Two weeks after the Battle of Avebury.

The boy hurried through the night-darkened estate, silently praying that no-one noticed him. At two in the morning, the freezing streets were deserted, but he was still terrified.

It was his first time breaking into a house, and he didn’t really know what he was doing – or even why.

Conscious of forensics to the point of paranoia, he’d attempted to cover his tracks in advance. He’d bought a cheap set of clothes and surgical gloves, the latter to hide any fingerprints, all paid with in cash in a store he wouldn’t normally have been seen dead in. Underneath his hooded top, he wore a cap to ensure any stray hairs didn’t betray him, and a scarf was wrapped around his face. He intended to burn or perhaps bury all the clothes once he’d finished the burglary. He hadn’t yet decided which was the best option. Perhaps just dump them in a bin far away from where he lived?

He knew the chances of the police actually bothering to show up, never mind to do a forensic analysis, were low-to-zero, but still the thought of getting arrested made his heart beat so loud it drowned out any other sounds.

Beneath his cheap hooded top, he carried a crowbar. He gripped a plastic torch in his other hand.

The crowbar wouldn’t burn, of course, so he planned to dump that in the canal once he’s finished his task.

He’d nearly chickened out half a dozen times on the two-hour walk to the house. He still didn’t understand why he was doing this, except that for the past week, something had been calling to him from the house where they had found the dead body. Something that had woken up. Something old and terrible and deadly.

The murdered owner of the house had been a collector of esoteric objects, according to the news item the boy had read. It was one of these items that called to him. In his dreams and during the day, the thing had whispered dark promises to the boy if he came for it.

For seventy years it had lacked power, but no more.

Magic was returning to the world.

The boy knew what it was like to feel powerless. The item had recognised the darkness in the boy’s soul and had tormented him with wakeful nights and sleepwalking days, until here he was, sweating and shivering simultaneously, not believing what he was about to do but unable to resist the siren call.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

His knees were weak and palms clammy as he approached the semi-detached house. It hadn’t been hard to find. Blue and white police tape had been placed outside it, the investigation ongoing.

The boy nearly turned away, but couldn’t. He clung to the shadows and pressed on.

An unlocked wooden gate at the side led into a small, unkempt and overgrown garden and the back door. Opening the door with the crowbar was surprisingly easy. The wood was rotten. The lock popped out with a quick wrench.

The boy waited for an alarm, but there was none.

Inside, the house was grimy from years of neglect. The carpets were threadbare. The walls and tables were filled with old books, arcane objects, ancient manuscripts. The boy ignored them. The call was strong now, so strong it was like a drumbeat in his ears. He snuck through the house by the light of his torch until he reached an object.

It was a wooden mask, unlike any he’d seen before. Almost completely black, it resembled a knight’s shield but with two eye-slits. With trembling fingers, the boy reached out.

The mask slipped into his fingers by itself. Before he knew what he was doing, the boy had placed it over his face, breathing in the smell of ancient wood. A leather strap curled around his head and held the mask in place.

Images and knowledge raced through the boy’s mind, so fast that he could only catch glimpses of understanding. This was a mask of the cult of the Death Warlocks, an object so powerful that the wearer could avoid the consequences of the first law of magic. Could kill with magic. Could drain a soul and bind its power to his own.

You are a Death Warlock now; the mask whispered to the boy. Take your staff.

A black wooden staff stood nearby, propped against a wall. The boy gripped it, marvelling at the feeling of power.

And you shall be fear, the mask said.

Yes, the boy thought, fear. That’s what I want.

And you shall be death, the mask whispered

Yes, the boy thought, death.

A noise behind him startled him. He turned, panicked, pointed the staff at the intruder, an attractive blonde woman.

She looked bemused.

“Unless you know how to use that, I suggest you stop waving it around,” she said.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” the boy asked, his voice trembling.

“I imagine I’m here for the same reason you are. The mask called to me, just like it did you. Now that the barrier to Arcadia has gone, objects that once held power are drawing it to them once more.”

“I don’t understand,” the boy said.

“Of course you don’t. But you will, I can promise you that. I’ll teach you.”

“Teach me what?”

“To use the power you possess. Or that possesses you. Why are you here, otherwise?”

The boy thought about the promises the mask had made.

“Because someone hurt me,” he said.

“And?”

“And I want to hurt them back,” the boy said.

The woman flashed the boy a killer smile.

“I know exactly what you mean...”