Bethuselom wandered the nighttime streets of Bvolyed, a small city on the coast of Golokia. Harolf Uldenson, the former duke of Bruderman, had established it as a colony on the continent to the east. Over a short amount of time, he’d managed to grow it into a burgeoning nation. He had sent a great many of his subjects and had spent a fortune in gold to conquer, settle, and build on the land there. All while keeping it secret from the rest of his family through meticulous planning, and misdirection.

Lightning streaked across the heavens as the storm brewing in the Gulf of Smerelyipo built up in preparation to lash the coast. As a being of darkness, Bethuselom could not see. Instead, he felt his way around.

He could feel the warmth given off by the torches lighting the street. With the fine hairs covering his borrowed skin, he could feel the vibration of sound waves reflected from the surfaces of buildings and objects, forming a picture in his mind of how his surroundings appeared. The thunder rumbling through the night sky painted a more vivid image in his mind than the usual vibrations through which he perceived the world.

Deep within him, he could sense the spark of souls as every movement, every twitch of the bodies that contained them, caused a flare of energy to course through the flesh sacks that contained them. So developed was his soul sense, he could distinguish one from another with ease.

These walking morsels he passed in the street were distracting. But they could wait. Bethuselom needed patience. It was a particular soul he sought tonight- a soul who could lead him to the one who killed his Malliphina. He needed to find Harolf.

Consuming random souls here and there would sate Bethuselom in the short term, but he wanted it all. He had plans to bring all his kind into this reality, into this universe. This required contracts, and steering these walking meals away from their Gods, to worshipping him and his ilk. The only possible way to diminish a God’s power required taking their precious worshippers away from them. If he Played his hand too soon, all would come to naught.

He needed to establish a following here and teach these walking meals the rituals, and circles for summoning his children. His mirrors function as transport, but the frames were also his circles. The body he now inhabited, was the former Civil Censor of the Nevan Senate, Scipio Agular. At one time, Scipio’s contract with Malliphina protected him, as after all, it was bad form to eat another dark one’s food.

After her demise, Scipio’s protection burned away with his contract seal. And when out of desperation, he appealed to Bethuselom, being corrupted as he was, Scipio had unwittingly given Bethuselom unconditional access. However, it was an unsatisfying meal, to say the least. Scipio’s soul was rotten long before he crossed paths with the Thadens.

Overall, he had a decent mind for getting things done, and he had contacts with corrupt, influential people throughout all levels of Nevan society. More was the shame he had failed so absolutely. But, alas, that could not be helped, and at least now, Bethuselom was aware from where the greatest threats to his designs would come.

Perhaps this place would be ideal. It was far enough from where Scipio’s failure had brought their plans to ruin. They were so close. The war between the Nevans and the Halders was all but a guarantee. Harolf needed only to disrupt the succession to the Halder crown by taking down his brothers, and Scipio was to ascend to the dictatorship of the Nevan Empire. This would have given the Thaden cultists free rein in the capital of the Nevan Empire, as well as throughout Halder lands. Thus, they would have decimated those worthless priests, steering the multitude of worshippers to their new Gods- Bethuselom and his fellows. ‘Twas such a good, solid plan.

No matter, he could establish the Thadens here, and have them spread and proselytise. To the east were multitudes of souls, many of them godless, and ripe for the harvest. This world would be theirs, and once they had established this world as a beachhead, then this entire universe would be theirs for the taking.

Ah, there. Bethuselom sensed him. While he mused and lamented, his senses were still passively scanning, and now he had him. A left turn, two buildings down and on the right. In through this place that was so noisy, but that didn’t matter, for he had locked onto the man’s soul spark.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

These things befuddling their minds with that pungent liquid would pay him no heed. He could turn their minds away, or hold them in thrall as he pleased, considering the multitude of dark thoughts and desires worming through them.

Across the room, up the stairs, along the corridor. Not this door, not this one, and here! Tap-tap-tap.

The deep voice that came from the other side of the door had a slight tremor and was subdued, betraying the fear permeating it. “Who’s there?”

“A friend,” replied Bethuselom.

A muffled thud sounded from within, followed by some creaking of bedsprings and the groans of well-worn floorboards as the man on the inside of the room approached the door.

“I don’t have friends. Tell me who you are, or take that knowledge to your grave,” said the room’s occupant. His voice sounded clearer, a little more sure of himself.

“I am he who can turn your fortunes. You failed to take down your brother and thus turned yourself from future king to fugitive. Your father is a determined man. He won’t let this go. I can help you. Allow me.”

The floor and the fact the staircase turned back on itself dulled the noises from the souls below them. Within the room, on the other side of the door, was silence. After a long pause that threatened to go on, the dry rasp of a hand sliding down the door accompanied by a shuddering sigh broke the silence from within.

The latch clicked as it was turned, and then the hinges being worked hard gave a small high-pitched squeak as a hand whipped the door open. There in the doorway was the bedraggled, red haired and bearded, husky, fur-clad form of Harolf.

Bethuselom tentatively touched the blade of the sword that was buried in his chest, with Harolf’s hand still on the hilt.

A malicious smile cut Bethuselom’s face as he sensed the terror in the man before him. Such delicious terror.

He sneered at the man who had just run him through. Unfazed, he said, “Really, Harolf. Is this any way to treat he who would save you from your peril? Let go of the hilt, that’s good. Now, go sit on the bed. I’ll just close this door so that we are not interrupted. Besides, this blade might be a difficult discussion to have, should someone else chance by.”

Harolf retched as the dark one slowly pulled the sword from his body. The sound was a combination of a wet tearing and steely rasp of blade on ribs as it slid out from between them. The acrid stench of Harolf’s vomit filled the room, accompanied by the tang of adrenal sweat secreted out of fear.

“Now, Harolf, there is no need to worry, I can forgive you this once. After all, are we not friends, you, and I?”

Bethuselom lay the blood-soaked blade on the dresser by the wall as he continued, “Well, of course you did disappoint me by failing to deliver on your and Scipio’s arrangement. But that is in the past, for I have a new plan, and you, my dear man, are the very one to help me, ahem, see things through.” Bethuselom gestured toward his empty eye sockets as he sniggered. An unpleasant sound that terrified Harolf more than any threats or intimidation from this being could.

“It was a mistake. I should never have gone after my family. I see that now. I didn’t need their kingdom. I had a kingdom right here,” said Harolf in an almost pleading tone.

“Precisely. We can make this work, and then we can both get what we want.”

“No, you and I are through. It’s too late, my family hunt me. I tried to kill my own brother.” Harolf sniffed as he fought to hold back the sobs that were threatening to overcome him. Then a small glimmer of hope sparked in his eyes. “You can’t do anything to me. I know the rules, that man you are using now, he told me. We don’t have a contract. You need to leave.”

“Well, I suppose I could leave, my dear man. Or I could stay. I could enthral mobs of people to hound you incessantly. Or better yet, I could send a thrall to your father and tell him where you are. Just keep sending him report, after report, after report, so he can hound you until he dies, and his sons assume the task of bringing you to justice. Hm? Would you enjoy that? I know I would. Imensely!” Bethuselom gave a low, menacing chuckle.

“What do you want? I know how your deals work. I am not giving you my soul. I will not. I would rather die.” Harolf’s eyes had become bloodshot as tears of fear and desperation formed in his tired-looking eyes. He pulled a dagger from his belt and held the point against his own chest.

Bethuselom clicked his tongue and spoke in a wheedling, yet patronising tone. “So melodramatic. We don’t need to forge a soul contract. I just need you to find me those who would. Those wicked ones who lack the will to attain their dreams, but are desperate to do so by any means. Do this for me, and we can be equal partners. The world is a big place. Surely you don’t want it all for yourself. Spare a little of it for me. Besides, our goals align more than you know. I want to wipe out the entire family of the one who killed my daughter, and I believe among them is the child of the bastard. The child who would be king.”

The smile that Bethuselom flashed at the former Duke of Bruderman with Scipio’s eyeless face was broad, toothy, and devoid of anything resembling humour or goodwill.

His hands shaking, Harolf put down the knife and said in a subdued voice, “All right, I’m listening.”