Morthisal stood before the run-down building near the waterfront. The early morning mist clung to the cracked windows and faded signage. A few production vans idled out front. Workers hefted large boxes through a gaping door that led into shadows. The smell of exhaust from the various running vehicles was so strong that it competed with the fresh sea scents from being this close to the ocean. The morning was cold, but thankfully, there was no rain, for a change.

He approached a tall, thin man hauling a crate. "Is this the movie studio?" Morthisal asked.

The man snorted. "Movie studio? Sure." He pushed past without another glance.

Doubt flickered Morthisal's mind. Had he been led astray? Did he have the wrong address? He followed the man inside, just in case. The scent of sawdust and old paint filled the air. Dim lights hung from exposed beams, casting uneven pools of light over the cluttered space.

The studio was smaller than he'd imagined. Sets cobbled together from plywood and fabric stood in corners. Cables snaked across the dusty floor. Voices echoed off the high ceiling, a jumble of shouts and clanging metal.

No one paid him any attention as he wove through the maze of equipment. He caught sight of a man adjusting a spotlight. "Excuse me," Morthisal said. "Where can I find Betty Mead?"

The man pointed vaguely toward the back. "Betty? Uh. Try over there."

He wandered in that direction, only to receive shrugs and nods that led him in circles. Frustration gnawed at him. At last, he stumbled upon a table laden with donuts, snacks, and steaming coffee urns. The rich aroma was a welcome relief.

Morthisal exhaled and reached for a cup. As he poured, he glanced around for some creamer and sugar.

"Hey!" A large man with a shaved head and tattoos covering his arms stepped up. "Who the fuck are you? Why are you drinking our coffee?"

"I am here for the play-acting drama," Morthisal replied. "I am the dark lord."

The man laughed. "Is that right? Someone get this guy outta here! I think he's high on something."

Anger flared within Morthisal. His eyes locked onto the man's, and his fingers curled tight. He considered making this insolent fool eat his own hand. He had power to spare this morning and wouldn't mind a small demonstration.

Before he could act on his impulse, a woman bustled over, her light brown hair done up in a bun. She had a pinched face but a large mouth currently frowning over teeth so white they practically glowed. "I'm Honor April, one of the ADs. What's your name?"

"AD? What does that mean?"

"Assistant Director. Are you looking for a hot meal? There's a facility a few blocks east of here. I hear they have nice beds."

"I have already consumed a hot meal today," he replied sharply. "I am dark lord Morthisal Ebonwrath. Summon Betty Mead at once."

She smiled. "Oh! Oh my god! You're the method guy. Vince, right?"

"Vincent Logan. That is correct."

The man who Morthisal had considered feeding his own hand rolled his eyes and walked away.

"Betty told me all about you. We have a few forms for you to sign, and we also need to get you into makeup. Why don't you hang out here for a few minutes? I'll come and get you."

"Of course."

Morthisal picked at a dry donut and frowned at his coffee. The liquid was bitter and black, lacking any form of sweet cream to cut through the harsh taste. He searched the table for something more palatable. Sugar-glazed pastries, chocolate-covered confections, and various other sweets lined the surface. He ate one of each and found them a delight.

Bored with waiting, he wandered away from the refreshment table. The sets scattered throughout the warehouse caught his attention. What appeared to be stone walls were nothing more than painted wood. False floors created the illusion of outdoor terrain, complete with painted grass and dirt. Behind them stood green screens that were as tall as the sets.

"There you are!" Betty approached, her glasses swaying on their chain. "I see you're exploring the set."

"This is all fabrication," Morthisal said.

"That's movie magic for you," Betty said. "We're filming the throne room scene today. It's your big entrance. Marty wanted to do something a little more subdued, but I said, ‘Hey, give the kid a challenge,’ and that's what we're going to do. Did you get all the forms filled out? Of course, you did. Did you have any trouble finding the place? Guess not, since you're here."

"My grand entrance. Excellent," Morthisal said.

"We need to get you into wardrobe and makeup," Betty said. "Now I guessed at your measurements, and your robe might fit on the larger side. Will it be perfect? No. Will it work? Yes. Yes, it will. Come with me, Vince."

"Morthisal."

"Right. Morthisal. Although the character in the movie is named Marakal."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Morthisal frowned at that, but had other things on his mind. "I did not sign any forms or paperwork, yet. Perhaps you can point me in their direction."

"Oh, really? Tell you what. We'll handle that after. Come with me," Betty said.

She led him through a small maze of corridors and rooms. The wardrobe department presented him with a black robe adorned with intricate silver and onyx patterns along the hem and across the chest. It was a little too long, and the stitching was amateurish, at best. The fabric was substandard and thin. He found a price tag affixed to the inside from a store he had never heard of named Spirit of Halloween. Strange.

In makeup, they darkened his eyes, pulled his hair back tight against his scalp, and put a thin net over it. A long white wig descended past his shoulders and the straight strands framed his face.

"My ears require attention," Morthisal said. "They should be pointed, as befits my dark elf heritage."

Betty paused and studied his face. "That is a great idea, Vince. We appreciate input from the talent. Really, we do. I'll run it by Marty, but let's do a few test runs first. Okay? Sounds good. Okay. Yep."

She guided him to another area and handed him a slim stack of papers. "This is the same script we sent you," she said.

"I have not received any script," Morthisal said. "But it matters not. I know what must be done."

"So method," Betty muttered but added. "We sent you a script, I can assure you. Sorry, you didn't receive it. I'll speak to my assistant. She can be a lazy bitch. But she's my niece. Before she started working for me, she thought she would have a career selling makeup on Instagram. An influencer? Really? What are ya gonna do? Am I right?"

Morthisal didn't say anything, since he had not bothered to check his mail in days.

"I'll leave you to review some lines. Give us an hour to set up, and we'll try a few shoots. Sound good? Okay. I'll see you in a little bit."

Morthisal adjusted the heavy black robe for the tenth time. The fabric scratched at his neck and bunched around his shoulders. His old robes had been woven from shadowsilk and deathweave, light as air and deadly to the touch. This cheap imitation would have earned the seamstress a trip to the torture chambers back in Mythralon.

He flipped through the script pages and his lip curled at the amateur dialogue written for Lord Malakar. He sought a pen and began drawing a line over the name and replacing it with Morthisal.

"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath. "No self-respecting dark lord would beg for attention like a circus performer. Who wrote this drivel?"

A crew bustled around him, continuing to work on the small stage area. They positioned a table made to look like bones—poorly crafted, Morthisal noted. The fake skeletal structure lacked the variations of real bone. A person Morthisal had heard referred to as a 'prop master' wiped down a crystal ball and set it atop the table.

Morthisal reached out and touched the orb, sending a small tendril of power into it, just for a giggle. The crystal flickered with an inner light.

"Whoa, what was that?" The prop master picked up the ball and turned it over in his hands before setting it back down.

"Is something amiss?"

"I don't know. This thing isn't supposed to have a battery. Meh. Must have been the lighting in here." He placed it back on the table. As the man turned away, Morthisal once again made it flicker, leading the prop master to shake his head before working on imitation spider webs in the corner of the stage area.

Bright lights surrounded the cramped stage. A camera on wheels stood ready to capture the performance.

Honor April approached with Betty trailing behind her.

"Let's get this show on the road," Betty exclaimed.

Workers shuffled around one last time before moving to the back of the the room.

"Okay, Morthisal, for this scene, we want to really emphasize Malakar's menace," Honor said. "Think less mustache-twirling villain and more quiet danger. When you enter, take some deliberate steps. Let the tension build."

"Project strength through stillness," Betty added from the side.

"And remember, Malakar..."

"Morthisal," he interrupted.

"It's Malakar, okay? Say it with me."

Morthisal frowned, reached into the veil, and looped a thread around the assistant director. He looked her in the eye and said, "It is Morthisal."

She grinned, showing extremely white teeth, and nodded. "Right. Morthisal does have a nice ring to it. I'll make the change to the script."

"Yes. And the title," Morthisal added.

"I don't think Marty will go for that. This script is near and dear to his heart," April put in.

A dagger will be very near to his heart.

Morthisal sent the same surge of power into April Honor as well.

"You know," April said, looking up, "I have to agree on Morthisal. It has a certain je ne sais quoi."

"I agree." Betty nodded enthusiastically.

"So, Morthisal may be evil, but he's calculating. Every threat should feel measured; every gesture should have a purpose," Honor continued. "We want the audience to believe this is someone who could actually take over the world."

"If there is one thing I excel at," Morthisal said, "it is being myself."

Others arrived and shuffled around. A microphone on a boom was raised and hung over the stage. The camera dolly was positioned, and lighting tests were conducted to set the scene's ambiance.

"What is this green background for?" Morthisal asked.

"The green screen? It's for making movie magic, baby." Honor April laughed.

Moments later, April directed him to a mark on the stage floor, a distinct 'X' taped down to indicate his position.

"Alright, everyone, places!" Honor called out authoritatively. Quiet on set! Roll the camera!"

The cameraman nodded, "Rolling!"

"Slate it!" Honor ordered, and a peculiar board with the production details written on it was brought in front of the camera.

"Scene 12, take 1," the person announced before snapping the board shut and stepping away.

"Action!" Honor's voice rang out, the signal for Morthisal to begin his performance.

Morthisal stepped onto the stage, displaying his inherent menace. With every deliberate step, he built tension, embodying the quiet danger Honor had described. His eyes glowed with intensity, and his voice carried the weight of a true dark lord when he spoke.

"My power is boundless, my will unbreakable. I am the dark lord Morthisal, and your world shall fall under my shadow. Every fortress shall crumble, every hero shall kneel, and every light shall flicker and die. The tides of darkness have come to claim this land, and resistance is but a whisper in the storm. Look upon me and know despair, for I am the embodiment of your end. Look upon me and know despair."

"I have fucking chills," Betty said quietly, but Morthisal grinned to himself at her praise.