Zogrusz walked unseen through the halls of the palace, pausing occasionally to marvel at the beautiful mosaics adorning the walls and the intricate stonework embellishing the lintels of the doorways he passed. The craftsmanship was remarkable, far more detailed than what he had managed to create in his mountain home. But rather than making him feel inadequate, the sight of such artistry instead quickened his imagination. He felt inspired, excited to discover if he could also fashion such wonders. He ran his fingers over one graven flower, tracing the delicate petals and thorned stem. He doubted his claws could etch so finely – no, he would need new tools if he wished to work stone in such a way.

Zogrusz shook his head, disappointed with himself that he had come so close to destroying this palace. He should be careful not to let his temper sweep him along in the future, lest he do something he ended up regretting.

But he did need to protect what remained of the People . . . so he would have to meet with this Cozotl and impress upon him the gravity of the situation. And he had an idea how he was going to do that.

From the minds of the servants roaming these passageways, Zogrusz learned where the priest-king spent his evenings, and soon he found himself on the threshold of a larger and more impressive chamber than any he had yet encountered. The palace’s great dome soared overhead, and a colorful scene had been painted on its underside of a familiar red bird hatching from a golden egg wreathed with flames. Shelves ringed the circular space, some filled with piled scrolls and books and others with stacked clay tablets, and in the center of the room was a table of black wood covered with sheaves of paper. A man in white robes trimmed with gold was leaning over this mess, examining an unrolled scroll with a look of intense concentration. He was young, but there were still traces of silver in his hair that matched the color of the circlet on his brow.

Zogrusz entered his mind briefly to confirm that this was Cozotl, priest-king of Amotla and the father of the girl he had met in the garden. He didn’t delve too far, but he could sense that the man loved his daughter and the city he ruled deeply. An arrogant man, but not cruel or selfish. Zogrusz was feeling better and better about not laying indiscriminate waste to the palace – this was a fellow who deserved the chance to redeem the sins of his ancestors.

Zogrusz shrugged off his cloak of shadows as he approached the table. Cozotl straightened in surprise when he realized he was no longer alone.

“Who are you?” he asked, his fingers closing around the amulet at his breast. “How dare you intrude?”

Zogrusz attempted his most reassuring smile, but this seemed to upset the king even further. Was he using too much teeth? Next time he’d keep his lips pressed together.

“I come on behalf of the People of Xochintl.”

“An emissary?” the king said, his face creasing in confusion. “What are you doing wandering the palace at night? And where is this Xochintl? I do not know it.”

“It was conquered long ago,” Zogrusz said, coming to stand on the other side of the table. “And its descendants forced to serve in this city. I have come to demand that they are allowed to return to their ancient lands . . . and also that their god is treated with more respect within these walls.”

The king sneered. “There is only one god exalted in Amotla, and that is Anecoya. You must be one of those ridiculous cultists who grovel in the dark before their demon – I have clearly been too lenient on you fools. Come the morrow, the whole lot of you will be thrown in an oubliette and forgotten about.”

Then Cozotl sucked in a deep breath, and from his thoughts, Zogrusz knew the king was about to bellow for his guards.

“Apologies, I wish to talk to you alone,” Zogrusz said, using his new powers to fill the king’s mouth with clotting shadows. Cozotl’s eyes bulged, his fingers scrabbling at his throat like he could dislodge the darkness Zogrusz had just conjured.

“I will let you breathe again if you promise not to cry out,” Zogrusz said, wandering closer to the table and hefting a remarkably detailed little statue of a bird that had been helping to keep a scroll unfurled. The craftsmanship truly was exquisite. “So what do you say? Will you be quiet?” He traced the delicate beak, wondering what sort of tool had been used here . . . and how he could also get hold of one.

Cozotl nodded vigorously as his face continued to purple, and with a thought, Zogrusz dispelled the choking shadows. The priest-king slumped gasping over his desk, the terror emanating from him in pulsing waves making Zogrusz almost dizzy.

“What . . . what are you?” he managed, massaging his neck.

“I am Zogrusz.”

From his blank stare, this was clearly a name he had never heard before. Very well, then. It was apparently time to introduce himself again.

Zogrusz dispelled his man-disguise, though he did not swell to his full size, as that would have brought this palace crashing down. Instead, he chose to manifest himself as twice the height of the king, who gaped up at Zogrusz in shock.

Well, if this was the path he was going to go down, he supposed he would have to play the part.

“Kneel!” he cried, his mouth-tendrils writhing as he spread his arms wide. “I am Zogrusz, Eldritch Horror from beyond the stars! Look upon me and despair, mortal!”

Sensing the man’s rapidly elevating pulse, Zogrusz feared for a moment that he had gone too far and that Cozotl would faint or maybe even expire from this wave of fear crashing down on him. But the king stayed conscious, instead sinking to his knees as he stared up in wordless terror at Zogrusz. Perhaps he should tamp down the theatrics before he reduced the poor creature to nothing more than a gibbering idiot.

“No longer will you worship that bird! Henceforth, I shall be the only god in Amotla, and all will fear me or . . . or . . .” Zogrusz hesitated, trying to summon forth a suitable threat. Eat their souls? A bit macabre. Kick over the city walls? Perhaps not macabre enough. “Endless night!” Zogrusz shouted triumphantly as inspiration struck. “I will wrap the world in endless night!”

“No,” moaned Cozotl, clasping his hands together in an imploring gesture. “Please, mighty Zogrusz, spare us . . .”

“Then cast aside that ridiculous and annoying bird!” Zogrusz wanted to sweep the statue of Anecoya off the table to punctuate this command but inwardly winced at the thought of such a beautiful work dashed to pieces.

“We shall!” cried the king, and in his mind, Zogrusz saw that he was being absolutely sincere. “Oh, glorious Zogrusz! You will be the new lord of Amotla and we shall spread your dark gospel across the lands!”

“Dark gospel?” Zogrusz murmured, intrigued by what the king had just proclaimed so fervently.

Cozotl blinked, apparently surprised by the sudden change in Zogrusz’s tone. “Y-yes. Your commandments! Your revelations! Instruct us how to honor you!” The king began to snatch up the yellowing papers strewn across the table, crumpling and tossing them aside. “These are the Burning Scrolls, the teachings of Anecoya. All rubbish! We shall throw them into the flames, make them burn in truth! Only your words we will hold in our hearts!”

Oh, what an interesting idea. A sacred text to codify his worship and transform his cult into a true religion. “An excellent suggestion,” Zogrusz agreed, stroking his mouth-tendrils thoughtfully. “And you, Cozotl, you shall help me write this . . . gospel.” He paused, glancing about at the scrolls filling the shelves. “You can write, can’t you? If not, I suppose we can summon a scribe . . .”

“I can write!” Cozotl cried, as if afraid that Zogrusz would find his usefulness at an end if he could not. “Beautifully, in truth!” He scrabbled among the mess in front of him for a blank piece of parchment and a quill, then with a shaking hand dipped this feather into the inkstone on the table.

“Wonderful!” Zogrusz said as he began to pace back and forth. “Then let us begin. We shall call it . . .” He paused, considering what might be a suitable name for his new scripture.

The Dreadnomicon?

The Black Testament?

“We shall call it . . . the Book of Zog.”