleton with the world upon his back.

“Gohdin! Gohdin! Gohdin!”

The shouts of his subjects shook loose the last remnants of any golden world. The shades had heard his words and moved on in peace—leaving him to his world of violence.

Cheers continued as the mightiest among The Spire absorbed every lasting drop of his magnificent words. He’d offered them what they’d never known.

Thank you. They thought. We are worthy of his presence. They boasted themselves. We have pleased him. Of course they had.

So, the cries to his glory continued.

Gohdin returned his head to his balled fist. This, the stone chair with his phylactery imbedded into it, became the closest to a fine bed he could find. A wakeful sleep was the hellish prison he’d endure… To keep it golden.

“Gohdin! Gohdin! Gohdin!”

The Surton Spire had survived, and The King of the Undead would rule forever.