Dolwillen prowled his estate, fingering the silk-wrapped heartstone in his pocket, soothing him. It quivered with every pulse. He took a swig from his silver hip flask to stave off his inexplicable migraines.

His gardens were stunning. The gravelled path was a new addition, an appropriate accompaniment to the life and death struggle all around him, orchestrated with such finesse by his gardeners, wilderness battling against cultivated blooms.

Dolwillen headed for the hothouse, a grand construction of wrought iron and murky glass, where he had a growing collection of carnivorous plants, shipped at great expense from across the Hérohnes Sea.

His boots clicked on the smooth sandstone flagstones within the hothouse. Dolwillen wiped the sweat from his forehead with a cream and pink handkerchief. A blue thread floated along the air currents. He tried to grab it, but the thread passed through his fingers and up into the canopy of the exotic plants.

Dolwillen picked up a jar from a shelf by the door and pinched the hapless fly floating in the scummy water. He scraped the fly into the snapping fronds and elegant pitchers of the exotic plants.

Ah, that’s better. Control is essential for a healthy mind. Not as good as squeezing Hewelin Guntard’s heartstone, brandy can only do so much, but it wouldn’t do to accidentally kill the man.

The first time Dolwillen had drawn magic from the stone, the veins in his arms had gone black for a moment, but the experience had been too delicious to stop purely for fear or aesthetics. Hewelin had assured him only those proficient in Drýcræft would see them, but Dolwillen still worried someone would try to take the stone from him.

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After several months of use, segments of black periodically pulsed through his arms, even without holding the stone. Each time they appeared his world brightened and churned with colours. Yesterday, a bubbling yellow cloud had floated in through his bedroom window, before coiling into vapours and dissipating.

Every day I am better, stronger even. I should not question my fortune, nor flout my ignorance to Hewelin.

He stomped up and down the rows of plants.

Firgen will pay for insulting, threatening, and kicking me. Ironic that all I need for revenge is to follow Firgen’s advice.

Make the people believe that they would be better off under King Dolwillen Mánfeld than King Firgen Técynn.

Stupid bastard has even given me the means to overthrow him.

He’d had a few ideas already. Stir up trouble and sow dissent in any lands that weren’t ruled by Dolwillen, discredit his so-called peers, then offer his assistance to them. He could keep paying for riots and raids until they agreed, then kill all the people he’d paid to rebel when they came for their money.

It is a good plan, but I am missing something, a stroke of genius to enthrone my essence within the people. Something worth fighting for, something worth rebelling for. I require fear. A plague of unremitting horror that only I can save the people from and only I control. With fear I shall have the favour of the non-existent Gods. The might of divine right to rule every man, woman, beast and child.

He could feel it approaching with every energising beat from the living heart in his pocket.