The woman that bears me is brave. Having little in life, she marries a man of little worth for a delusion of love. A love that would lead her to a life of long suffering, prayers to Teir, the God of Endurance who cries and carries the agony of followers. To bear insult from peers who by guile, force and talent rose far beyond her and her love.

Even braver as she and her love dared to express it, to conquer it and own it beneath their stiff, dirty sheets and bring me to their world, to this world. My world.

A godless world in truth as if Teirs was any worth a Deity, I would have been rewarded a life without strife as a gift for my parent’s folly and for their devout worship.

I crawled out of her, this brave woman. Arms first, seeking to shield my soft head from the punishment of life, seeking to break the fall as she squats me out of her. I would have broken her that day, but suffering hardens men and it got to quick work hardening me.

The door shatters in, the brave woman screams, then roars and flings the brewing pot of stew at the snarling invader. Bathe in supper the hunched, green creature several foot taller than a five year me rushes at her. In their struggle mother screams for me to flee, her prized knife in hand scratches flesh of the green creature but my feet will not move, my arms tremble but do not reach out for her, do not reach to help. My lips sealed, even as a scream bubbles in my throat, fresh air stings my unblinking eyes as the green creature snaps her defiant wrist and bites into her neck.

Her love had either won a game in the taverns like he said or claimed his first life as a marauder. But the money put to good use. The supper made, now stained on the Vampire Ghoul would have also been my first meal before my first day in school.

The Ghoul rips her neck out and guzzles her blood as she moans, gargling pleas that I leave, that I escape the nightmare.

I don’t know how I escaped. But I woke safe, uninjured but homeless and left with her love.

Aged Eight I’d learned better not to call the women he brought home mother, but I’d yet to learn not to yearn for their…love. Even though I had nothing, not even a father’s love, they seemed jealousy of me. I carried his tools on my thin back and ventured into the mines behind him. The mines carried soot, dirt and flint so sensitive that venturing in doesn’t mean you come back out.

The mine put food on the table, gave injuries and took the men of my little, traumatized village. It took two years of warring to cleanse the threat, to push it far back into the crevasses of darkness the Vampire Lord and his lieutenants came from.

Our village, one of the most scarred was designated along with several others to form a new county, a new region under the watch of a Count. His name unimportant, but his deeds and sacrifice in the war effort of true note.

He visited.

He’d come for something else but I saw him, met him and shook his hand with those orphaned by the Vampire Horde. The true orphans, quick to make their lack of parents what makes them special, scorned me and revealed me to him— I thank them for the boon even more than my useless father.

The Count picked me in the end. Took me with him and even listened when I said there was no need to clear with my Father, he was eager as I was to leave, but not everyone was happy.

I’d turned Twelve when I realize why the Count picked me. Although, I trained and practiced martial arts under his tutelage, wielded weapons larger than I, ate feasts to fatten and strengthen bone, he never said what any of it was for. I assumed that he prepared me for battle against the Vampire Lords, that they and theirs would return inevitably and I’d need to be there, to strike vengeance down on the beasts who tore my mother apart.

Alas, he marched me out against his rivals, tore his betters open through four years of war and as he crowned himself Duke of the lands he’d ripped from their cold hands, I absorbed even more horrors to the world.

Aged Sixteen I led a squad of strong heavy armoured knights that protected the Duke. From time to time my position would be challenged— a child should dare not lead they’d say before their lives snuff out at the end of my blade. The blade was a long, burning one, ignited with flames that’d burn any Vampire to ash. But I never fought Vampires, only men.

Knight of the Duke. Men recited poems and women seduced. I took to them both, the war over, but the horrors lingered— I found peace in the comforts only another can give. A whore I favoured had a child. I adopted her and only her. Acting as I believed for her parent’s prayers and devout to Teirs, she should be spared a life of suffering. I introduced her to my Master when she turned of age and raised her better than my father thought to raise me.

Aged Twenty, scarred from challenges but renown through the Kingdom, my daughter crawls into my lap, merely Three years old and asks, “What do you fight for?”

Earlier she’d tried to stop some street boys fighting and got tossed aside, wailing as the skin of her knee and palm peel away for blood. She must wonder the use of it, why the little boys fight, why they do not know peace and why she must watch them hurt and be hurt herself. I’d never asked myself this question. Renown Knight I am, I fought men with the thought that a Vampire would be ten times stronger— but I never fought Vampires.

“What do I fight for?” I don’t get the chance to answer her before her caretaker comes to pick her up.

Aged Twenty-two I’ve ignored calls to war, promised castles, barons and land all over the Kingdom for the call of adventure, the call of mad men. I am no longer Knight to the Duke, I am a scarred man with a fading legend. I no longer have a daughter, claimed by floods I mourned for months, prayed to Teir and bore the ache all the same, as though my prayers fall to the ground as I spoke them. All I have now is a resolve to find a purpose, to find something worth fighting for.

Beside me a large man, two feet taller than I and broad wields a bloodied axe. Gritting a bark of wet wood, he grits through the pain of his lost arm as another ties and cleans the wound.

“Let me just cauterize it.” Our Mage says, bored of the break we have to take. His hands flicker with fire.

“No!” The Berserker roars, spitting out the bark.

He speaks of traditions but I know that arm will fester and kill him if these caverns don’t. Our White is a novice at anything that requires actual bandaging, he might have had a better chance had I done it for him, but I’m not here to preserve their lives.

The three bicker a bit before I stand and stare out into the dark that encircles out pit fire. Pulling my sword, I take stance and that’s all the creatures in the dark need. Flame arcs past me, blowing up a set. My body becomes lighter and my arms strengthen— the work of our White. As Lancer I launch out through the fray, have no need to see in the dark I spear through dozens of the ugly creatures at a time, leaving none with their heads.

Adventurers are brave people, and like the brave woman that bore me, find death sooner than most. As is with brave people, their fear is of things beyond. They find hope where is none like fools and they call onto gods to protect them and give comfort.

Aged Twenty-Four I’ve mastered the skills of a Lancer. A light breaks through my mind and a presence fills my heart. Raising my head, I bow to the curled, orange dragon laying on an ancient tree, blessed with its power, with its crusade against evil doers, thieves and liars. Guided by honour.

Aged Twenty-Eight, I believe myself brave enough to find purpose in exterminating evil. A large man stands beside me, larger than the Berserker that died to the infection in his arm and smarter too. Small tusks protrude his lips, a pale green patch of skin littered with scars covers muscles tougher than I could manage. This man is my half-brother.

Born to my father and the wild orc that kidnapped him some years after I abruptly left home. Not particularly handsome and rather violent, the young half-orc searched for me when father never lifted a muscle. He’s chased my legend as a knight and my accomplishments as an adventurer and become one himself to impress me, his older brother. I don’t understand it, but I don’t care.

Separate we pray and seek the comfort of silent beings we placate and seek boons before venturing into the cave. Wearing battered armour and wielding broken weapons. Torn across with slashes, cuts and frostbite, we venture into the cave. Stalking after the Vampire Lord that attempted to rule and transform the Barony scorching behind us. Our party’s been shattered, underestimating the strength of the beast and its magic, all that’s left is family.

The Vampire Lord is weak. It overwhelmed us and escaped, it’s merely a pyrrhic victory. I fear as the battle creeps closer, with the head start he’s had to suck wailing citizens dry and consume their children in frenzied hunger this will surely be pyrrhic as well. I may lose my brother, my family or he may lose me. After searching so far and long to find me…just to lose me again. I don’t know what to do.

Skulking in the dark, feeding rabid on a rat the Vampire Lord is a pathetic shell of what it used to be. He pales, fangs dripping blood in brother’s light spell and shrieks after us. Flailing at us, I parry every one of his blows but his strength isn’t forgotten and my weapon continues to chip. Brother roars in the [Luna Light] illuminating the cave and tackles the beast, taking him to the floor.

Eyes wide I rush as the Vampire Lord sinks his teeth in. Roaring, desperate I gather the flicker of mana left and shoot “[Draecnir’s Blaze]!”

A quick shot of fire, an arrow, a lance, a spear. It runs through them both and the Vampire ignites from the serene flames of my Dragon Master, he roars in defiance more than agony as his body disintegrates. He doesn’t let go, rather he deepens the bite and casts me a hateful look before burning away.

I killed and buried my brother before he could turn.

Aged Thirty a messenger finds me in a tavern. Drunk, sick, lost and tired. But the messenger cares little for my well-being and shoves the letter in my hand, wrapping my fingers around it after mumbling something.

When I’m my better self, I find the letter reads of the Duke’s death. My Foster Father’s death. At that shock runs through me and I scramble for memories of the man. When had he taken me as his own? When had I agreed to forsake my true father? None of this matters though as the next section details that by his will and by blessing of the King herself, I am named heir of his lands and titles. I command a Duchy.

I want to feel joy, feel pride, but all I feel is numb. I’m grateful to the man, but I hadn’t any desire to rule as a Noble, all I wished is for some purpose, and I’ve lost that too. What’s the use of fighting if you don’t have anything to protect? These years, drink and thought accompany me. My legend has faded into obscurity and as an adventurer I’ve become a relic, a case study of the look of failure. I hear them whisper.

Still, the sour of my life thus isn’t enough to blind me from what’s amiss. If I command a Duchy, then that messenger should have been a procession. One of Knights running to pledge their allegiance, Counts looking for favour, and Advisors to tell me the state of my Duchy. None of that is found outside the tavern or anywhere near this town, far away from the Duchy I supposedly own.

Something is amiss. But I am unharmed and very well free to continue my drinking, snoring and brawling. But…he’s my Foster Father. Although I left the man in search of a purpose he could not give me, he gave me love, the best he could manage and he gave me a home, his blessing to take the child of a whore and now he’s given me his lands and titles. To forsake that now would be an insult. I may as well piss on his grave.

Aged Thirty-One, I’m greeted with hostility in my own Duchy. Men stare, eyes glazed with fear at the sight of me. Already, news of my return has blazed through the County. It’s not safe for me anywhere but I’ve made it to the gates, my gates.

“Bring the traitor out!” I holler at the gates; I’m armed to the teeth. Ready to slay whomever gets in my way, whoever covets my father’s titles, my titles. And I have. Assassins have not lost me in taverns, forests and roadways. They’ve met their ends at my fists and blades, my fire and wind.

Men run across the battlements of the wall, some pointing bows at me others have their best weapons taken out. There is no Mage to fling magic at me and there is no one brave enough to let their arrows loose. Dragon scales may guard me but I know they fear what would come of any further provocation. This is enough for me. Burning down my own gates and killing my men is not what I’ve come for.

“Fools! Bring the master you guard and I will not roast you.” I let Draecnir’s flames ignite over me. The flinch, morale falters and argument rouses from beyond the gates. Mutiny begins and I continue, “With the sun at its peak you know what I’m capable of. I am Lancer! Lancer of Draecnir! Ancient Dragon of the Suns! I am your rightful liege. Open the gates!”

It’s not long before the gates creak open. I let my flames flicker away, mana spent in bravado. There are men tied and knelt at my front, others bow and seek to pledge allegiance. Meaning to set a precedent, I take off the heads of the traitors, the fools arguing for the thief. Blood splatters over the men and they shudder. Times of peace have made them weak, but not too weak.

Taking their pledges, I go on in the same manner until over a hundred men, Knights and guards march behind me. Lance lies on the thieves’ heart; a man I do not recognize.

“Who are you?” He stammers and I know he is a puppet. “I will find your strings.”

Aged Thirty-Two I dip my head to the magnificence of wealth and power, the King. “Rise, my dear vassal.” She smiles upon me and finds favour, a favour all of the court see and envy. “You are the Vampire Hunter, Slayer of Undead Armies.”

“Yes, my King.”

“Then you are my Knight.”

The throne room goes silent, only eyes speak and they speak of power and of greed. I shake my head and wish for pardon, “If it pleases my Liege, I will remain at my Duchy and protect it.”

At my refusal the large, glittering room remains still with silence. The King speaks, “I heard you had to fight your way to your own throne. Are you afraid if you’re away from it, you will lose it?”

“No, my Liege. If I lose it, then I can always take it back.”

“Even from me?” Now the whispers come, the threat is made, her arm is flexed right at my throat. To defy her again would court death. “Your father, foster father begged that I let his will stand. Many disagreed and I’m sure that’s why you had to fight for the throne in the first place, but I let it be, I willed it. Would you have his last wishes denied now?”

I take a breath and bite my lip, her beauty disguises a guile I must fear and a dangerous thought crosses my mind. I shake it away, “No, my Liege.”

“Then you are my Knight.”

Aged Thirty-Nine the King has had enough of my sly, chaste games and tosses me onto her expansive bed, falling atop me. Panting with a hunger the court would deem unbecoming. Her breath of wine meets my gasps, she refuses to find my eyes despite this, knowing she’ll find only protest and none of the hunger I see in hers. Her tongue dances along my walls and I send mine to wrap around it— to do nothing would mean I don’t want her, that I refuse her right to her subject. An insult to the King.

Years and year have culminated to this moment, I am a slave to her whims and I’ve frustrated her into taking me rather than submit as all others would. Now it’s all I can do not to throw her off.

“You’re so cold, must I fight for every bit of you?” She moans into me and I can’t help thinking if I’d given into her from the beginning she’d have left me alone afterwards. Maybe even tossed me aside if I appeared too eager. I could be right, but I’ve gotten it wrong already. She is King and if a King is refused for long enough, conquest is all that’s left.

Her groans echo through as she rides. Looking up at her she is a beauty but the tears bubbling beneath me scream savage. For all my skill and power, I’ve been conquered. She smiles, ecstasy rippling through her coils and I know this won’t be the last.

Aged Forty-Two I duck under the curtains of Her Majesties war camp. Lush carpets accept my dirty boots and the scent of roasted pheasant and fruit waft away that of the burnt bodies of my victims. Hunched over a shifting map of the battlefield she scowls at my feet but beacons me forward anyway.

“They’re cutting through our flank, Dragon Knight. They’re not supposed to manage that.”

“They saw us coming and prepared a trap of theirs my, Liege. Send me there and I’ll make short work of them.” I pant. The war has raged for days; my first squad is all but mush coming out of the digestive systems of the monsters we push against. My side aches from where a Werebear—one of their Necromancer’s many puppet beasts— slashed me. My Draconic aspects find stalemate against the Necromancer’s rot, the wound doesn’t fester anymore but it refuses to close.

“No. If the Necromancer falls his undead beasts lose their coordination, we’ll slaughter them. Come.” She calls me close and presses a single hand against my wound. Without chant or whispers, her hands glow a soothing green and the rot dissipates. “I will join you.”

“Join me? In battle?” she straps on her boots, her regal cloak snaps across her shoulders and a long bloodstained sword caresses her soft hands. “My liege, I will bring you his head. I-”

“I trust you. Now enough fretting. This mad man has threatened my Kingdoms long enough.”

Aged Forty-Four years of war with creatures of darkness have brought out the darkness within the King. I fear her now more than ever, her power grows in magnitudes and Kingdoms fall and flock under her banner. The Necromancer died at her gleaming red blade, his lair destroyed by her magic. I failed to bring her his head but she wasn’t incensed, no, she was glad, relieved that she’d taken it upon herself to meet him. And now, staring down at the massacre unfolding below my Wyvern, I know why.

“My King.” I gasp at her figure as she stalks the slope towards I and my regiment, the head of Anera’s priest in hand. “Anera will not take kindly to this, or your…experiments.”

The castle razed and brought to rubble belongs to neutral parties, or at least I thought so. Her experiments litter behind her, rasping and clawing at themselves. Puppets, she called them when I arrived. Puppets made up of chopped up parts of men, women and even children. The pale things are barely held up by the magic she employed, magic she’s learned from the Necromancer.

“My King.” I repeat, a desperate plea for her to stop, to consider what she’s doing. “These creatures…they are ungodly.”

I’m rewarded with a chuckle. She’s alone, with none of her armies, not of her men— just her and these creatures. Draecnir forewarned me of the evil festering in her, I see it now more than ever. There’s only one way to escape this.

“Ungodly you say?” she speaks at last, although she stuffs her hand through the decapitated head of the priest fingering around as she addresses me. “What of man? What of orcs, elves and all the evil races of the land. You and I as guilty of being ungodly for we are not gods, and until we become gods…we’re all sinners.”

“Sinner I may be but I do not entertain savagery.”

“Hypocrite!” she hisses out, startling me with the hate she spits the word in my face. “You enslave the very beast you ride upon now, just as I enslave you. You burn and torch fellow humans and every beast that comes against you without a moments hesitation. And you call me savage? Why? Because I dare…” she rips something out of the head and it sags. “Do this? Has Dracenir been whispering in your ears?”

Tossing the head aside a bright crystal shines through the blood and gore on her hands. She smiles at it, “Do you even know what this is? This is truth, this is power. You sneer down at me because you’re afraid of it.” She sets the crystal aside and approaches, petting my Wyvern. “Tell me, why have you never fought against me? You spoke of purpose once; did you find it in me?”

No. I never did. I thought I would, I planned and schemed to slip away several nights. To rouse a coup and even took the steps towards it. But I never did. I grew complacent because what worth would I have at the top of it all? I didn’t understand victory, complete victory. Not as she does.

“Because…because I’d fallen for you.” Her eyes meet mine and I breathe more of the truth, “I hate you still but…I love you now. I don’t know what else lies beyond, I admire you for striving, for the continued effort. If I were you, I’d contemplate killing myself after every victory, after another nation bows, after another King is slain. I don’t know why anything exists, why I exist. But you’ve made me exist for you, by the force of your hand and your lips you’ve made me exist.”

I’m sure of it. Had I not inherited my foster father’s titles, had I not felt a pang of duty, of gratitude toward him, had I not returned to claim them as my own. I know I would have died and maybe I would be spared the turmoil of existence that plagues me day by day. The King, for all the spite and bile I resign to curse her name, has made me have more worth than any god or dragon.

The King smiles wryly, “Then you know I will not force you in this. Go against me now and you will find the death you desire. I will have you know…my ambition, it goes far beyond Kingdoms and Kings.” She sets out a hand. “Join me and we’ll create a new world, a new place without any of the sufferings you have had to bear.”

I scoff at her hand, “Lies. A paradise shaped by you of all people? Of all Kings? Besides, Anera will strike you down before long.”

She shrugs, “She will send her heroes and she may even send her avatar. But I am King. King of more than you know.”

Aged Forty-Nine we are beset on every side. Kingdoms under our heel resist our boot, across our borders we fight seven wars in seven nations with fourteen armies. The King has garnered the attention of the righteous, of rivals who would do without her and of Deities who spite us both.

Chaos swirls our Kingdoms but the King and her Knight are nowhere to be found.

Stepping into the large chamber I find the King digging into another one of our puppets. They are stronger now and less of the horror they were before. She picks another one of the crystals dug from the Priests we’ve slaughtered across the continent and chants the words. At her side and under her tutelage, I’ve mastered Necromancy and raised undead Dragons for our wars— a slight Draecnir didn’t take to as he too has taken arms against me. The dragon deity is no fool though, the war between us is merely a formality, so that the other gods do not look down on him for leaving me be.

The gleaming crystal darkens as the Kings might overtakes that of the god who designed it. Their Priests and mighty servants always carry one within their bodies, it is their assigned bide of divine power, one that grows the more the god favours them.

That favour is ours now. To corrupt and twist for our armies. The sky cracks with lightning as yet another storm takes shape above the castle. The King chuckles at the ceiling, hands filthy with the blood of our creations.

“They’ll cut us down soon.” I tell her, dragging in another priest corpse with me.

She wipes her nose and nods, “Yes…they will.”

“We will succeed before then.” I promise and join her beside the open puppet. It drools with blood and poorly formed saliva. Eyes rolling against each other as its mouth trembles with words unformed. Looking upon it I smile, “A new race of man…of us. We ought to name them something other than puppets.”

She smiles and takes my lips, “I’ll let you decide. Bring this one to its senses for me first.”

She hands me the corrupted crystal, it brims with a power no longer divine, but that will change. She steps over and flings the body of the priest I dragged in onto a heap before setting herself at the centre of the circle, “Quickly now.”

Hastened, I insert the crystal into one of its organs— it doesn’t matter which, what matters is the tether of mana and blood I pull out. Thin and dripping the string of mana and blood swirls at my fingertips, dragging with me as I paint the circle the King stands in with it, chanting as I do.

Soon, an ethereal glow takes the circle. Our puppet jerks, organs and all spilling out from its open stomach. It howls as we exchange a knowing look. A keen frequency rings through my ears as the thread of blood and mana I spooled into the circle mends the puppet in all its ways. Its mind fixed, re-written and flooded with notes of importance. Organs flip back into place as though having legs and arms to pull themselves back. Once they’re all inside the previously separated organs fuse into a single mass. A single organ to preserve and reproduce— an incubator.

The body is fake. Nothing more than stitched up parts of favoured arms, legs and even heads. The organs the same. Our puppet need no lungs or heart. It only needs the incubator and that is set.

I look to the King and find a weak smirk on her lips. Mine falls as I know this ritual is taxing. I would reach out to help but I know she would smack my hand aside. So I stand and hope.

The puppet flops, screams in agony unknown. But our smile remains. It is not alive to know pain, we’ve made sure. Hurling out stomach acids and contents it roars in a false pain as the incubator grows ripe within it.

“Now. Help me.”

Surprise races through me at the words, I find her eyes to be sincere and I nod. Arms raised, I coat my being in protective mana as I cross into the circle. It shudders and fights against me but the King grabs my hand and pulls me close.

“This is it. We’re doing it.” She gasps, looking older than her century. I squeeze her hand and join the ritual. Guiding my mana around hers, intertwining the two as they spear through the puppet’s shell of a body to feed the incubator, to feed the crystal within.

“After so many trials. We’re going to be parents.” She huffs, standing straight as my efforts ease her burden. The strain finds me though, as do her lips.

“Very touchy today.” I comment through a groan. The crystal is a greedy pit. Corrupting it is one thing, feeding it to grow what we need is another.

“This may be our last. The gods are coming, but we must succeed and we will, even if they destroy us.” The storm overhead rages fiercer. Banging against the coats of spell work, barriers, dragons and the very foundation of the earth. Their anger is rife.

“They can’t destroy us. After this, we will be gods.”

Her lips turn blue as does her mood, and I fear the worst. She shakes her head and says, “Here comes the last part. I didn’t tell you because…I thought I wouldn’t need you, but I do. Will you help me?”

“Always.”

The puppet bulges. Now deformed beyond any recognition, it’s mass of flesh contorts onto itself, wrapping around and presenting the incubator. A ghost wind bursts through the room, and somehow a fire follows it. They’re here.

Swirling against our powers the forces attempting to teleport in find trouble, but so do we. We’re not strong enough to feed the incubator to life and fight them off. I snap my fingers and a primal roar crows from beyond the walls.

Within moments the castle walls crumble against the penetrating head of my undead mount. It screeches death and pours venom over the mound of bodies, raising them as undead.

“That should hold them.” I say without as much confidence as I intend.

The undead launch themselves onto the sharpening forms of our invaders, gnawing at flesh still struggling to teleport through our barriers. I smirk, “Foolish heroes.”

“Ah!” the King wails as barriers shatter against a new presence outside. I snap my fingers at my dragon but it doesn’t move. I look up as the broken, trembling walls pull— our castle decapitated by the dragon’s body. I gulp at the massive figure wielding its carcass like a baton.

A god, no, an Avatar.

Clad in chainmail, wielding a thunder in one hand, a beard white and long with eyes gleaming unbridled chaos. Reinmer, the Storm God bears down at us and I know behind its blinding white eyes it sees nothing but pests that ought to be put down. Reinmer disintegrates my undead dragon in its hand and peers down, shrinking in size.

Rain batters down on us, mana continues to drain and the undead I summoned are slaughtered by the heroes teleporting in. It would serve to have an army here, but against an Avatar of an intermediary Deity they’d be disintegrated all the same.

I see my death in him as he marches pass the croaking puppet or what’s left— a black, thick orb of cultivated Deific Essence, an Incubator for the new species we were to pioneer. Our children.

He pokes it and lightning crackles against his fingertips. I flinch as does my King. She’s fallen, drained of nearly all her power. The heroes take measured steps around the avatar, all regarding the Incubator with spite. They wouldn’t understand.

“Why?” I stammer, teeth chattering at the cold.

“Why?” Reinmer repeats.

“Are you evil?”

“The Storm God is the bringer of-!” one of the heroes begins to speak but lightning strikes swift, stunning but not killing them. None speak up again.

“I am not.”

“Then are you good?”

Reinmer raises an eyebrow at this but he must be curious what duo of humans would undertake such a task without protection from some otherworldly being so he indulges me. “I am.”

“Lies.” I hiss. “Then why stop us?”

“You slay the servants of gods. You rip out the favour bestowed unto them. You corrupt it. You attempt to create your own slaves to worship and adore you into godhood. You forget your place. Greed is a sin.”

“Is it? Would Feio, Goddess of Thieves and Assassins agree?”

“There is evil in all places. Feio is merely one of the many evils of the divine. If I had the power, I would smite her as I am about to smite you.”

He raises an arm and a bolt, a spear of such magnificence appears. It is a weapon worthy of the god, perhaps even more as I know it is not his own.

“As the sent representative of aligned gods, I’ve come to see you to your end. To your penance. Be gone, foul child.”

“No!” King yelps, spring from her place on the ground to shield me. Her magic may as well be a sheet of paper to the weapon. It spears us down as her lips meld with mine, pleasure with a burst of agony is the last thing I feel as the divine power within sears through King and I.

“We will…we will...” she can’t manage anymore, consumed as I am into darkness.

Aged Nil I find myself on a wall, sure of one thing alone. “The gods will pay.”