After the king was by himself, his pet drake settled down. Ordelas gazed expectantly at a globe while Bloodwing curled on the floor beside him.

Ordelas had commanded one of his servants to set the orb on a large pedestal in the center of the room. The king’s pet had hassled the poor elf when the servant first came to set up the display. The drake was agitated like his master, but it was for a different reason. Ordelas had started eating regular meals, so Bloodwing had less food to feed on than he had grown accustomed to. The elf who was trying to work tensed with caution when the drake first growled.

Ordelas guessed that the drake was disappointed that a serf came without a meal tray and would likely harry them until satisfied. The king warned as much and an Honor Guard, after receiving permission from his lord passed a part of his daily ration to the laborer who then offered it to the creature.

That earned an approving nudge from the beast after swallowing the offering in a single bite. The harassment did not end though, continuing no longer with any sense of hostility but eager expectation for more. The scene at least raised the corners of the king’s lips though sleepless robbed almost all variety of expression from his eyes, it seemed he had a perpetual half lidded stare except in the most heated of moments.

With the globe prepared, the servant had departed and the drake finally relented. Even though the drake was resting, it was a fierce sight. When Bloodwing had hatched, he looked like a normal drake, but later he grew to be a monstrosity. Even when the drake was on all fours, Bloodwing reached the height of his master’s knees.

Even though the drake’s scales were black, they glistered in the faintest light. The transparent skin between the drake’s wings was blood red, as its name suggested. Its chest and back were so muscular that the creature’s head appeared to sit on its shoulders without need of a visible neck. The drake watched his master idly spin the globe in front of him. Suffering from terrible dreams, the elf’s physical and mental condition had deteriorated. To say he had not slept would be both the truth and a lie.

He could sleep for but a moment at a time. If he nodded his head and closed his eyes, an instant later he would wake up screaming with no memory of his troubled dreamscapes. In a dream a lifetime could pass in the blink of an eye. Overwhelmed with feelings of loss and doubt, he intensely desired to see tears fall from the sky.

So, he asked for the globe, desperate as he was for a distraction. He could perhaps use it to track the northern expeditions he sent out.

He already began to mock his own decision. The tool gave him something to look at but not something to listen to, to drown out what he was beginning to hear even in the waking world.

He knew it was best not to ask anyone else about the voices, for very few could hear them. If they did, they never heard the same words. No one shared Ordelas’s memories, so no one understood the significance of such.

The recent voices did not belong to Bleodsian, his other. The menacing choir sang frenzied refrains about Ordelas’s failures and mistakes. The old sensations returned to grow in the dark when Ordelas remembered the blood on his hands and the night that had changed everything.

Longing for numbness, he wanted to yell. Why were his memories running rampant? In his state of confusion, feelings of regret grew stronger every day.

Months of sleep deprivation had taken their toll, and Ordelas’s body ached from lack of rest. Ordelas struggled to complete his daily duties. During his tasks, he felt like a marionette, pulled by its strings. Even though the area behind his eyes ached as if burning, he could not stay asleep. The nightmares returned whenever he closed them. He would reawaken to fits of violence, but the exhaustion he felt was worse than torture. His soul longed for surrender to its miserable fate. Unfortunately, Ordelas had vows to keep. He could never end his life so recklessly.

On the globe, Ordelas’s finger rested on the boundary line of the Golden Empire. It was the land of the dwarves east of his realm, a place he tried to forget. He slid his finger to the westand however slightly southward, past his own kingdom, and stopped on Florena’s forest border. He clawed at the section representing the queen’s realm, as if he was trying to crush an unholy place.

By far, Florena was his greatest threat. Since the moment she had won the forest to her side, she had been a thorn in his side. Years after the Great War ended, his land was still scarred by Florena’s trees, which tried to take root in the soil of the Dark Kingdom.

Dark Elves were not the only ones that feared that forest. The dread it inspired was older even than Florena. The trees there had always been aggressive, Florena simply taught them to voice their intent. Untold generations ago, the expansion of what would become the Golden Empire came to a halt at its borders.

Florena's forest used to be larger, extending from coast to coast but dragonfire scorched more than half of it during the Dark Elves’ first war with Malendar and his Light Elves before even the Great War.

What transpired remained a mystery to the Dark Elves. Odlig had many theories but the most widely accepted was that the trees were originally releasing a pollen poisonous to lesser dragons but the dragonlord proved resistant so the trees made themselves toxic so when they burned they delivered a deadly chemical into the air through the smoke and ash. It was powerful enough to nearly kill the Doomlord even when he became fire itself, he was still affected by what was burning.

It was evidence enough of how fearsome the forest was. The Doomlord’s assault was the last purposeful offensive that the Dark Elves took against the forest. Yet Florena’s people remained on the defensive during the Great War.

His eyes roamed southward when he regarded Deassala, the home of the orcs and goblins. A jagged crack along the northwest and near the southern divided the landmass in three. It was an unpleasant land, mostly arid and dry as a desert with patches of wet and humid jungles. Ordelas preferred to never set foot on the forsaken continent again.

Desala was broken into three large pieces but considered one land by the orcs. One could see on a map where the edges of each landmass could have once interlocked.

Though he was grateful for its existence. There were legends of humans that made it to Deassala before Satros discovered humanity but an ecosystem that once knew dragons to be the apex predators was not hospitable for humans. To reach Ushua without having to between the pieces would require a ship to come from the north and few souls would take such a route without a destination in mind. Satros had reached Occidtir after departing from Deassala.

Deassala for how its pieces were spread about formed a broken kite shield around Ushua as if to protect the rest of the world from humanity. There was even a part of Deasala that seemed to curve gently around nearly half of Ushua’s southwesternmost edge as if prepared to clasp it called the Crescent Coast. One could circumvent obstacles on Ushua and naval blockades by journeying through Deassala though such a route would entail its own difficulties.

If Deassala was recognized by its fractured form, (Ushua) was recognized as a singular piece with the islands Satros was known for along with the homeland of the elves on the eastern side as if the land mass had once had once been whole there before breaking apart and becoming slanted as the land trended further north the further east one journeyed, almost touching the Northern Tundra at its eastern end.

Ordelas gave the globe a spin and watched the blue oceans whirl by. The humans lived in the western lands, and the name of their continent was Occidtir, the “Kingdom of Man” as they might have called it. The nations of the land were once unified under a single government for a short time. Now it was a collection of semi-stable alliances.

Occidtir could appear to some as a sickle and bushels of wheat. The primary mass was the hand upon the handle to the south with the thick blade curving and swelling westwards, its tip broken off and drifted to the north to serve as a crown for all beneath it. According to history, humans originated at the handle and spread like a plague from there.

Within the arch of the sickle were large strips of land running primarily from north to south, a grand exception being a large wedge that divided the north and southern half of the continent like a chisel that shattered the land above it as it stabbed towards the base. If one counted the Exile’s Isle as part of Occidtir, the continent accounted for presumably half of the world’s landmass.

Exile’s Isle would be found near the southeast edge of Occidtir. It was little more than an inhospitable rock that was not fit to live on. The waters surrounding its shores were hostile and infamous for being the territory of sea serpents. Human criminals were sentenced to the massive island, where they lived in isolation. The unwanted or, in some cases, the inconvenient members of society were shipped there against their will and left to die.

In spite of everything, the barren island, sown with the dregs of humanity, nursed a hardy breed of humans. Ordelas hated to admit it, but the exiles known as the Corrupt piqued his interest. Their cunning savagery was noteworthy, impressing Ordelas and his Dark Elves. The Darklord meddled in the Corrupts’ affairs by providing the warbands on the island with tokens of favor and the means to sustain their feud with the mainland.

If one contemplated a map, the world hinted at a pattern almost like a ripple with the smaller pieces being surrounded by the larger masses. Legends were that a calamity once occurred and the world was fractured. The origin point was for debate. The only detail that was universal was who was to blame, even humanity acknowledged in its tales its part in the end of a now forgotten age.

Humans were the monsters of legends but even among their kind there were exceptional individuals worthy of praise. Unfortunately, such people were rare and quick to disappear. Ordelas could not turn his gaze away from a thousand to spare one soul, quite the opposite. Sacrifices were necessary, his own elves died in combat to bring their enemies to ruin.

Ordelas had aided the Corrupt multiple times, would have even considered them allies worth sparing if their own mortality did not claim them. It was not worthwhile to build relations with those that would perish in such short time. The only race that once matched his people’s lifespan was the abominable viisas.

His attention was drawn to the sound of knocking. He gave a sideward glance to the balcony to see a silhouette at the glass door and the faint outline of a winged steed receding into the distance.

The king’s heart began to race and he rushed to open the door. There he saw Hílainno, in her normal brilliant garb. Only Hílainno, no one else was with her, not Yavani or Tarica.

Ordelas scanned the balcony. “You return alone?” he asked, more willing to doubt his eyes than her competence,

She bowed in greeting before straightening so that she could look him straight in the eyes. “I bring tidings of my sister, my lord. She is not dead nor does she appear to be harmed.”

“Is she captured?” Bile formed in Ordelas’s throat at the thought.

“No,” she answered calmly enough to rival Syicho as if to avoid excitement. “Let me say that she is safe.”

Ordelas’s heart sank and he felt a shadow of something that should not be spoken looming behind her words. “Yet… she is not here,” he processed slowly.

“Indeed. What would you have us do?” Hílainno looked to him expectantly as if to judge his next action. “I could complete her task in her place.”

The glass door behind him cracked. “Leave,” he instructed grimly. He turned away before he could see or hear her response.

Ordelas’s lips curled back like a wolf when the realization of Tarica’s betrayal dawned on him. He once entertained thoughts of her walking through the doorway with a cup of Malendar’s blood in her hands. News from Hílainno shattered such hopes. He could not deny it any longer, no matter how much he wanted to ignore the truth. She had turned on him, just like everyone else.

In a way, he was jealous. He had given her something to fight for, yet she obviously found a cause worth dying for. He was impressed that she had chosen her own fate. He had taken matters into his own hands and done the same thing many years ago. The first time he drew a blade with murder in his heart, his choice had been made.

Why did the ones he placed the most faith in betray him? Was he cursed by some higher power? Must he endure a life of loneliness? Early in his youth, Ordelas had learned that the next knife that stabbed him in the back was likely to belong to someone with a friendly face, but this was too much. Worse still was the fact that he renewed the cycle of violence and condemned his soul so many years ago. No one else was responsible for his fate; he could only blame himself.

The door in front of him creaked and groaned in his presence and he shut it. “You as well,” he whispered his orders to the Honor Guard outside the room without ever looking their way. “Take Bloodwing and bar the way behind you.”

The king looked to his pet. “Get out while you can,” he warned, the room darkening as the fires of the braziers that ran through the middle of the room came to waver.

The beast cowered but instead of fear driving it away, it drew closer, mistaking its master for shelter rather than the disaster itself. It took refuge at his feet, curling around his legs. Ordelas sighed through gritted teeth. “If that is your choice then stay where I know you are.” He dismissed the guards approaching to retrieve the animal. “He may stay.”

The door outside the throneroom was shut. The flames of the braziers sputtered out in shadow so perminable that it encroached over and blotted out the vision outside.

Only hell waited for him in the world of dreams, and within the festering sore of reality, it was hell to be awake. The fragile seal that used to keep his emotions and mind intact had ruptured. Dismal sounds and visions of specters were everywhere. No matter where he went, the phantoms hounded him.

The darkness soothed him however little but not enough. Malice filled the room like water pouring from a waterfall. The balcony door’s glass exploded outwards against the surge. He listened to metalic groans as the brazier bent beneath the immense weight before shrieking as they buckled and twisted. He heard the not so gentle grinding of stone as the globe and pedestal was pulverized.

He considered the effort the servant placed in preparing the globe then the time his artisans must have contributed in making their crafts. They created something beautiful enough to be in his palace yet he disrespected their work.

That fueled his rage further so he destroyed which in turn only helped to stoke his anger and that led him to repeat until the room was clear of all but he knew his throne. All else ground to dust and lost in shadow.

He heard nothing else so all he had left was his imaginings. He panted as his anger no longer had a target so rather than the strength of rage, he only had emptiness to dwell on.

Magic was a manifestation of what one willed. Ordelas desired destruction so it manifested as destruction.

The soul was more powerful than the material, a spirit such as his other could interact with the world, ignoring the laws of nature and logic at the same time could not. Spirits such as Bleodsian could only do what they were allowed to do so they needed a host, a sorcerer. The sorcerer then could direct their power by allowing their others’ existence to supersede reality. So, the two had to be in agreement for the spells to take effect as intended.

Bleodsian’s rage was all encompassing, even the slightest thought of death and mayhem aligned with the spirit and could become true. Hence why Ordelas needed to be careful or else his own people be caught in a working.

He lingered in the dark. He did not know how much time passed. It could have been hours by mortal reckoning or days though Bloodwing would likely have lost patience before the latter could come to pass. He reached the opposite of serenity, a horrible acceptance of the moment that was only interrupted by a particularly persistent voice calling for his attention. The imagined voice sounded like… Sceadu?

“What am I to do?” Ordelas asked himself. He felt Bloodwing perk his head to look up at his master, but Ordelas was not speaking to the drake.

“Your resolve is weak,” thundered a voice. Ordelas looked down and saw impossibly in that absolute darkness a shadow near his feet. The shadow wrapped around Ordelas like a blanket. “Your devotion is dwindling. My dear Ordelas, must I remind you of our goal? Have you forgotten the day I found you?”

Ordelas felt new strength in Bleodsian’s presence. “How could I? It was the moment that everything became clear. I wanted to die, but you sustained me and gave me purpose.”

“Do you remember what I said to you?”

“Yes,” answered Ordelas. “I was frightened, but you comforted me.” Ordelas began to smile as memories surfaced like islands in the ocean of his mind.

“Then let us reaffirm our covenant,” Bleodsian appealed with a voice that was beautiful yet so terrible. “To our united goal, the Onrushing Ascendency. Soon, it will be within our reach.” Ordelas opened his hand to summon the symbol of his contract with his other. Tendrils of blood flowed from his wrist and gathered on top of his palm. A levitating blade formed in the air, right in front of Ordelas.

The king clutched his fingers around the sword, and the hilt perfectly fit his grip. The irises of Ordelas’s eyes turned red, and his pupils shined bright like a fiery blaze. The sword cast an angel-shaped shadow, and the king kneeled to place his hand in the center of it. The drake, sensing something was amiss, backed away and gave Ordelas space when he called forth his magic.

Bleodsian's vows

“I, Ordelas, of my own free will, offer my body to thee, Bleodsian. I offer my pain and sorrow. By this sword and the oath contained within, I will become a part of you.” The phantoms haunting him faded and energy began to flow within Ordelas’s veins.

“As I will become a part of you,” Bleodsian promised. “For your wrath, I give you my soul and melody, so one day, our dreams shall be fulfilled.”

The Darklord became perturbed, and his thoughts returned to the present as a hole of twilight tore through his sanctuary as the doorway outside openned. Enraged by the interruption, Ordelas directed a murderous stare in that direction.

He discovered then that his gaze was turned to his advisor. Several strands of Ceronus’s hair dissolved when an unseen force brushed past his head. The wave of energy hit the wall behind him like a battering ram, leaving a massive depression in its place.

The elf froze in place and waited for Ordelas’s rage to subside. Gradually, the fire in the king’s eyes dimmed, and he stood upright. Detecting his master’s displeasure with Ceronus, Bloodwing bared his teeth and snarled at the elf. The king smiled wickedly, having noticed the loyalty of his pet. For a moment, it seemed the advisor was in peril, but the king raised his hand and signaled the drake to hold its attack.

“What is it, my loyal friend?” Ordelas inquired, his voice tense with agitation. In most cases, the king would have addressed a favored one with some warmth and respect, but his somewhat revitalized eyes were narrowed into dark slits.

“My king, I was meant to tell you renegade dwarves have agreed to open the gate to the empire. For a price, of course. Though that pales in comparison what I have to say now. Our scouts found them, my lord.” Ceronus took a deep breath and explained, “They found the dragons in the Northern Tundra!”

Ordelas did not want hope to disappoint him again. “Is that true? If it is, why is it not Malniza telling me this?”

“Sceadu just received word and you did not appear to be responding to him trying to gain your attention through his ring,” the advisor stated. “He passed the news to me so you might hear so immediately rather than it be relayed through many mouths like any other message.”

Ordelas’s expression did not change. He had known this moment would eventually come, and he had prepared a long time ago.“We set sail for the Northern Tundra at once,” Ordelas declared.

“I shall secure a ship for the journey,” offered Ceronus as he looked for a messenger.

Ordelas grabbed the elf by the shoulder to stop him. “No need.” The king motioned for his pet to approach. “Come, Bloodwing. We are going.”

Ceronus did not have the time to ask his lord any questions. He just watched the air around him twist into a melting mix of shapes and colors. A moment later, before Ceronus could realize what had happened, they found themselves standing at the edge of a harbor.

The harbor the Dark Elves found themselves in had been carved from the cliffside itself, more a cavern than a port, akin to the few naval establishments of the dwarves though the elves developed it with solely military matters in mind. It lacked any exits besides its mouth and the underground passages in the back so it could neither be assailed by land and, if captured, be sealed off so their enemy could not use it as a beachhead for further invasion.

The place was organized, the souls there wearing the dark grey and black uniforms of the Dark Elven navy, the closest to blue those elves were willing to wear. Dotted among them were those in the personalized black with white attire of the Shadow’s Legion, each covered in their own unique designs so long as it was black and white and at least somewhat frightening.

However, the king caught sight of familiar white and black armor and a golden cloak turned and the evil smile had stretched across Ordelas’s face until then turned into a faint frown. The king’s eyes dulled as they narrowed upon the unwelcome individual.

“Celus,” Ceronus recognized with respectful caution as the Honor Guard approached them.

Celus's closed helmet hid whatever expression the Honor Guard had for the advisor. Even with her helmet on, she could be identified by her unique stature and inherited grey eyes shining through the visor.

The elf was a granddaughter of Vernigen. She was not as tall as the sons and daughters of the wolf but still possessed a noticeably more muscular physique than others.

The Honor Guard bowed her head to her king. “My lord.”

The king remained quiet. His eyes shifted from his bodyguard to Ceronus. The adviser knew the mission they were to undertake and left to prepare their departure.

They would not need to summon a sorcerer to guide the vessel. Ordelas was a sorcerer and the very foundation by which the vessels help remain afloat the same way he maintained the Veil in such a way starlight was still allowed to pass through while the sun was banished.

She dropped to one knee. “Does something disturb you, my lord?”

“Why are you here instead of in the palace?” he asked accusingly.

“Malniza has us watch the borders for all the times you have found a way to leave us behind.”

Ordelas smiled weakly in amusement. “So, Malniza put some forethought into this.” Ordelas beckoned her to follow. “Come with me then, in respect to his efforts.”

Ordelas often dismissed his Honor Guard. In a way, he resented their presence. The only one among them he tolerated was Malniza. Their duties more often than not proved to be protecting their charge from himself, much to his agitation.

They were a constant reminder of his own weakness.

Ordelas imagined Celus in particular was sent away from the palace for her lineage. Her presence already strained his patience, he did not need a reminder of his champion before his very eyes.

Instability seemed to run in Vernigen’s bloodline. Many of his sons and daughters showed a disposition towards multiple forms of mania. For that reason and not to insult Vernigen by removing a potential warrior from the battlefield, none of his children served the Honor Guard, only his grandchildren or further were considered, even then his grandchildren were also perceptible to madness.

Whether this was an inherent weakness or the result of their upbringing was yet to be determined. His eldest child, the one considered the inheritor of his spirit seemed to possess no such flaw. Fewer escaped without their father’s aggression, the ones that did often developed unique traits like bonding with beasts or an offputting, unflinching sincerity.

Even those of sound mind if they had any sense of filial piety while still loyal to the throne had reason for hostilities with Ceronous.

They found expedition members who reported the discovery resting in the harbor when Ordelas decided to leave, so he ordered them to join him and navigate. The ship’s original crew was honored to have the king aboard and were eager to be at his beck and call. The king did not requisition a large crew or charter a grand flagship. Instead, he took a sleek craft, casted from iron, and used his power to propel the ship through the bay and out to sea.

Ordelas glared at the darkened sky when the ship set sail. Daring the weather to contradict his mood, he looked at a small halo of light that hid behind a veil of dark gray clouds. The stars shone like it was night, and sun’s rays were blocked by a black shroud. Ordelas preferred the dark because it reminded him of the tunnels of his former home.

During the trip, Ordelas refused most of the luxuries offered to him. He eventually accepted a heavy, fur-lined cloak and kept the hood over his face whenever he went on deck. His drake was a good enough hunter to feed itself and did not require any of the crew members’ attention. When it was not stalking down food, it followed Ordelas wherever he went.

Ordelas stared at the then sky, which was empty except for an occasional cloud. Not one winged creature was in sight because Bloodwing hunted everything that moved. Compared to the sky, the water had almost as little to show for, since the drake directed his hunger towards the sea life near the surface.

Ordelas cheered, “Good, Bloodwing,” when the drake killed its first bird. The prey happened to be a seagull, much to Ordelas’s pleasure. Considering them to be nothing but a nuisance, the king despised the birds’ constant cawing.

The elf paced impatiently on the top deck while his magic drove the ship to their destination. He placed his hand on the sword, sheathed by his side, to calm himself. He saw Bleodsian staring back at him when he looked at the water. “It will not be long from now, Ordelas.” With the exception of its golden hair, red eyes that glowed, and untroubled countenance, the spirit’s reflection favored Ordelas.

Before he could speak to the image in the water, he glanced behind himself to the bodyguard standing only a few steps behind him like a statue. “Are you there to ensure I do not fall or to ensure I do not jump?”

“Both,” she answered firmly.

Ordelas gritted his teeth and tried to convince himself he did not sense some humor in her dutiful response. Rather than talk, he chose to remember.

Ordelas’s mind was transported to another place in time. Ordelas had formed a pact with the Dragonlord and turned the grand creatures against all the other races. Before that, the dragons roamed freely. The dragons rescued the Dark Elves from the Viisas when their enemies retaliated. Together, the Dark Elves and dragons drove the Viisian civilization to extinction, fighting side by side. Ordelas thought it was ironic that his greatest ally was a dragon, since the dragons had a disposition to protect the world.

Ordelas’s spells did not grant him the power to control others. Some accused him of not even being able to control himself. The most he could accomplish suppress or torment another until they were forced to submit.

His domain was blood, the essence of both life and death, an unique disposition.

Ordelas cast a mighty spell that weakened the wills of the dragons so that way they would more faithfully serve Flameheart, the dragonlord who sided with Ordelas. Believing that no one would interfere or come to the orcs’ defense, Ordelas coerced his powerful ally to also attack the orcs and goblins. After disabling the orcs, he planned to use their waterfronts as strategic ports so he could extract retribution from the rest of the world. The campaign against the orcs was just an experiment. Ordelas did not expect Malendar to rally the rest of the world against him.

Ordelas attacked orcs because they helped in Viisian War. Dwarves were aware of Viisian War but did not involve themselves. Satros had an idea of it but was ignorant of the scope or reason. This was before Ordelas labeled himself a Dark Elf so Satros did not comprehend and Malendar was not there.

The Dark Elves had held their ground and warred against almost every nation until the orcs unified under a chieftain’s leadership. The orc’s name was Chief Earthshatterer. Ordelas noticed the resemblance between his old foe and an orc whom he had met at the Meeting Circle. It was perfectly clear that the current leader of the Drakefang tribe was a descendant of Earthshatterer. The former chief was well over ten feet tall, making him one of the largest orcs Ordelas had ever met. Though larger orcs existed, they were old and unfit for combat.

The orcs had fought back, marched straight to the Dark Kingdom, and laid siege on the fortress of Raven’s Hold. Ordelas remembered how he had fought Earthshatterer in single combat, and how he had lost after being distracted by the phantoms that plagued him. On that day, fate arranged for Ordelas’s reunion with a piece of his past and made the Dark Elf vulnerable. Earthshatterer was too honorable to kill Ordelas in cold blood, so Malendar suggested imprisonment. That was Malendar’s greatest mistake.

No chains or cell seemed able to hold Ordelas for long, so they sealed him away in an underground cavern for five hundred years. Even though he was separated from the physical embodiment of his contract with Bleodsian, Ordelas communicated with the spirit while in prison. Bleodsian told Ordelas about events that transpired during his time of absence, so the elf planned his return and plotted his revenge.

The races of the world could not break the darklord’s spell over the dragons. The Allies, being sentimental, decided that the dragons were victims of Ordelas’s curse and refused to destroy the wondrous creatures. Instead, the dragons were put to sleep, and centuries later they still rested in a state of hibernation.

While Ordelas served his sentence, Ceronus prepared the Dark Elves for the Darklord’s return and reinforced their defenses. Ceronus and his nephew Sceadu, one of Ordelas’s commanders, had raised up the military after they drove the Allies out. The other commanders, who were released or eventually resurfaced, aided in the reconstruction.

The Darklord was not surprised when he heard that Vernigen, his champion, had escaped from confinement. The commander reassembled his regiment, the Chosen Ones, and marched across Deassala, back to their homeland in Ushua. If the goal of the Chosen Ones had not involved the capture of their capital city, the campaign would have been praiseworthy. Vernigen, who had never approved of Ceronus’s leadership, challenged the advisor when he came home. The final conflict between Ceronus and Vernigen did not end in the champion’s favor. Ordelas returned home to be mortified and even after eight centuries could not forgive Ceronus for his treatment of Vernigen. He would have slain the advisor then and there but then he would have lost both.

The proper punishment for the champion’s rebellion should have been humiliation. When Vernigen proved to be without shame and the people on his side, he was quietly tortured. When he laughed at pain, more unconventional methods were called upon. He made a number of sorcerous enemies if his mockery of the arcane so there were magic users ready to test their arts upon him. He may have been willful, he may have been stubborn but he had a flawed mind and his opposition had time.

Ordelas, being destructive by nature, could not mend broken minds. Nor did Vernigen seem willing to return.

After his release, Ordelas pretended to be repentant, but he hated the Allies more than ever. Bleodsian led Ordelas back to the sword, the symbol of their eternal contract. The Allies had never removed the cursed sword because anyone who touched the blade without Ordelas’s consent went insane. They gave up and forced the Dark Elves to build a monument over it, burying the blade deep below it. The Allies believed the weight of the heavy stones on top would destroy the sword, making it inaccessible. Since the sword was not forged from bronze or iron, the Allies never understood its arcane nature. Ordelas’s bond with the blade was never severed. The blade, not being an ordinary weapon, was something far more dangerous.

Back in the Northern Tundra, the Darklord’s mind returned to the present when Bleodsian’s reflection disappeared. “Something is coming,” his other alerted.

Ordelas looked at the glaciers that loomed ahead of him. While the exhausted king was not paying attention, the ship had reached the fringes of the tundra. It was a detail that he should have noticed. He turned around and glanced at the water behind him, noting that sheets of ice were floating on top of the crystal-blue sea.

The king watched one of the scouts on deck. His black and white pattern and mark of a scorpion covering his breastplate, distinguished him as one of the Shadow’s Legion. “Are we close to our destination?”

“Yes, my lord,” answered the scout as he saluted the king. Ordelas barely raised his eyebrows in response to the scout’s gesture. The news was more important than how it was delivered.

The king said nothing, but his lips turned upward, forming an evil grin. The Darklord looked past the scout, and the elf, unaware of his king’s intentions, trembled. Ordelas knew that Bleodsian would have remained silent if the place had not been significant. It was a sign that the Dark Elf was where he needed to be.

The craft came to a halt when Ordelas quenched the spell that guided it. The well-disciplined crew waited for Ordelas’s command while they eyed each other with baffled looks. The king was hoping they would have questioned him. He was in the perfect mood to demand utter silence.

When Bloodwing flew to the bow of the ship and stared at the waters ahead, the crew understood something was amiss. The drake arched his back and growled, fear reverberating from its throat. Ordelas joined his pet up front. “You sense it as well.” The king smiled as he stroked the drake’s back. The seas concealed many dangers, especially for the king of the Dark Elves.

The Darklord’s advisor rushed to Ordelas’s side. “What is it, my lord?” Ceronus whispered, not wanting to alarm the crew.

“Just a servant,” replied Ordelas. “A disloyal servant who would rather see its master slumber for the rest of time.”

Ordelas placed his hand on the pommel of the sword that rested by his side. The blade reverted into blood and lost solidity. The red ichor flowed through the king’s fingers and crept underneath his armor. The liquid spread across Ordelas’s body, moving through the gaps between the plates of armor as if they were veins.

The Darklord glanced at Bloodwing, and the drake scuttled away from his perch. The king climbed onto his pet’s place, and everyone watched Ordelas spread his arms and balance himself on the prow.

Ceronus held up his hands in warning. “That is dangerous, my lord.”

“Fear not,” assured Ordelas when he glanced back at his advisor. The king unclasped his cloak and threw it to a crew member standing nearby. “I am not a child who must be watched at every turn.”

The advisor remained quiet. Ceronus wanted to contradict Ordelas, but the elf knew better. The advisor issued his warning more out of reflex than genuine concern. He knew the king’s magic would prove sufficient.

When the king jumped overboard, Ceronus could not repress the urge to call out. The advisor, trying to catch Ordelas, rushed toward his king. He was too late, and his worry was for nothing. Confounded, Ceronus watched a pair of scarlet wings sprout from Ordelas’s back. The featherlike outlines, shaped from blood, slowed the king’s descent.

Channeling his resentment, he surrounded his feet with baleful black flames. The fire devoured everything, even warmth. The Darklord glided down and patches of water turned to black tinted ice before his soles touched the surface.

The king stood and looked at his advisor in disappointment. Ordelas expected little from those who did not understand the extent of his sorcery, but his advisor should have known better. The crew crowded the front of the ship to witness the performance, and Ordelas waved reassuringly.

Stepped by step his cold flames formed a path of ice as he walked forward. Once he was farther away from the ship, Ordelas stopped and turned. He was dissatisfied with the location of the boat. It would only get in the way of what he intended to do.

He resumed course and pointed his index finger back over his shoulder as a spike of rage went through his skull, he was so accustomed to it, it might as well have been a drop of water against his brow. The bow of the ship rose and went backwards. Crew members’ cries assured the king that his spell worked as intended. Without looking, he knew the craft drifted away, out of immediate danger. Ordelas needed his guides to navigate to the den and would not allow them to die.

“It will not be long,” Ordelas sighed as he patiently waited. Every word he said was punctuated by frosty vapor. Ignoring everything around him, Ordelas focused straight ahead.

An immense shadow appeared below the depths and swam beneath the cover of an icefield. A wave surged under the surface of ice, and the shadow grew larger as it approached Ordelas. As it drew near, the Dark Elf stepped away in anticipation.

A massive set of jaws erupted from the water. Ordelas, who had no time to conjure a spell, leaped backwards. A sea dragon crashed through the frozen path, but it missed.

Mountainous waves were created from the impact as the creature returned into the deep. As if suspended by invisible strings, Ordelas hovered barely above the dragon’s reach, bloody wings unfurled. Ordelas remained in the air and watched the creature’s silhouette circle beneath him. After the king floated down and landed on the ice, the sprays of salty water that drenched his armor simmered and boiled away.

Ordelas stood steadily on the slippery ice even though waves rocked it back and forth. Ice floated across cresting waves, capable of overturning ships, but Ordelas’s wings kept him balanced and he held his feet in place. He cursed and checked the condition of the vessel behind him. The sturdy craft, wrought by Dark Elves, was far enough from the conflict to remain safe.

The waters were unsettled by a gray-blue head when the sea dragon emerged in front of Ordelas. Its pure-black eyes darkened when it recognized the one who was responsible for its suffering. The king assessed the sea dragon’s size and realized the creature could have split the ship’s hull with a single bite. If Ordelas had not moved out of the way before the creature struck, he would have been swallowed.

It was an ancient beast. All the dragons of the sky had been captured or slain, but some of the sea dragons had gone into hiding and escaped. This particular one had spent almost a millennium watching over its kindred. Now that it was in the Darklord’s presence, a spark of intelligence gleamed in its eyes. Ordelas’s spell had weakened its will and reduced it to an ordinary animal, but the king could not exercise control over the dragon. The only one that could dominate it was the Dragonlord. Long before Ordelas had ever made a deal with the lord of dragons, the beast would have readily answered its superior’s call.

The sea dragon’s upper body rose through the water, and it roared in fury. After Ordelas studied its short neck and pale, white underbelly, he was reluctant to kill the beast. It did not have wings, yet it was wondrous. The lack of wings allowed it to grow ever larger beneath the depths. The short claws attached to its flippers seemed unthreatening when compared to the rest of its massive body.

After Ordelas dodged the sea dragon’s first strike, the beast, unsure of what the elf was capable of, became cautious. It raised its head to Ordelas, and though it did not possess the wisdom it once had, instinct drove the creature to kill. Maybe the sea dragon somehow knew it would be restored to its rightful place in the world if Ordelas died. He was the source of the spell that belittled them. With his death, the spell would end.

Vapor vented from its nostrils as it opened and closed its mouth in agitation. It was a willful creature, powerful enough to resist Ordelas’s enchantment and directly oppose him. If the Dark Elf had reached his destination beforehand, he would have counted it among his allies.

The Dark Elf, concentrating on a spell, stretched out his hands towards the beast. He closed his eyes and hummed an eldritch tune that made the air quiver and vibrate. The dragon, sensing magic, spewed a jet stream of boiling water and steam.

When Ordelas opened his eyes, his wings closed in front of him to form a wall of blood to shield him from the deadly blast and blistering air. He reflexively covered his face with his arm to protect himself, and the safeguard barely managed to hold back the hissing droplets that tried to overwhelm his defenses. The ice he was standing on began to thaw, so he used his black flames to create a cycle of refreezing it as the heat threatened to melt it all over again.

After the attack subsided, a barrier of sizzling blood loomed around Ordelas. Ordelas, taking a deep breath, inhaled, and the blood returned to coat Ordelas’s body. His eyes began to glow bright red. The beast lurched forward to attack once more but Ordelas impeded its efforts by simply holding up his hand.

He concentrated the pressure and malice he might use to crush stone on the creatures’s throat. The sea dragon stopped as it choked and snarled at the Darklord.

“It has been centuries since fire filled the sky. Now that I know he is here, I can not let him wait any longer,” the king declared.

The six wings on the king’s back were set alight with black flames. The blood blazed as it was refined into blades, each wing reborn as a sword.

Steam hissed from the edges of the beast’s mouth before it opened its jaws. Its righteous rage and indignation in that moment exceeded the lord’s own and it overcame the chokehold as it sought to boil him to death once again.

Without a gesture, Ordelas’s eyes simply widened, and for the slightest moment, all seemed calm then a blade pierced the creature’s throat before it could finish. Three others followed, one in each shoulder and another in the chest.

He willed the swords to lift their impaled prey half out of the water. As it thrashed, the remaining two swords planted themselves in its front flippers so it appeared like a pinned insect.

Ordelas then pushed it away. The beast flew backwards for several and skidded across the icefield. It looked like a pebble skipping across a pond. The chain of violent activity stopped when the sea dragon crashed against a glacier, demolishing the mount of floating ice.

The injured dragon tried to slide back into the water but was pinned by the blades. The sorcerer covered the distance between the two as if pulled there by his own swords and landed in front of it. Steam still escaped the beast’s mouth as it readied to unleash a final boiling torrent.

Ordelas held out a hand with his palm up as wisps of blood writhed all around his shoulders. “It is a shame that out of all times, we met today. But now this ends. Goodbye.”

The Darklord flicked his wrist, and a whip of blood arced from his back towards the dragon. The bladed tendril dug into the dragon’s skull, right between the eyes. The essence of life spewed out of the creature’s wound in a grisly spray, the dragon died near instantly.

After Ordelas saw the beast’s head drop, he withdrew the whip back towards himself. The six blades turned back to blood and returned to him. The creature’s limp body slid from the slope where it made impact and fell into the sea. Ordelas was drenched with the water the sea dragon’s body displaced, and the beast disappeared. The water turned red and giant bubbles rose to the surface as a testament to what the Darklord had done. The king wrapped his arms around himself to stave off the cold. If he froze to death after becoming saturated, the fight would have served no purpose. At Ordelas’s behest, the water evaporated, and he began to warm.

Assured that the threat had passed, Ordelas left, looking for the ship that had floated away. The Darklord sighed a long, foggy breath. Not being in peak condition before the fight occurred, the battle had left him even more tired and worn. He did not have the strength to walk back.

The blood, circulating around his armor, was reabsorbed by his body. When he lifted two fingers, his body was transported back to the ship as he rejected his place in the world and read horde himself in a site dedicated to him. Everyone turned around in surprise when they found him standing on the stern behind them. They glorified Ordelas for his feat as he stared at the elf who was holding onto his cloak. He did not care if they revered him. It would not quicken the voyage. The only thing Ordelas could think about was his journey’s end.

The sailor placed the cloak over his king’s shoulders, and the craft moved forward. Ordelas heard the scouts talking as they navigated around the icebergs that stood in their way, but he was hardly awake, and his consciousness was fading. When they passed the blood-tinged waters where the dragon had died, the crew admired their lord’s accomplishment, but Ordelas was not capable of caring.

The king’s impatience affected the spell over the ship, and it began to smash through fields of ice. Unsettling screeches shook the ship whenever it scraped against the glaciers. The noise roused Ordelas, and the ship began to speed through the ice-covered waters.

Even in the tundra, there was still a tide and fortunately it was with the elves. The water was level with the seabed so Ordelas merely directed the ship into the bank. The king would have drove it forward until it could go no further but Ceronus and Celus reminded him that they would need to make a return journey.

The ship cleaved through ice until it reached solid land. Everyone but the king removed their metal armor in favor of warm fur coats and caps. The plates that covered Ordelas’s body were not made out of ordinary metal. The armor, producing a heat of its own, sustained him. Though he was warm enough, he clutched his cloak to keep the wind from stealing it away when he stepped out onto the snow covered ice.

Ordelas had left his pet onboard with the sailors, and the scouts led Ceronus and him to the outpost. The advisor and scouts were dressed lightly enough to stand on the snowy ground without difficulty, but Ordelas, who was weighed down, sank in the snow. Their destination was not far, so the king trudged ahead while he viewed the darkening sky. Any other time, he would have appreciated the weather. On this particular day, he frowned while snowflakes drifted from the sky.

The outpost the elves established was primitive, worse than a hovel. A group of weather-worn tents surrounded a single fire pit. If not for the ragged banner with a scorpion on it, nobody would have known the makeshift fort belonged to Dark Elves. The scorpion emblem reminded the king that the scouts belonged to Sceadu’s regiment. Once they were inside the snowbank that encircled the camp, two elves came out to greet them. Ordelas was impressed that the ovoid structure, which served as a wall, protected them from the wind.

The elves welcomed the king and explained that the rest of the squad waited for his arrival at the den. The elves stationed there had busied themselves and excavated the den’s entrance in spite of nature’s attempt to keep it buried. Ordelas ordered the scouts to lead him there immediately, but they were reluctant. The elves, having spent time in the tundra, knew a storm was brewing and did not wish to place their lord in peril.

The elves that traveled on the ship with Ordelas were eager to see their mission completed, so they explained to the scouts, who had been waiting, how powerful the king was. One of the elves fell down and worshipped Ordelas with renewed faith after hearing how the king had slayed a dragon on his own. Not wanting to waste any time, Ordelas shook his head and motioned for the elf to cease.

Once they ventured out, Ordelas looked out at the white land and understood why it had taken centuries to find the den. Most plants could not grow atop the permafrost of the northern region, and the landmarks changed positions every season. The wind blew constantly while snowbanks and ice shifted from place to place.

The howling wind blew blankets of snow, tempting the party to turn around. Ordelas was the one most burdened by the flurry, but he kept marching forward. The scouts, too ashamed to give up before their lord did, covered their faces with their arms and hands as they trudged forward into the wintery gusts. Crystals of ice pecked past Ordelas’s hood and stung his face, but he continued onward.

The storm was so great that it seemed to rage with the purpose of hindering their advance. The scouts explained that under ideal circumstances, the trip could still take several days.

To the scouts’ surprise, it was their king that slowed their journey. The winds held all at bay but it was their king whose feet sank into the ground. The elves that had explored this place wore no metal and tread on the snow as if it were solid ground but even they were threatened to be buried if they stood still for too long.

The very storm that hindered him spared him of the sun’s rays. In the summer, the place was dreaded as the land of the Midnight Sun. Summer fortunately had not yet come but the days were lengthening much to the displeasure of its Dark Elven guests. If Ordelas had come just a little earlier, he could have visited it in the winter in the shelter of perpetual darkness. However, he would not wait even one season more and allow no force of nature to deter him from his destination.

The elves looked at their king in anticipation, hoping he would perform a miracle. Since the constant snow and fatigue cooled his temper, he could not bring himself to be angry with them. He was tired and his magic was primarily adept at destruction, but knowing the elves could not continue any longer, he decided to intervene.

He lifted both hands into the sky and stood there, focusing his energy on the core of the storm. He ignored the snowfall and summoned the whirling winds to approach. A vortex formed beneath the clouds and descended on the area.

The elves distanced themselves from Ordelas when the vortex closed in around him. The funnel engulfed the Darklord, but he remained unharmed. Everything else inside the squall was pulled up and torn apart. The overhead clouds were sucked into the funnel and drawn closer to the ground. Ordelas lowered one hand to his side, and the storm whirled around him until the vortex and clouds began to shrink.

The winds tightened themselves into a spinning knot and settled in the palm of Ordelas’s outstretched hand. The vortex cleared the frosty area where Ordelas stood, leaving nothing but barren soil behind. Sunlight blazed through the sky after the storm had ceased, and the vortex, which was no larger than someone’s head, condensed itself.

Ordelas observed how the tiny tornado spun with the same fury of its giant counterpart. The sorcerer held it up for all to see before he cast it in front of him. The winds raged with the same force as before when the twister was released from Ordelas’s hand, clearing the ground of ice and snow.

Ordelas, pleased with the results, smiled in satisfaction. Then his eyes rolled back, and his knees buckled. “My lord!” exclaimed Ceronus as he caught the king in his arms. Ordelas was so heavy that the advisor struggled to keep him from falling down.

Fortuantely, Celus was there was there to help him pull the king back onto his feet. She had made a dash to reach him and would have saved him from his fall but the advisor had been closer. He placed Ordelas’s arm over his shoulder and looked at his king. Ordelas’s eyes were closed and his head sagged against his chest, but his mouth kept moving. Ceronus assured the others, “He is only asleep.”

Ordelas did not remain silent for very long. Ceronus had hoped the king would rest, but instead, he started to babble. As soon as the words escaped his mouth, the elves realized that he was speaking in the cursed tongue of their worst enemy, the dwarves. They could not understand the language, since it was foreign to them. Not even Ceronus, who understood most dwarven dialects, could interpret what Ordelas said because he was speaking so quickly.

The elf conversed rapidly in partial sentences containing indistinguishable words. During the chaotic ramble, it was impossible to determine Ordelas’s emotional state.

When Ordelas became quiet, the wind seemed to hush so it could listen. “Forgive me,” he whispered in a language they understood.

The scouts exchanged glances with Ceronus when Ordelas’s lips stopped moving. Half of them, those who expected him to start all over again, were afraid to touch him. The advisor carefully laid Ordelas’s limp body against a rock and leaned over him, making sure that he was still breathing. Ceronus shook his head, realizing that even a sorcerer like Ordelas had limits. He feared his king had been pushed to the brink.

Ceronus stood up and pointed accusingly. “Speak of none of this,” he warned, prepared to condemn them. “If I ever hear that you repeated a word of this, I will have all of you executed for treason.”

The elves who felt guilty about their king’s condition lowered their heads in shame. They were Ordelas’s servants, yet he was the one who provided for their safety. They should have never relied on Ordelas to save them from the elements. Due to their failings, he was weak and unstable.

Many believed that the king was a god. The knowledge of his weakness would lessen their faith in him. The scouts were in a complex situation because Ceronus was not only the king’s advisor, he was also their commander’s relative. Even if Sceadu and Ceronus close, the commander would still defend his scouts, but that would not protect the Shadow Legionnaires from accusations of heresy or treason.

The advisor pointed to the stretch of bare ground. “He cleared the path for you. You have no excuse to keep him waiting. Ensure that we reach the den before he wakes up.”

***

A first all he knew was chaos, violent meaningless chaos. Then things came to him, someone stating their unfamiliar name before reciting their family tree, each entry meant nothing until the end when he recognized something. Then came the despair followed by a final curse. A masked face refusing him the honor of knowing who it was that demanded his life. A girl with the same midnight black hair as his own, orphaned by his own hands. He saw many more things, he had centuries of life and countless times wronged others. That he still lived meant not a single one extracted proper vengence.

Then he felt something warm rolling over his tongue down his throat. Suddenly he was somewhere he should not be. Dread obscured what memory conjured and his sourroundings fortunately were too hazy for him to see beyond a muddy swirl of dim light and colors.

He knew the flavor as it came to him, fine warm mead. A child’s beverage in those parts. Simple honeyed wine rather than a proper stout drink.

“Drink every last drop,” someone heartily said. “Only the wicked waste food and drink.”

He lost the right to be there. Do not look, he begged himself. Do not look beside you.

A massive hand patted his back. Or perhaps it was his own frame that was still small. He held his mouth shut to not spit out the drink, the sudden jolt from the one with him almost made him do the very deed he was instructed against.

Then he did spit it out as his eyes shoot open as he gagged. His gaze narrowed on the waterskin pressed to his lips. The semi warm liquid pouring down his throat. It had a taste of alcohol or something similar to keep it from freezing. It should have been refreshing but it coincided with something he did not wish to remember.

He pushed away the past and clawed desperately at the present. He grasped for anything and fixated on how he smelled not smoke and heard no crackling fire. “How did you warm that?” he spat, half delirious.

“We keep it to our bodies, my lord,” someone answered, Ordelas did not care who.

The king muttered a muted thanks for rousing him. He was near the den. Two scouts carried him to the opening of the cave, and the king awoke to find he was beneath its shadow.

“Ordelas, it is time to meet your destiny,” Bleodsian whispered.

Ordelas looked up at the gaping hole in front of him. It was too symmetric to have been cut out by natural forces or erosion. The hull of one of Satros’s battleships could have disappeared inside it, never to be seen again. Enormous icicles hanging from the edges of the cave made it look like the jaws of a monster, reminding Ordelas of the sea dragon. He thought about the occupants within and concluded it was an appropriate setting. Ordelas was not sure what type of destruction might occur once the dragons were released.

The king’s sudden movement startled the scouts so much that one raised his hand, warning the others to stop. Ordelas was not certain, but he thought the elf who signaled was the same one who worshipped him earlier. Two elves were standing close to him, so he could hang his arms over their shoulders. They positioned his hands as far away from their faces as possible. While being carried, Ordelas, who was having a fitful sleep, almost shattered one of the scouts’ shoulders with his grip.

When they arrived at the entrance, a different scout approached and offered to lead Ordelas into the dragons’ den. The scouts stooped down, allowing Ordelas to remove his arms from their shoulders. He brushed the front of his cloak and pulled it back in place. He took a deep breath and raised his chest with an air of dignity. The sleep had restored a fraction of his strength, and the dark rings around his eyes were less prominent.

Ordelas, not waiting to be led, stepped into the darkness; the scout, providing torch light, trailed behind. Ceronus followed them down a worn stairway. Time and weather had smoothed the steps till they were barely noticeable, and the slick slope was hazardous. Antiquated carvings of dragons covered the walls and ceiling, but the king paid little attention. Faded scripts in many languages accompanied the imagery, but the words were hardly legible.

At the bottom of the stairway, an opening led into a cavernous chamber. The subterranean space stretched far and wide like a dome. The elves with torches lit the braziers that were scattered throughout the area, but the light failed to illuminate the upper portions of the ceiling, which remained a mystery.

Ordelas stopped when he noticed a coiled, ruby-colored pattern on the floor. He studied it closely and was pleased when he discovered a painted eye glinting in the torchlight. He realized the image on the floor was a huge red dragon. The first circular shape that he had noticed was part of the dragon’s winding tail.

“So, he is beneath me,” Ordelas remarked. “He would never admit to that.”

He stared inside the chamber, hoping that he was in the center of it, and nodded his head to direct his magic forward. When pressure descended on top of the image of the dragon’s eye, the air became so heavy that the elves struggled to breathe as what felt like an invisible mountain toppled down on the space ahead of them. The chamber stood firm, but the tunnel that the Darklord and his elves came from was filling with snow and ice as the surface above shook like during an earthquake.

The frightened elves tried not to cower as their lord seemed intent to bury everyone present alive. While stonework itself was of dwarven origin, everything else was not. The force of the tremors was constant, nothing like the repeated blows of a hammer against an anvil. The tunnel vibrated so much that dust dropped from the ceiling in a cloud. It was not until a stream of dirt poured down on Ordelas’s shoulder that he was able to understand how futile the attempt was.

Without a second thought, and reaching deeper into his dark heart, Ordelas weaved the endless flow of hatred into a spell. Black flames blazed in the palm of Ordelas’s hand, and he cast the fire toward the floor. Flames struck the stones, yet nothing happened. The tainted blaze should have devoured everything, even the light. Overcome by anger, Ordelas reached back with both hands and threw a barrage of hellfire at the stonework. Despite his efforts, nothing changed. Not even a single scorch mark was left behind.

Ordelas growled with feral rage. In a fit of wrath, he summoned Bleodsian. The blade glowed in the torchlight before it turned into rampant fire. All other sources of light were devoured by the conjured element.

With supernatural strength, the king raised his sword with both hands and plunged it into the ground, causing fire to flow out of the blade and drown the chamber like a tidal wave. Ordelas’s energy was wasted, for the place had not been damaged. As if trying to redeem itself, the sea of flames endured, causing the elves to move away from the king or be consumed by the fiery heat. The unholy magic, sustained by an infernal song that echoed from beyond, granted the spell a tenacity that endured.

Ordelas saw some primitive symbols etched on the walls. He lifted his blade out of the ground and waved the flames into submission. Ordelas had not noticed the engravings earlier because the carved runes had faded over time. Despite himself, he laughed. “Of course. I should have known.”

The Darklord knew all too well that faith could be magic’s greatest ally or enemy. If someone’s heart and mind were stronger than the caster’s magic, trusting belief could undo the effect of any spell. Though sacred symbols were usually not a threat to magic, symbols of devotion, when held by those who truly trusted in them, could ward magic away.

Though time had chipped the finer details away, religious symbols still covered most of the stones. Ordelas shrugged his shoulders and stepped forward to observe the glyphs. “So these are the emblems that obstructed my vision.” He placed a hand on the insignia of an upside-down hammer. “Those who carved these symbols had so much faith that my magic has weakened.”

Attribute the dragon’s den’s stability to dwarven architecture.

He turned to Ceronus and the scouts. “Back away.”

“What?” Since Ordelas had neglected to caution them about the previous spells, Ceronus was surprised at the king’s warning.

“Back away,” repeated Ordelas. “On the outside, I may not be able to break the seal, but that does not matter. All I have to do is wake the one who sleeps within.” His lips turned upward into a smile, revealing fanglike teeth. “He never appreciated being disturbed from his sleep, but I doubt he will mind this time.”

The Darklord thrust his blade back into the ground and stood still with his eyes closed while Bleodsian’s energy flowed through him. The spirit’s song gathered around his body like an aura. The king waited for several moments and raised his hand as if he was calling something down from the heavens. Without a word, he lowered his hands and moved them as if he was pressing the keys of an invisible organ.

Grains of ivory sand and ice gathered, forming a keyboard underneath the Darklord’s fingers. The flowing sound of drums and an organ grew louder as Ordelas moved his fingers across the keyboard. A network of pipes formed around him, and a thousand moaning voices sang songs of praise and despair.

The Dark Elf played a beautiful song; no one could deny it. At home, during his idle time, Ordelas often practiced playing the organ. Over the centuries, he had perfected his musical talent. Normally, he expressed his anger with fast-paced melodies, but the song he chose to play was slow, filled with melancholy.

It was a supernatural song that possessed the power to blot out stars and shatter nations. The musical composition was not only filled with sound, it moved the forces of light and darkness, and it seemed that the world was ready to come to an end.

Trumpets and horns blasted. Hundreds of voices from beyond joined the notes of the organ in a wordless drone. With them came unseen harps when Ordelas’s tune waxed followed by what might have been akin to violins and light drumming to set the tempo.

Was it possible the dragon could not hear the symphony through unknown depths of stone? Ordelas doubted that. He could sense his companion’s will. The melody was perhaps caught within workings of the sleeper’s dreams, not even background noise to the imagined scenery. Ordelas added words to guide his audience back to reality. His frustration and rage transformed into anticipation. He shouted more than sang, the verses he conceived of were a rallying cry, a call to rouse. The king cared more that his words were heard at all rather than how they escaped his mouth.

“How long do you intend to wait?

The moment you desire has come

Wake and fly from here

See for yourself the world that forgot you

See that your enemies still remain

Remind them of your fury

What is it you dream of

Come forward and tell me

Shatter hundreds of years of silence with your roar”

What might have been an invisible set of cymbals clashed. The voices faded so it was only Ordelas. All instruments but the organ grew silent as the drumroll increased steadily in frequency and intensity. The world quaked to the drums as if the sound was the land’s own heartbeat. By a miracle, the sorcerer’s voice was not drowned out even as he hastened himself to keep pace with the instruments that now led him.

When the sun shines no more

“It will be you that lights the sky

Come bring fire to the heavens

Reveal to all those below

That you slumber no more

I have prepared the path

Together we can return

Everything to ashes

You were created to guide this world

Lead it with me to oblivion

After everything is undone

You can rule

The god who led this imperfect realm

To ruin-“

A deafening roar stopped the music, and a giant crack ripped the floor wide open, ruining the picture that was on top of it. The center of the chamber slanted and gave way into the falling depths. After a long period of silence, a roar echoed inside the pit. Dragons of all shapes and sizes emerged and filled the chamber, but Ordelas paid them little heed. He patiently stood by, waiting to see the real reason he was there. A pair of claws curled around and spread out over the rim of the abyss, enlarging the pit. Out of the darkness emerged the most powerful of living creatures. It was Flameheart, the lord of all dragons.

The Dragonlord’s bulk was vast, so much so that he dwarfed the dragons that had escaped in front of him. Even though the dragon’s wings remained closed, folded across his back, Ordelas knew Flameheart was the one who was meant to rule the skies. The red irises in Flameheart’s eyes began to glow, though he had not yet noticed the elves. With every moment, his eyes brightened. Once revived, he began to overcome the daze of a centuries-long slumber.

His scarlet scales glimmered in the faint torchlight, and an internal light began to make his body glow, magnifying the glorious moment. Everyone viewed the Dragonlord with awe, for he was the only one worthy of attention. After traveling so far to release Flameheart from the pit, Ordelas, pleased to find him, nodded his head.

If predation was embodied in flesh, it would look like the Dragonlord. He was perfect—no unnecessary traits besmirched his form or covered his body. He did not have any spikes on his body like some would dare portray. His encompassing scales were flawless and shined like gems. The dragon’s muscles rippled with every movement. No one could survive the reaches of his ebony claws or escape the doom of his fearsome jaws and fiery breath.

The world would regret the creation of the marvelous creature that shook the ground with every step. The dragon was born to protect the world, but he had grown to terrorize it. Though the creature was clothed with a magnificent body, the dragon’s mind was twisted with malice. Having total authority over the fiery elements, he was worthy of his station as Dragonlord and had the power to summon calamity whenever he wanted.

Ordelas’s song had little to do with the creature’s awakening. Flameheart had been waiting to be freed, just as Ordelas sought to liberate him. The dragon, full of purpose, straightened his neck and was as strong as ever. They could contain him for a time, but not forever. He would rule again. It was a part of who he was. Even if a thousand years had passed, he still would have never grown weak. The dragon, filled with indignation, was determined to offset its idle years of captivity.

Beholding the Dragonlord’s majesty, Ordelas stepped forward and asked, “Have you slept well, my friend?” With a sinister grin covering his massive maw and a glint of recognition, the dragon looked down and nodded at the elf.