Bram Moor stormed through his father’s castle; his once white hair now gray from days worth of sweat and soot.

He just returned from his voyage overseas — an insufferable disaster — where not only the vast majority of his personal guard was slaughtered, but also where his father’s brother — his uncle — sacrificed himself for Bram.

Bram’s footsteps echoed like thunder off freshly polished marble floors. He stormed through a Victorian bastion underneath grand halls of vaulted ceilings adorned with exuberant chandeliers.

Bram walked quickly; his face newly twisted, his jawline taut as he grinded his teeth. His eyes were unfocused, they scattered around the illustrious halls stopping, if only for a second, to recognize the tapestries of intricate woodwork that he had seen millions of times already.

The flickering candlelight that adorned the halls glinted off of his eyes. Then, Bram slammed open a heavy oak door causing the sound to reverberate throughout the castle’s quiet corridors.

*THUNK*

The behemoth door closed behind him.

Bram approached a desk carved of light wood, decorated with intricate designs of sea star’s; turtles spanned across its legs, and upon its face — a mess of paperwork in the form of unfurled scrolls sat helplessly.

The man behind the desk looked up; his eyes sharp and intense — they bore into Bram’s scarlet irises, as if seeing through him — but then suddenly, the venomous gaze softened.

“My son, so you’ve returned.” The man from behind the desk gently placed down his quill.

He was an older man, appearing somewhere in his sixties. He had long wild hair and an unorganized beard. Like a mane, his long black hair meshed with his peppered beard and fully encapsulated his face.

He had sharp eyebrows and red eyes. A scar horizontally cut through his nose and the man was wearing what could only be described as royal regalia: a thin and brittle crown of gold, jewels of topaz and ruby across his fingers, and he wore a thick, fur-lined coat that hung down past his ankles.

He cupped his hands together, bringing them closer to his chin, while he analyzed his fourth born’s current demeanor.

“It is as you say, Duke Moor.” Bram clenched his right fist and bashed it into his hip in salute.

“Please, my son-” the Duke gestured to his boy, “no need for airs in my chambers.”

Bram’s body flinched; every muscle in his being constricted into boiling rage, but then he released and his palms started shaking.

“Speaking of, I sent my brother with you, did I not? Where is the old drunkard?” Duke Moor asked.

“Father, I-” Bram looked down, ashamed of himself, “Uncle Tiam has met his end.”

…

***

Erin awoke to the sound of teeth clattering within his dungeon.

He blinked his eyes in an attempt to adjust to his heightened senses: he could suddenly see farther, deeper, and higher.

Erin could see a mile out into the sea — all the way to its depths — in addition to five miles into the ground, and another mile inland.

The beggars had left; two of their ships remained, washed up on the shore, destroyed and dilapidated by the constant onslaught of sea water. The ships, however, had been destroyed long before the sea could claim them — Erin could attest to that.

In the two vessels that remained, large obelisks of stone pierced their hulls; their sails were torn and stripped, and above all — there remained no one alive to sail them.

Blood and guts intermingled amongst the sand, but their bodies of origin had vanished. All along the seashore, stains of blood were abundant, but no corpses remained to justify the carnage.

Meanwhile, the clattering from within the dungeon continued.

Erin focused his attention.

The smoky squirrel appeared within his vision.

The small mammal sat in the corner of Erin's core room, an acorn in its teeth, a full belly exposed; and while it ate, the magical beast also absorbed Erin’s ambient mana.

Since last Erin saw it, the squirrel had grown larger and more smoke bellowed off its back, thicker, and more viscous than before.

Erin shifted his gaze then studied himself. His violet core still sat upon the podium. It still pulsed in tandem with Erin’s breaths and, as it did so, the solar system of sparks within it twirled and danced to his rhythm.

It’s bigger. Erin noticed.

Or I guess… I’m bigger.

At some point during his slumber, Erin’s size had tripled. What was once an orange was now a watermelon: large, thick, and dense.

Mana greedily surged into Erin. From beyond the cave and beyond the dungeon, the tides of mana in the air swirled around the mountain’s peaks and coursed through the earth underneath — all fed directly into Erin’s core.

Erin’s pull, his reach, his breadth — had vastly increased.

Why? Erin wondered.

Did it have something to do with his slumber?

Was Erin’s slumber a form of evolution?

In which case, will he get stronger with every slumber?

Why must an orb rest anyway? Erin wondered.

Lost in his thoughts, Erin’s vision meandered around his dungeon, from the loose rocks randomly strewn about to the hanging stalactites above…

Wait.

Stalactites?

A flashback assaulted Erin.

Beggars with white hair appeared. They chased a fleeing ship and sank it in the reefs. Then, they poached the escaping magical beasts and locked them into cages too small for their comfort.

The flashback continued.

Two men ascended the mountain. They breached Erin’s dungeon and-

RAGE.

Stop! Erin felt his mind return.

He controlled his vision and shot it to the dungeon’s entrance. There, he studied the stone, but not a single drop of blood remained nor was there a single rock out of place.

Where’s his body?! Erin panicked.

He stretched his senses, engulfing the rocky peaks in their entirety, and yet, no human’s revealed themselves.

Thus, Erin thought back to the flashback, thought back to the two men who had entered him and his reaction thereafter.

I was enraged. Erin thought.

And scared.

…

Scared of what? Erin didn’t know.

Regardless, his senses had warned him and they had likely warned him for a reason.

The reason?

Humans are dangerous.

They are self-serving and prideful. The lot of them would trade a new-born for a glimpse at benefits; and the benefits spanned greatly.

From riches to possessions, sex to influence, power to status — humans desired all.

More than anything, however, human’s desire control. They crave it.

Without control, they fear their world will collapse.

Pretentious. Erin thought.

But wait… am I human?

Was… I human?

Erin didn’t know. He couldn’t remember.

It doesn’t matter. Erin decided.

What matters, at least at present, for Erin, is experimenting with mana; his sole means of interacting with the rest of reality.

First, Erin’s reach obviously extended; he could see farther, after all, but what did that really mean?

Erin focused on the edge of his vision. Instantly, he appeared a mile off shore on the bottom of the sea.

Erin looked around.

It’s dark here too. He noticed.

Then, he focused his vision towards the peak of the mountain.

In the next moment, Erin was there, standing atop peaks of snow and overlooking both the massive breadth of water before him and the endless expanse of land that stretched beyond him.

Next, Erin searched within himself, within the confines of his domain rather than along its borders.

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

He felt the bugs and the insects, their minuscule mandibles scraping across wild leaves and fruits.

He felt larger beasts too; predators that lingered behind bushes and kept to the shadows.

He felt birds of prey and schools of fish.

If it existed within Erin’s domain, within his borders, then Erin was acutely aware of its existence.

*crack*

The acorn bound by the squirrel’s teeth burst.

The sound pulled Erin’s attention away and instantly, Erin was there.

He watched the smoky squirrel devour its nut.

Then, a thought occurred to him.

Erin reached forward. He wrapped his fingers around the piece of nut still in the squirrel’s grasp, waiting to be devoured.

Erin felt its smooth texture, but he also felt a simmering heat from within it.

A fading warmth just barely out of reach.

Then, Erin grabbed the warmth; he took hold and pushed more heat into the acorn.

The acorn started shaking and warping. Its smooth texture bubbled, ripples of mana traveling across its surface, molding and shaping the acorn into its wielder’s desired form.

Bigger. Erin thought.

Stronger. He willed.

Then, the acorn grew.

It doubled, no, quadrupled in size in the squirrel’s paws. The acorn’s dark chocolatey exterior shifted, growing more light — more gold — and from its crown, spikes protruded, like thorns, to guard the acorn’s new visage.

Upon its transformation, the squirrel dropped the acorn and leaped back. It prostrated on the ground a few feet from the evolving acorn, worshiping the acorn and its flow of mana as if it were some god in disguise.

What? Erin thought.

The new and improved acorn — bigger, stronger, and better — was made for the squirrel’s sake; so that the squirrel could eat something new, unique, and — hopefully — flavorful.

With his metaphorical hands of mana, Erin tried to push the acorn towards the smoky squirrel.

But the wisps of mana, like ghosts, curbed around the acorn and brushed off its exterior like mere wind.

The mana, at least in its rawest form, could not move the acorn.

Thus, Erin had another thought.

Instead of moving the acorn with mana itself, what if he infused the mana into something else, and then used that to push the acorn?

So, Erin guided his mana into the cave’s grounds; and, with just a little extra push, the stone floor liquified into a stone puddle.

Then, Erin willed its form.

An arm of liquid stone, tentacle-esque, birthed from the stone puddle and writhed amidst the air. The tentacle’s tip scoped the dungeon’s core room — not that it had any eyes to see with — Erin was merely loosening his joints, practicing a mana technique newly developed, one he had never considered until now.

The stone tentacle lowered its tip beneath the acorn and swatted it into the air.

The golden acorn flew towards the squirrel who, once the prostrating was over, caught the nut.

The beast looked back and forth between the gray fluid tentacle and the near-illuminating, golden acorn.

Inevitably, the squirrel devoured the acorn.

One bite. Two. Then three.

Drool licked the squirrel's lips clean before plummeting onto the dungeon floor.

The squirrel looked satiated; its belly slightly poked outward and a mirror-glaze cast over its eyes. The smoky squirrel was indeed satisfied.

In the meantime, Erin continued to exercise his mana.

Surely he could do more than a writhing tentacle?

***

“Are you out of your goddamn mind!!” Duke Moor slammed his desk.

His pot of ink spilled and his unfurled scrolls and parchments rolled onto the floor.

“But father-”

“ENOUGH!” The Duke’s voice bellowed, shaking the finely crafted glassware that filled his overhead cabinets.

“Not only did your foolishness kill your Uncle and all your subordinates, but Bram-” Duke Moor clenched his jaw, “this could start war.”

Bram jumped out of his seat.

“War?!!” He repeated.

“No, no, no, no, no! I told you the land was uninhabited!” Bram pleaded.

But his father — the Duke — did little to listen

“UNINHABITED?!!!!”

A vein bulged between the Duke’s forehead.

“Did you search the land?! Did you map its location?! Did you do ANYTHING other than waste lives and throw away my money!!!”

“But fath-”

“I forbid you from returning to that dungeon!”

Bram’s eyes widened. His knees buckled and he collapsed back into his chair.

“Now get out!” Duke Moor said. “Your incompetence has spoiled my mood.”

…

*bang*

The oak door slammed behind Bram. Now, he stood alone in a magnificent hallway.

He walked along velvet carpet beside walls adorned with beautiful paintings and fantastical landscapes.

For some time, he roamed the castle aimlessly.

What went wrong? The question rattled within his mind, over and over again.

He replayed the events in his head, all the way back to the beginning.

Bram Kite Moor, fourth born, son of Duke Moor and third in line for succession.

He has two older brothers; the first born, Malric, first in line of succession, and the most dangerous of his siblings.

Malric carries a greed for strength unrivaled and he works himself tirelessly, often to the bone. He excels in two schools of magic, light and fire, which only aids to fuel his uncouth obsession with destruction.

From a young age, Malric has been systematically trained to overtake the Dukedom. He’s studied agriculture, law, psychology, cartology, biology, and so, SO, much more.

But most of all, hidden behind closed doors and tucked away from the voyeurs of the outside world, Malric feeds off punishment; whether it be the maids, the cooks, the scholars, the siblings — or even his own subordinates — Malric has a temper like dynamite: a short fuse before a big blast.

Following Malric, there’s Bram’s second brother — Cassian — third born and second in line for succession. Unlike Malric, Cassian lacks personal strength of his own; he studies a rare form of life magic, chloromancy, the antithesis of necromancy.

Through chloromancy, Cassian is able to manipulate and conjugate plant life. He can alter the growth time, stimulate evolution, combine species and flat-out control all flora.

But as stated earlier, Cassian is a weak man. A well-respected researcher and scholar, a powerful voice in science and botany — but vines and flowers can only get you so far in a fight.

To make up for it, however, Cassian has enlisted many powerful people to his side: from top-grade warriors to elite mages, all Cassian ever has to do is sprinkle a little of his plant magic around and the world’s best apothecary’s come running.

And naturally, the world’s best apothecary’s work for the world’s most powerful people.

Shocker.

Beside Cassian’s seemingly infinite list of friends, the man is cunning, illusive, and most of all, patient. If it weren’t for Malric’s overwhelming presence, Bram was positive Cassian’s intellect alone could garner him sole-succession of the Dukedom.

To Bram, Malric is like a lion; king of the jungle, loyal, protective, and vicious; whilst Cassian is like a snake.

Both predators in their own right and both significantly more successful than Bram.

Bram has two sisters too, the second born and the fifth born, but in the patriarchal duchy that their father led, the two girl’s were not permitted to enter the succession battle.

And quite frankly, Bram was thankful for that; as his older sister, the second born, was too significantly greater than him in considerably all aspects.

So then, what was Bram to do?

He studied wind magic from a very young age, even excelling in it, and was thus granted permission to study under his father’s brother — Tiam Moor, a world renowned adventurer famed for his wind magic.

Paired with his uncle, Bram traveled the world as an adventurer. The two conquered dungeons, slayed monsters, and rescued damsels in distress at every opportunity.

Bram quickly adopted a knack for drinking; a pastime of his uncle’s.

Over the years of adventuring with Tiam, Bram finally realized something.

His eldest brother, Malric — he possessed strength.

His second brother, Cassian — he possessed connections.

What could Bram obtain that could grant him both strength and connections?

Bram needed resources.

The type of resources that granted him both power and connections.

Resources he had seen his uncle possess.

Resources that make the world go ‘round.

Resources that come from dungeons, i.e. mana-infused resources.

The thought process was actually remarkably simple, Bram was livid he hadn’t gleamed it years in advance.

All he needed to do was control a dungeon.

As Dungeon Master, Bram would have strength and connections.

Because every powerful family in the world operated around the dungeons; although on the surface, it may seem like the families rule the dungeons, either by restricting their access or by taxing their exports, but in reality, the families are at the mercy of the dungeons.

So Bram set out with a plan.

He sent his subordinates around the kingdom with an order of espionage. The description?

Report back with anything and everything that had to do with dungeons.

Two months later, Bram received a report detailing an underground auction-house in the heart of the capital. What made the report worthy?

The auction-house was advertising magical beasts.

Although magical beasts were plentiful beyond the borders of mankind, hence the need for adventurers — or let’s be honest, free colonialists, men and women vying for riches and land yet to be claimed — magical beasts were not commonly seen within the kingdom; and better yet, for them to be transported all the way to the capital of the kingdom…

Well, there could only be two possibilities.

One: the caravan of bandits selling and delivering the magical beasts to the underground market possess the strength necessary to subdue the most-likely-rampaging magical beasts. In this scenario, Bram hopes to inquire with these bandits — these adventurers — the location of their hunting grounds.

Thus, Bram is taking a bet on whether or not a location ripe with magical beasts is local to a collapsed dungeon; or in other words, a dungeon that’s gone unthinned for too long, in which case the floors within effectively “collapse” and the mana and magical beasts within surge unto the surface.

If Bram’s bet pays off, and of course the stars-align and the moon is in retrograde, then he could find the collapsed dungeon, conquer it, and thus bind it.

Furthermore, if Bram discovered that the bandits themselves had already claimed the dungeon for their own, he would report them to the Guild of Adventurers; as per Royal Law i-iv: “All dungeons, whether private or commercial, must be registered and monitored by the Guild of Adventurers; submitting to annual thinning and appropriate reports on newly discovered mana-enriched entities.”

Basically, dungeon’s were public knowledge. They had to be, by law. And succinctly, by law, their status of “conquered,” “collapsed,” or “restricted” must also be public knowledge.

“Conquered” — the dungeon and all of its floors therein have been completed and the dungeon has been bound to a Dungeon Master; thus eliminating the dungeon’s growth by effectively killing the soul of the dungeon.

“Collapsed” — the dungeon has been left to grow untethered, but not all dungeons are created equal; scholar’s call them limiters, a mysterious force that restricts the infinite evolution of dungeons, a planet-wide phenomenon that equalizes the amount of dungeons scattered across the globe. In other words, there can only be so many S-rank dungeons, A-rank dungeons, and so on; and once a dungeon reached its limiters peak, if left unthinned, the dungeon would implode on itself and all that occupied it would be released to the surface.

“Restricted” — a dungeon under the scrutiny of the Guild of Adventurers or a prominent governing body; under this classification, the dungeon must either be available to appropriately leveled adventurer’s or, in the instance of privatization, must be thinned on a monthly-basis and a report of proof of further exploration must be submitted to the Guild of Adventurers on an annual-basis.

If the bandits who are delivering the magical beasts to the underground auction-house had conquered a dungeon themselves, then it would not have been reported to the Guild; because if it had, the bandits wouldn’t be selling their goods underground — they’d be selling it over-counter.

That is a lot to say, especially considering that there is a second possibility afloat.

Two: the magical beasts being smuggled into the capital are not ferocious at all; they are in fact infants, newly-born creatures of mana fresh from a dungeon. This possibility can only exist if the bandits have direct access to an illegally-operated dungeon; either a supplier or a direct connection, it didn’t matter, since the end result was Bram discovering a dungeon ripe for exploitation.

With the decision made, the operation began.

Bram ‘borrowed’ three of his father’s navy ships. He sent one of his subordinates to the slums to collect rags and apparel — the least expecting disguise for a noble.

He ordered his subordinates to adopt the drunken-southern accent of his uncle; another layer of deception that would hopefully buy them some time if the operation went haywire.

Then, the fated night arrived.

Nothing went to plan.

The desperate noble and his gaggle of pawns weren’t patient enough; the bandits caught sight of them amidst the sea’s, prior to even arriving in the capital.

So with no other clear option available, Bram initiated the hunt. He and his pawns chased the galleon of bandits far west — towards the Empire — until they finally cornered them in a rocky coral reef underneath a nightmarish spire of stones so imperious they had to be called mountains.

But when the galleon crashed, the magical beasts escaped, and the white deer contorted the waters rushing the galleon and used it to drag the crew members under the sea and into the blades of coral beneath.

Bram’s access to information vanished.

*snap*

Like that.

To salvage his broken heart and to soothe his colossal failure — he at least wanted to capture the magical beasts; they could make exceptional familiars or simply be sold for a fortune, much like the dead bandits had attempted to do themselves.

Little did Bram know that — to his horrors — one of his escaped magical beasts sensed a local dungeon and, in order for an infant magical beast to further mature, they must feed off a dungeon’s mana.

So the little black squirrel did what evolution had programmed it to do; it flew to the closest place that felt like home.

“GODDAMNIT!!!” Bram slammed his fist into the hallway wall.

He had come a long way across the castle after all that thought. Now, he stood in his sister’s quarters; he could tell because the drapes covering the windows were enchanted to change color with the sunset.

At present, the drapes were violet.

Nearing dusk. Bram recalled his eldest sister’s ridiculous tendencies.

How could such a genius be so… Bram hesitated.

Crazy?

Bram rubbed his forehead. It had been a long day. He had effectively lost everything: his Master, his followers, and essentially his dreams too.

He was forbidden from returning to the dungeon.

Sure, Bram liked to play around with the rules, but his whole plan had been to privatize the dungeon within the family, using the dungeon and his newfound status as Dungeon Master to rope in the families Elder’s, using their vote to elect him successor.

In short, Bram couldn’t bribe his family with the dungeon if he was banished from that very dungeon! By his family!!

Honestly, Bram needed a drink.

“HEY MUSCLE-HEAD MALRIC!” Bram heard his sister’s voice echo through her quarters.

“I TOLD YOU IF YOU LAY ONE MORE FINGER ON-”

Bram’s eldest sister, Alice Moor, choked on her words as she neared the corner and caught eyes with Bram.

“B-Bram??” She looked at her brother shocked.

Bram pinched the bridge of his nose as he took a second to see just-what-exactly his sister was wearing today.

Alice Moor, second born, jewel of the duchy, she is one of four humans in the past millennia to contract with a fairy; she has long, silky black hair that falls just above her hips, and black eyes to match — but within her deep irises lay sparks of color, like fireworks, a feature of her unique fairy-contracted magic.

Her skin is smooth and supple and alabaster, graced by the moon, yet her vibrance radiates warmth; she wore a full smile, cheeks flushed pink, as thin transparent wings sprouted from her bare back.

In the next moment, Alice rushed into the air and flew into Bram’s chest. While afloat, her wings shifted through colors, glowing across every pigment imaginable — just like her eyes.

Here we go… Bram thought.

***

In another part of the Moor castle…

The Duke collected the fallen scrolls. He neatly rolled up his carpet, careful of the ink, as subtle droplets continued to fall with each of the Duke’s steps.

He placed his stained carpet in a wooden chest in the corner of his office; his attendant’s would clean it later.

Then, the Duke picked up a silver bell from off his desk.

*ding*

The sound of the bell traveled through the Moor castle.

Within five seconds — the duration of the bell’s hum — from no matter where the bell was rung, a member of the Duke’s personal guard would answer its summons.

As expected, in the next moment, the Duke’s wooden door gently pushed open.

A man stepped in. He wore a dark blue uniform with black shoulder guards and matching leather boots. A sword hung from his waist and an eyepatch was strapped around his head, concealing his left eye.

He had dark brown hair, a stubble-covered face, and his visible eye was hazel. In addition to his eyepatch, a scar ran through his cheek all the way down to his exposed neck.

“So you’re on shift tonight, Kuzo.” The Duke said.

“It’s as you say, sire.” Kuzo spoke respectfully.

“I have a mission for you.” The Duke said.

“My son…” The Duke sighed.

After the passing of his wife, the Duke lost his sole source of emotional support. As a result, he slowly grew into the habit of ranting about his personal ordeals with the members of his private troup.

“I had such high hopes for him.”

“The fourth born, sire?” Kuzo asked.

“Yes. Bram. He’s a bit of a show-off, but underneath all his bravado; he’s kind. He treats his subordinates well and can oftentimes talk his way out of most of his trouble; a silver-tongue that one has.”

The Duke paused his rambling.

He walked to the back of his office where a large, stained glass window overlooked the city-scape below. From up in the castle, his subjects looked no larger than ants.

A necessity, of course, to be able to prioritize the masses over the few, but his Dukedom was flourishing; more people enrolled in the academy every year which meant more people were being born every year.

Their crops were taking off thanks to Cassian and they were seeing increased returns in foreign trade; the Moor Dukedom was prospering.

The Duke knew that his successor couldn’t be his first born — the boy was built for war, not for peace. If given the reins, Malric would run this duchy into the ground.

Then, there was his third born, Cassian.

Goosebumps suddenly traveled down the Duke’s back.

The Duke loved his son’s — all of them — but he saw a glint in Cassian’s eyes that left even him uncomfortable. There was just something in his gaze that was unnerving; he looked at life like it was a mere plaything.

A trait unfit for the spotlight. The Duke concluded.

Cassian’s potential lies in the family's shadow, away from the prying eyes of the orderly world.

That left Bram, fourth born, cheeky, ill-mannered, and newly drunkard Bram.

But also kind Bram.

A kind Bram that led all his followers to death… The Duke argued with himself.

Sweet retirement, my love… wait for me.

The Duke scratched his temple.

Malric should be married soon… perhaps a grandson will catch my eye? They’d be young, but…

“Sire?” Kuzo spoke against the silence.

“Hm?” The Duke said.

“You spoke of a mission?”

“Ahh, yes. Thank you, Kuzo.” The Duke gently lowered his head.

“Sire!” Kuzo exclaimed. “You mustn’t prostrate yourself for me!”

“Kuzo!” The Duke snapped.

“Sire!”

“The fourth born discovered a dungeon due west. He insisted it wasn’t the Empire’s land, but it’s a risk I’m unwilling to take.”

“Four of his subordinates survived. Take one of them, along with a Guild Representative, and scale the Empire’s coast in search of a wrecked galleon amidst a coral reef. If nothing is discovered along the Empire’s coast — have the fourth’s subordinate navigate you to the dungeon.”

“You are to return in three weeks. Any questions?” The Duke waited.

“The wreckage?” Kuzo asked.

“Eliminate all traces.”

“I’ll leave immediately, sire!”

Kuzo turned towards the door.

“Oh. And Kuzo. Be careful of the dungeon. It killed Tiam in an instant.”

Kuzo stopped in front of the door.

“Yes, sire!”