Moments later, he was in a small room lined with ruined bookshelves. Torn papers were scattered throughout the room, and his furniture, once lush and regal, had largely rotted to nothing.

Abad headed straight for a shelf on the far side of the left wall. Once there, he pulled aside a piece of wood to reveal the door to a secret compartment. He inserted his index and middle fingers into a pair of holes drilled into the wood. When he applied a bit of pressure to the surface, the door popped open with a metallic snap, revealing an obsidian cube no larger than a fist inside.

It fit perfectly in his palm. Despite its smooth surface, it was cold, unnaturally so, against his skin. There was no latch on it, no seam or lock indicating how to open it. It appeared perfectly uniform, without any discernible opening mechanism.

"Unlock." The cube floated up out of his hand, began to glow, then dissolved into a thousand motes of light. A minute later, a book fell into his hand.

The book was unique. The cover was bound in what looked like leather, but on closer inspection, there were pores and small hairs that caused the leather to look suspiciously like human skin. A stitched face decorated the top cover. Its eyelids were dry and cracked and the skin rolled onto itself, and the mouth was permanently drawn back into a macabre position somewhere halfway between a grimace and a grin. Its nose had a metal ring stuck through it, from which a chain was attached that wrapped around to the book to the back side, binding the covers shut.

Seeing the book again sent shivers up Abad's spine. He hated this thing. "Grimoire. I need your counsel."

After he spoke, the book's eyelids began to twitch. Slowly, ever so slowly, they fluttered open, revealing twin white orbs. There was something so unnerving about those blank white irises staring unblinkingly into his own.

Still, it didn't respond. Abad swallowed. Even in the best of times, he struggled to speak to the tome. The moody thing likely felt abandoned after he had been away for so long. Inhaling deeply, he placed his fingertips onto the face and said, "Grimoire. It has been many years. I apologize. I have need of you now."

There was silence, the eyes gazing at Abad as they considered his words. Then, the mouth opened, the lips parting to reveal a row of sharp teeth set into the cover. When fully opened, they revealed an obsidian tongue hiding within.

"How can this old book be of service to you today, young master?" The mouth's exaggerated movements made the hairs on his neck stand up. The voice sounded raspy, gravelly, like rocks scraped off the bottom of a dungeon floor, yet, its tone was cordial, almost gentle, not matching its fearsome face.

"Grimoire, I have..." Abad hesitated, not knowing how to frame his words. The book looked impatient as it waited for him to finish his sentence. He decided honesty would be best in this instance. "I have just awoken since a most untimely near-death experience, and I have lost all of my power and spells. All of them, even my very weakest."

"You've died, hm? I bet it felt wonderful. Such pain and pleasure..." It purred.

Abad suppressed his disgust at the being. "Indeed. Quite lovely," he agreed hastily. "However, I am alive again, and I am in need of your aid."

The book stared back at him, expressionless, the chains clinking together as it moved its obsidian tongue around its teeth.

"Explain to me what it was like. Tell me tales of your ordeal, and perhaps this old book will decide to come to the aid of the one who abandoned it for so long."

Abad took a deep breath and readied himself. He hadn't planned on placating the book's interests ever again. The ghastly thing practically lived on morbid fascination.

"Well, it started when I infiltrated Saern's court..."

***

"... and that's when I finally woke up and came to you for counsel."

The grimoire stared back at him for a long moment after Abad finished telling his tale. Its black tongue ran along its cracked lips hungrily. Slowly, it's half smile, half grimace stretched, growing wider, and wider, until a rumbling began to emanate from the book. At first, it was soft, like stones falling down a mountain, but slowly the rumbles became chuckles, then the chuckles became more and more violent until its chains clinked with laughter. Then, it was vibrating and shuddering as it laughed, so much so that he had to release the foul object. It flopped unceremoniously to the floor, face down, but still the muffled cackling emitted from the book. The chain on the book unlinked, and the book opened, flipping itself over so that the laughing face could continue looking at the grey-skinned elf.

Abad gritted his teeth. Despite sounding nothing like her, the book had the same biting sense of humor as his late teacher. Nothing was ever good enough for the old mage. Every spell could be improved. Every movement could be sharper. Every word could be further shaped to execute our will. Even when he had embodied every lesson perfectly, mastered whichever theory or spell she had been teaching him, there was never any praise. A lack of criticism maybe, a subtle nod, sometimes a "that's not terrible"—those were the only hints he ever received to know he was making progress. And then, when her death approached, she wrote a book, containing in it all of her spite and bile and perfection, and then she died, the book grinning on her lap as her soul left for the underworld.

And now it was laughing at him.

***

The book laughed, and laughed, until it slowly got it all out.

"It wasn't that funny." Abad sulked.

That seemed to irritate it. The book shifted on the stone floor, angling itself toward Abad before snapping its jaw shut. "Then perhaps the former warlock needs a better sense of humor." Its eyes narrowed on Abad, and the corners of its mouth tightened. "But I suppose we all know why you have no sense of humor, little abandoned orphan boy."

Abad pursed his lips, trying to stop himself from rising to the bait. Instead, he crossed his arms defensively as he waited for the tome to continue.

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"All that time, all that energy and effort and talent... then the one who wished to be the greatest Warlock in five centuries gets cut down by some brat plucked from another world. Oh, how the mighty fall and the ambitious fail. Following the dreams of a dead man, no less." Its lips curled upward again in a mockery of a smile.

Angra hissed at the tome and flew over to smack it.

"Silence, worm food. He IS the most powerful warlock... Or was. And will be again!" She talked herself out of the circle.

"Oh ho! How cute! The little imp still protecting the delicate feelings of its master, longing for him to look at her the way—"

She cried out. Her tail snapped, striking the book with her stinger, aiming for its right eye. She shrieked as the tip of her tail burned as it touched the book, black smoke billowed out, engulfing the room in acrid fumes. She and Abad coughed as the book glared at them both, no worse for wear.

"Insolent familiar." It spat. "Learn your place and grovel."

A pulse of force emitted from the book, driving the little red creature to her hands and knees. Despite her best effort at resisting, her head thumped onto the hard ground with a loud cracking noise.

"A—Abad! It's mocking you!" Angra cried out as she struggled to resist it, her head pressing into the floor. "Kill it! Use your powers, master! I know you haven't lost them all!" Despite her struggles, the creature couldn't lift her head off the cold, unforgiving marble.

Without thinking, he dashed to the diminutive creature, but the second he touched her, he, too, was caught in the book's spell.

"My my my. Your power has indeed lessened, Lord of the Vault." Abad winced at the sarcastic tone as he was driven to his knees. "The once-proud mage has been reduced to a worm crawling on the floor of his former empire. Let us hope there are no mirrors nearby, else he'll be forced to see how far he has fallen."

Abad tried to rise, to resist the effects of the spell, but it was impossible. His body was weak. He lacked the strength to fight back. His head planted into the stone next to his familiar's. Resisting the pressure enough to look at her, he could see the tears of frustration streaming from her yellow eyes, her fangs bared in defiance.

The grimoire laughed harder, louder, deeper than before. Bitter laughs. Mocking laughs. It's laughter echoed throughout the empty chamber of the vault as Abad knelt there, helpless, his face buried against the unforgiving stone. His heart filled with shame, his pride broken.

"Why, then, oh mighty Abad, should I, the great Grimoire personally crafted by the most glorious mage this world has seen, help someone as insignificant as you? Why shouldn't I wait for another being more powerful than you to come claim me? The Depths hold no risk for me. I can wait as long as I need to."

Silence. The echoes faded to nothing, leaving the three beings in the cold quiet. Abad licked his chapped lips as he struggled for words. "I... because..."

"Oh my, the master of masks is at a loss for words. What happened, little immortal?" The book taunted. "You used to speak with such eloquence, such grace. Was all that simply a facade?"

Angra's little hand reached out to touch his. She gave his index finger a little squeeze. The gesture helped him collect his thoughts.

"I admit defeat. You win, Grimoire. You are right. I am nothing now." He bowed his head as much as he could with it already planted on the ground, yielding. As if a weight was lifted off him, the force pressing his body to the ground vanished, letting him raise himself up, only for him to lean forward again into a supplicant kowtow. "As was your creator, you are greater than me now. I submit to your power, oh great Book of Shadows, wondrous legacy of the Archmage Aughra." He saw his familiar's head whip around. Her mouth hung open in surprise. She trembled in fear and rage. "You are wise beyond my ability to comprehend. So please, instruct me, as my master did long ago."

He was nothing if not pragmatic. The book was powerful, and he was not. He would have to rebuild himself from the ground up.

The grimoire was quiet for a moment before its chains rattled in arrogant pleasure. The chains unlatched from the back cover, and the book opened, its pages fluttering on an invisible wind as if in thought.

"Intriguing," it finally stated. "You would have never submitted before. No, you would have killed anyone who suggested that another could be better than you. You would force me to submit, to open my mysteries to you," The book paused dramatically, allowing the words to hang in the air.

"Yet here you are, sitting in the dust and dirt, humbled and pleading for guidance. Very intriguing. If nothing else, your growth pleases me." There was another pause, during which Abad felt the tension grow. Finally, the book said, "Perhaps this book should lend its wisdom and power to such a willing, pliable pupil. You are no longer full of self-will. Now, you can learn. Yes, yes. I see why the ancient hag chose you."

Angra and Abad both breathed sighs of relief.

"Stand." It commanded.

The warlock was picked up off the ground by the same force that kept him pressed to it moments before. Next to him, Angra fluttered into the air, her wings twitching uselessly. The book snapped shut, then floated upward, rising to eye-level, its chain dangling beneath it like a severed umbilical cord.

"Answer my question, student of my creator. Why do you deserve this boon?" The grimoire eyed Abad suspiciously, its lips turned downward stretching the already tight flesh of the cover. "Speak truthfully; don’t try to fool me. Remember, my secrets are valuable, and my creator knew you well."

"I want revenge," Abad said simply. "For the ones who robbed my precious vault." He spoke with conviction. He'd make them pay.

"Not good enough, young one." The force holding him up squeezed him. He felt the air drive from his lungs.

His mind raced. How was that not good enough? How else was he supposed to answer? "The one who murdered me, and the ones who stole from me, must pay. I cannot allow others to believe I can be slain with impunity, nor can I allow others to steal from me and live."

"So you believe you seek vengeance?"

"Yes."

"How does revenge make you worthy of my knowledge? Hundreds seek revenge daily. Every moment, someone somewhere seeks bloody payment for a perceived wrong. Revenge does not make you special, Abad-Shai."

"That's not—I also want..." Abad swallowed.

What did he actually want?

The exercise of power over the weak had always had its appeal. To make the powerful crawl and fawn and supplicate themselves had been an exquisite joy that he had deeply savored. However, so much of his life before was dull and hollow. All the power in the world had simply led to his death. He spent all of his time manipulating his enemies and plotting against his friends. Now that he had been granted a new chance, what did he actually want? What was he doing? After what was likely more than a century, did any of it even matter anymore? Who was even left alive from his time?

"Hmmm," the book interrupted, "you are unsure of yourself. Doubt is the poison that plagues the weak and powerful alike. Yet doubt can guide us to new paths. Could it be that you are destined to walk a new path?" The book released them. Abad fell to his knees while Angra landed on her butt. "Death has allowed you to abandon the frivolities of your former life, but it also has stolen from you your purpose."

The book watched silently as it waited for his response.

"Master. Abad." Angra whispered as she landed next to him. Placing her hand on his arm, she looked up at him. "You are still strong, no matter what happened. I believe in you."

He turned his head to gaze into her yellow eyes. The creature believed in him far more than he did himself at this point.

The Warlock thought for a long moment before he finally spoke up. "Grimoire, I don't know what I want. I can't answer your question."