Morthisal boarded the commuter bus, his mood as dark as the poorly lit vehicle's interior. The commute was always a trial, but today felt longer. The bus groaned as it pulled away from the stop. The engine labored as it accelerated. Morthisal pressed his back against the seat, doing his best to ignore the passengers crowding the aisles. He had learned to dismiss them as so much background noise, but tonight, their chatter felt grating.

Morthisal stepped off the bus and onto the curb at his transfer point. Cool evening air touched his cheeks, and a light mist kicked up, but he barely noticed. His thoughts swirled around Thalindra and the uncertainty surrounding her next move.

The second bus pulled into the stop with a hiss of air brakes. Morthisal climbed aboard and fell onto a cold bench seat. The trip was shorter than the first, but the wait seemed endless.

Finally, the bus dropped him near his apartment building. Morthisal descended the few steps to the sidewalk. His eyes drifted to the shop across the street.

Penny’s shop sat quietly on the corner, windows dark. Morthisal set his shoulders and marched across the road, avoiding the few cars that meandered past. Morthisal rapped sharply on the door with his knuckles. He waited. Nothing. He knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing.

"Thalindra," he hissed at the crack in the door.

Nothing stirred within.

Sighing, he turned away from the shop and started toward his building. The walk was short. Morthisal climbed the stairs to his floor instead of the elevator, hoping a little exertion would clear his head. It did not.

He pulled out his key but first checked the door. It was locked. Morthisal slid in his key and turned. The door creaked open. He stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. At first glance, the apartment was as it had been left. He moved cautiously, expecting an ambush. His gaze swept every corner. He checked under his bed, inside his closets, and behind his furniture. There was no sign of Thalindra.

He moved to his desk and inspected every flat surface, searching for any sign of hidden cameras or surveillance devices, then he repeated the steps on his bookshelves. He found none. The tension left him, and he slumped onto his couch, breathing deeply.

He needed money to hire the bodyguard, so he dug out his phone and dialed Betty Mead's number.

"Hello, Betty," he said.

"Vince, oh, hey," Betty said. "You were great at the shoot. Are you ready for more? I'll have the shooting schedule posted in the next few days."

"I’d like to know when I’ll receive compensation for my work."

Betty hesitated. "No worries, Vince. Swing by on Saturday morning, and we'll get you sorted. Marty will need you again, and we can sort out the payment details then."

Morthisal groaned. "I’ve already done two days of shoots. No payment? You cannot be serious."

"Sorry, Vince. We got busy."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "When will the shoot occur?"

"Saturday morning, ten sharp."

"I shall be there. Pray you have my payment ready.”

Betty laughed gently and said, "So method. See you Saturday."

"Fine."

Morthisal hung up without another word. He pressed his hands against his face and groaned. He had never been much of a consumer of alcoholic beverages, but he had found some of them quite pleasant in this world and had purchased a few bottles. Morthisal rose and went to the kitchen to mix up a Sex on the Beach.

Drink in hand, he leaned back against the couch, clicked on the television, and quickly turned into the new season of Love is Blind, but he could barely pay attention.

"Curse that woman," he muttered.

Morthisal became lost in memories of his life on Mythralon.

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Morthisal stood at the center of the war room with his staff, imbued with power over the dead, planted firmly into the stone floor. The staff's head bore over a dozen tiny carved heads, their expressions frozen in agony. Mouths open, necks stretched, and eyes wide. The room was dim; the eerie green glow emanated from his staff's headpiece and the cluster of anguished faces casted shifting shadows across the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of burning incense and other various herbs, and simmering bowls of blood arrayed around the edges of the chamber.

His generals and lieutenants gathered around the large wooden table, their faces expectant. They were lords of the abyss, mortal warlords, a summoned demon, and his most trusted advisors. Each bore the marks of their service to him—burned sigils, war-torn armor, and the occasional vacant look.

Thalindra had planted herself to his left, her eyes scanning the map spread across the table. Zyn Nightwhisper, the Durethian assassin, leaned against a pillar in the corner. His black eyes rarely blinked. The room was silent save for the crackling of a brazier at the far end.

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Morthisal swept his gaze across the group. "The High Lord of Shavenhold has fortified his castle walls, believing himself impervious to my power," his voice was low and commanding. He tapped the head of his staff against the floor. "He is greatly mistaken."

Thalindra folded her arms. She wore a dark green velvet robe laced with red sigils and dark elven script along the edges. She said, "His forces have grown. Scouts have reported fresh reinforcements from neighboring provinces."

Morthisal gestured toward the map. Wooden figurines representing armies and fortifications had been carefully placed on the worn surface. His long fingers plucked one of the figurines—representing the High Lord's cavalry—and dropped it near the castle's gates.

"Let him gather what forces he may. They will serve only to swell the ranks of my own," Morthisal said. His lips curved into a smile. "Thalindra, tell me, what do you see here?" He pointed to the eastern side of the map, where a small, unassuming mark was etched into the parchment.

Thalindra leaned closer and her dark hair fell like a curtain over one shoulder. Her violet eyes narrowed. "A graveyard," she said.

"Precisely," Morthisal replied. He turned to the others, his voice rising. "This graveyard will be the foundation of our assault. I will summon an army the likes of which the world of Mythralon has never seen. When the High Lord's walls crumble, his people will fall to their knees before me. Then they will fall again before they rise as my undead."

Zyn's sharp voice spoke from the shadows. "While your undead march on the castle walls, what of the elven mages? Their vantage points will give them the upper hand."

Morthisal inclined his head toward the Durethian. "An excellent observation. That is why I have summoned you here. Your task will be to silence as many mages as possible. Can you deliver?"

Zyn stepped forward. His movements were fluid and silent. "Consider it done."

"Good," Morthisal said, his eyes flicking back to the map. He moved another figurine, this one representing his own forces, closer to the graveyard. "My wraiths will emerge from the crypts and descend upon the High Lord's army. Their morale will shatter. They will run before the wraiths. Cold dread will become their friend. Fear their greatest enemy. Then they, too, shall fall."

Thalindra tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "You make it sound so easy, my lord."

He turned to her and his dark eyes met hers. "It is easy, Thalindra, when you wield power such as mine." He gestured toward the staff. "The High Lord fights with steel and stone. The elven mages throw around lightning and fire. I fight with the essence of death itself. Do you doubt me?"

Thalindra's lips rose into a faint smile. "Not for a moment, my dark lord."

Morthisal's lips parted in a half smile. Despite his cold words, he was growing quite fond of Thalindra. She had already proven herself on the battlefield. Her power was immense, even if only a sliver of his own. She was undoubtedly attractive and had begun sharing his bed, a place that had been vacant for too long. His wife, Lady Ophelia Nightshade, had left him in the middle of the night months ago, and he assumed her dead, or, more likely, plotting his downfall. She would find it quite hard to get through his defenses. There was also Zyn to contend with.

The demon, a hulking figure with smoldering eyes and jagged horns, growled. "What of us, Master? Where do you wish us to strike?"

Morthisal pointed to the western side of the map, where a narrow mountain pass led to an unguarded flank of the castle. "You and your kin will sow chaos here. Draw their forces away from the main gates. Let them believe they have an advantage. When they are sufficiently distracted, my undead will rise and strike."

A murmur of approval rippled through the war room. Morthisal turned to his mortal warlords. They were clad in battered armor that bore the scars of numerous battles. "You will lead the initial assault. Make it loud. Make it brutal. I want the High Lord to cower beneath our presence before the true horror descends upon him."

One of the warlords, a grizzled man with a missing eye, pounded his fist against the table. "It will be done, Lord Ebonwrath." Then he turned and departed. The other half dozen warlords followed him out of the room.

Morthisal nodded. He placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. "This battle is not merely about conquest. It is a declaration. The world will know that resistance against me is useless. That all who stand against me will be crushed beneath my heel."

Thalindra's voice was soft but carried an edge. "And what of the High Lord, himself? Will you face him personally?"

Morthisal's smile returned. It was colder this time. "Yes. When the time is right, but let him stew in his fear for a time as the world crumbles around him. Then, and only then, will I claim his soul."

She placed a hand upon Morthisal's forearm and looked up at him, her eyes locking with his. "Might I be there to assist, my dark lord? I would love nothing better than to see you at the height of your power. I wish to watch the High Lord grovel before you rip his soul from his body."

Morthisal covered her slim hand with his own and nodded. "I would very much like for you to join me.

Thalindra's normally gray cheeks flushed a bright shade of red. She looked away…

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Morthisal's phone vibrated. His eyes flew open, and he found himself back in the small apartment. He sighed, yearning for the days when he wielded his full power.

Wiping his eyes, Morthisal reached for his phone and picked it up. He didn't recognize the number and almost sent it to voicemail. Instead, he answered.

"Yes?"

"This Vince?"

"Yes."

"It's Jackson Creed. You called me. Guess you need help."

Morthisal sat forward and cleared his throat. "Mr. Creed. Yes. I do have need of you. An angry ex is stalking me."

"Bro. Get a restraining order. I do heavy work. Know what I mean?"

"I do not. However, I can assure you this person wields much power."

"Like a cop? She got a gun?"

Morthisal hadn't considered that. "I do not know, and no. She is not a police officer."

Creed blew out a heavy sigh. "I mean, yeah. We can meet and talk. I ain't cheap."

"Very well. When and where shall we meet?" Morthisal asked. He knew the current state of his bank account and would be paid more on Saturday.

They talked for a few more minutes, negotiating a meeting at a quiet diner off Fifth Street the following afternoon. The bodyguard's gruff demeanor reminded him of some of his old mercenary captains, though this one seemed far more cautious about taking on work.

After the call, Morthisal prepared a simple dinner of pasta and air-fried chicken nuggets mixed with some store-bought spaghetti sauce. He found the ordinary task of cooking oddly calming after the day's anxieties. With Jackson's help, perhaps he could find a little peace. Exhausted from the day's events, he loaded the dishwasher, set it to wash, and mixed another Sex on the Beach.