Harald awoke to an empty house before the Sixth Bell.

He rose, dressed, ran.

Not knowing what he’d return to, he pushed himself to run farther than he’d ever gone before. Slow and steady, feeling dangerous, focused, unsure.

When he returned to the manor it was to find a courier standing outside his front door in the official livery of the Flutic Treasury, all puffed in gold and black.

“Ah, Master… Darrowdelve?” The courier hesitated, glancing up and down Harald’s sweaty form.

“Speaking.” Harald walked up the main steps to stand before him. “Yes?”

“I have been entrusted with delivering to your hand a Decree of Debt Reckoning. This is a formal document signed by the Under Secretary of the Flutic Treasury in response to a delinquency on the part of your household in paying a collection of debts that were consolidated at your request six months prior.”

The courier extended the thick envelop.

Harald smiled. “Excellent delivery. Thank you.” He took it.

The man inclined his head with a tight smile then departed.

Harald let himself inside and then paused to listen.

Nothing.

An empty house.

An empty house that stood upon a foundation of debts.

“Ah well,” he sighed, and strode down the entrance hall to the kitchen in the back. More and more that room had begun to feel like the heart of the entire manor. He took up a knife, cut through the Treasury Seal, and drew forth the luxuriously thick letter.

Lips pursed, he read the warning, then tossed it on the table. It stated in formal terms that he’d enter default in three weeks’ time, at which point he would be fined as the Flutic Treasury began procedures to seize the house.

Which would begin their final month before eviction.

“So it goes.”

With nobody around, a strange lassitude came over him. Weariness from the run, yes, but something more.

He’d grown used to voices, company, jokes, momentum.

Alone in the cold house, the fires unlit, the food uncooked, he sensed how easy it would be to simply sit somewhere and sink into his thoughts.

Instead he forced himself to cook breakfast and fix himself a pot of coffee. It felt artificial, as if he were going through the motions, and he found himself humming to dispel the silence.

He ate by himself, then washed the dishes.

The sweat had cooled, his thighs were twitching from the run, his calves tight.

About now Sam would ask if he was ready to head downstairs and begin the Marheim exercises.

He stood by the counter, staring at the debt notice, and felt strangely and awkwardly alone.

But there was nothing for it.

The weights weren’t going to lift themselves.

He descended to the basement, lit the lanterns, and regarded the weights.

“Just you and me, Gustav,” he said, and the depth of the room absorbed his voice and gave nothing back.

Lips pursed he strode down to the weights, took up the paper on which Sam had been keeping track of their progress, and studied what he was supposed to do.

Then he did it.

It wasn’t pretty. He grunted, he strained, he pushed for extra reps, and sometimes he got them.

But he did the exercises.

That done, he took a shallow drink of water, then hefted the corpse bag out of its storage closet. He no longer dreaded the sand-filled duffel bag as he’d once done.

Sore and weary, he crouched before it, grabbed it by the leather straps, then hefted it up in one smooth pull, dropping the bag over his shoulder.

Harald grunted, but it felt manageable.

Strength 11 made a world of a difference.

Taking a deep breath, he began his runs.

Then he worked the climbing rope, then he did the ladder.

Time passed.

The world reduced to the mineral tang of the gym air, that old stale smell of sweat, the burn of his palms, the rasp of his breath, sweat running into his eyes. He labored, fought, persevered.

He wasn’t sure how long it took him, but finally he was done.

He’d ended with some sword drills, working through the Dungeon Square though the exercise now felt futile.

“Fuck me,” he gasped, wiping sweat from his brow.

Silence.

He stood and stared at Gustav.

Old memories arose.

His father working the mannequin, playing with it, laughing as he evaded its blows, hammering it again and again with his blade.

Harald pursed his lips. They were some of the few memories he had of his father being happy. The only time he looked like himself, free of concerns, his impatience, his stinging sarcasm, his heavy hand, his brutal and dour outlook on life.

“You got the best of him,” said Harald to the dumb mannequin. “He was happier by far with you then with me.”

Gustav’s faceless head made no response.

A dull anger arose within Harald. There was so much his father could have told him. Taught him, if he’d given Harald the time. Instead he’d belittled him, mocked him for his initial failures, instilled in him a fear of messing up before his dad.

“What was so much more important?” he demanded of his dead father, stalking toward the mannequin, wooden practice blade in hand. “What were you so focused on that you couldn’t see me?”

Gustav made no response.

Anger boiled up within Harald. This damn mannequin. And it was still hiding his father’s secrets. Secrets that his father could have just shared with him, sat him down and explained.

“Damn you,” he hissed, the pain, the bottled up anguish, the resentment, the bitterness all rising within him.

Without thinking, he raised his wooden sword and struck with all his anger at Gustav.

The abyss flowed through him, the air grew chill, as he felt both his Active and Passive abilities activate.

The wooden sword turned jet black.

Gustav didn’t even flinch.

With a cry Harald brought the sword cracking across the mannequin’s head, and the abyss coruscated blackly for a moment, forming a nexus of oblivion where sword met wood.

The mannequin rocked in place, and then a grinding sound came from behind Harald.

He wheeled about and saw a narrow doorway open where before he could have sworn was the thickest stone.

For a moment he could only gape, then he stared at this blade, at Gustav, then back to the door.

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Your inheritance is yours once you are worthy.

Gustav is the key. Strike with the right energy.

Kill your masters.

Had the abyss been the ‘right’ energy? Had his father keyed him to such an obscure class? How could he have guessed, known, hoped that Harald would become an Abyssal Initiate?

Harald dropped the wooden blade and stepped tentatively to the secret door. Just like in the dungeon, but this one was masterfully built, its edges sharp, the door having recessed and slid out of sight into a broad slot in the stone.

For a moment Harald simply stared down the winding staircase that led into utter blackness, then he stepped aside to snag a lantern, summoned the Dawnblade into his hand, and lantern held high, entered his father’s domain.

The stairs rotated three times and opened into a small chamber.

No other exits.

The ceiling was low, the stonework expertly cut from the living rock.

A simple wooden shelf ran along the back wall. Upon it lay a leather folder, a thong wrapped around it several times and then tucked under itself. A small, iron bound chest was set against the wall beneath the shelf, and a weapon’s rack was bolted into the wall to Harald’s left. It held a kite shield with a protruding central boss, a slender needle of a sword only as long as Harald’s arm, a hatchet with a head of gold, and three identical daggers with curving blades of blue metal.

The silence ached.

Numb, hands shaking, Harald stepped up to the wooden shelf and set the lantern upon it.

The leather folder was dyed navy blue, but otherwise unmarked. Harald took it up and unwound the thong, then parted the folder upon the shelf.

It contained four sheets of parchment, his father’s angular, crabbed writing scrawled across all four.

Harry

His name at the top caused his chest to hitch, his gut to tighten, his throat to lock. For a moment his eyes swam with tears, and he heard his father’s voice, not the angry tone, the mocking one, nor even the sarcastic, belittling one.

The gruff, heartfelt way his father used to say his name while his mother was still alive.

Harald sniffed sharply, wiped angrily at his eyes, then angled the sheets toward the lantern.

Harry,

If you’re reading this, then I reckon you’ve not turned out a complete waste of my seed after all. I’ll admit the chances of that happening are slim. The boy you are as I write this is not the son I’d imagined I’d sire. But then I’ve not turned out to be the man I once dreamed of being, so I guess we’re even on that score.

“Fuck you, Dad,” whispered Harald.

The only way you’re reading this is if you’ve struck a deal with that bastard, Vorakhar. You’ve probably figured out by now that I didn’t kill him like I claimed. Get over it. I had to explain that Nightshard, and Vorakhar himself offered his finger as proof and suggested I claim the kill. It worked well enough. But this means my mistakes have fallen upon you. Well. These papers are my attempt to rectify my shitty parenting.

Harald pursed his lips, even as he felt jangly excitement arise within him.

I’ll lay it out straight, as best I understand it, as I wish someone had done for me. Vorarkhar is at war with his five brothers and sisters. I’ve not been introduced any of them, thank the angels, but heard Vorakhar bitch enough to figure out some facts. The most dangerous of them is the eldest brother, Silenthros. Grimarque, one of the sisters, is almost as bad. She’s corrupted House Silvershield, I’m pretty sure. Ha! Don’t let anyone know. Lady Argent will kill half the city to preserve her reputation as a peacemaker.

“Fuck,” whispered Harald, looking up to stare at the wall. House Silvershield was highly respected, their agents easily marked for their distinctive sky blue and silver uniforms. They were famous for seeking to broker peace between the Houses, secure alliances, and uncover the influence of… demons.

Harald grimaced. Fucking hypocrites. Though he could see the rationale behind that move. How better to hide your own corruption than pretend to seek it in others?

Seraphex is the demon I’d have chosen as my patron if I’d had my druthers, but that’s because she’s a hot bitch that’s mad about warfare. Vorakhar fears her, partly because she’s unstoppable in battle, and partly because he has trouble predicting what she’ll do next.

Valthazar I know little about. The middle brother, I saw him just once. Gold and black cloak, horns like batwings.

The last sister is Eclavistra. Vorakhar holds her in contempt. From what I gather, she’s the youngest of the lot and the weakest.

Mark my words, son. Even Eclavistra can end your world, so don’t go thinking you can play games with them. They’re demon princes and princesses all, and Flutic has no idea what’s brewing deep beneath its streets.

Harald nodded slowly as he turned to the second page.

Now, Vorakhar, he’s the one I know best and he’s a piece of work. He got his claws in me when he brought your mother back from death. I won’t go into it, but it’s why she ceased raiding and was always so weak. In the end, it’s why she died regardless. But Vorakhar gave me six more years with her, and that’s not nothing.

Harald hissed and dropped the page. What!? He reread the top paragraph then clapped a hand to his brow.

Vorakhar had brought his mother to life? Six years before she’d died? Harald would have been… three years old.

That’s when their fortunes had changed, his father had become wealthy and purchased Darrowdelve Manor. That’s when his mother had become sickly, had confined herself to the manor, spending her mornings in bed, her afternoons in the garden.

Harald’s stomach turned as the pieces of his life fell into place.

I’ve no regrets, boy. What I did I did for love, and after your mother passed, I did more from habit than anything else. I won’t defend it. But now, as I write this, I feel a reckoning coming. Vorakhar’s explained that our deal was for the rest of my life, not Verena’s, but that’s not how I understood it. Soon I’ll head down to have a chat with him. We’ll see what comes of it.

Harald flicked through the pages, seeking a date for when this was written.

Nothing.

Had his father’s ‘chat’ with Vorakhar been what had claimed his life? It had to be.

As I said, there’s a war heating up in the depths of the Fallen Angel. The demons are at each other’s throats. Grimarque’s claimed the Throne of Harmony, and Vorakhar’s got himself the Throne of Shadows. Just last year Seraphex stole the Throne of War, and last I heard Valthazar’s about to capture the Throne of Knowledge.

That’ll leave just three Thrones left to the angels. Once they fall, and fall they will, the demons will truly turn upon each other. It’ll be a bitter first fight, but the first to claim two Thrones will gain an insurmountable advantage, and sweep the rest. The fall, when it comes, will be sudden, and that’ll be it for Flutic.

Harald reread the entirety of the second page. The demons were claiming Thrones? The Thrones of the Cosmos? What did that even mean? The Thrones were the mystical focal points that every raider carried in his own personal Cosmos, that they unlocked with sufficient scales, and which in turn fed them power with which to fuel their abilities.

What did it mean for Vorakhar to have ‘got himself the Throne of Shadows’? Did that mean that every raider’s personal second Throne was a connection to Vorakhar? That couldn’t be right.

Bewildered, he reread the line about the angels. Who still held three Thrones. Was the female angel he’d seen in the dungeon part of that defensive force?

Feeling like he was going crazy, he turned to the third page.

All of this is far above our paygrade. The noble houses are no longer generating heavy hitters as they once used to, but the demons are still keyed to activities in Flutic. They know that at any moment a fortunate soul may be rewarded by the Fallen Angel and cause problems for them, so they keep an eye on the raiders and seek to suborn those with a little promise.

Promise like I once had.

Promise, it seems, like you’ve now got.

Hence Vorakhar’s patronage, and your acquiring dark energy. I can’t guess the flavor, but he’ll have given you a Demon Seed and engineered your getting a suitable class. There’s no escaping him now, Harry, but that need not be a bad thing.

The Demon Seed is given to very few. Very fucking few. It’ll set you on the path to real power if you can handle it. It got to be too much for me. I stopped my training. But if you handle it right from the beginning, then you have a chance.

A chance to kill Vorakhar, and get revenge for what he did to your mother.

Look son, here’s how you handle the Seed. It feeds off bloody-minded acts of willpower. It’s not enough to train hard. You’ve got to not only leave nothing on the table, you’ve got to knock the table over. It gets harder to impress with time, so enjoy the rush of rewards while they’re coming. But if you go it alone like I did, you’ll lose yourself like I did after your mother died.

So what you do is you get good friends, raiders you can trust with your life, and when you know you can trust, you tell them everything. Then you charge them with keeping you on the straight and narrow. Because you’re going to become a monster, son. That Seed will warp whatever class you get and give you more than you can dream of.

It was too much for me.

But if you set your goals on killing Vorakhar, if you get friends to keep you aimed true, then fuck. That Seed will be your dream in hell of doing so.

The end of the third page.

Harald felt shook.

It was as if his father were in the room with him, guiding him, addressing the very problems he was facing.

“Fuck me,” he whispered uncertainly. He almost didn’t want to read the last page.

The powers the Seed will give you are bad news, son. It’s designed by Vorakhar to corrupt you and lead you down a dark path. Some of it will be right welcome. The regeneration and pain immunity has helped me more times than I can remember, and the demoniac body is unbelievable. Whatever your physical stats are now, forget it, you’ve seen nothing. The combat abilities are what allowed me to earn my reputation, but whatever aura your class got, your Seed will warp it and turn it fucking dark.

But that’s nothing. Your class will have ‘Initiate’ added after it. That’s the Seed’s doing. When you evolve your class to the next level, it’ll have ‘Master’ added after, and that’s when you get the bad powers. The sick powers. The powers that I couldn’t stomach, and which will make you unstoppable even as they make you a thing of evil. If you can find a way to wield those powers without becoming as bad as Vorakhar, than you’re a wiser and stronger man than I.

All right, my hand’s cramping. I hate writing. I’ll come back down soon to leave some choice weapons and some scales to help you along, and then, when I’ve the stomach for it, I’ll continue this letter.

There’s so damn much to tell you.

Wish I could just sit you down now, but I can’t. You’re already fourteen, but you’re a weak, gormless idiot that wouldn’t understand the half of what I’m saying, and if you never get the Seed, if Vorakhar never takes an interest in you, why, then I’d just be wasting your time and mine.

All right. More soon.

Harald turned the sheet, then opened the leather folder again. Searched the shelf, searched the floor, then turned around, scanning the ground.

Nothing.

No more pages.

“You’re kidding me,” hissed Harald. “That’s it? He never came back?”

For a moment he just stood there, heart thudding, and then he set the lantern back down and rubbed at his face.

Unbelievable.

“Harald?”

Nessa, her voice uncertain, shaded with complex emotions.

He spun around, stared in panic at the winding staircase that rose into the dark.

“Harald, you down there?”

For a moment he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, and then he steadied himself, closed his eyes, and made his decision.

“I’m down here, Nessa. Come on down. I’ve got something to show you.”