Somewhere deep in the uncharted chaos between the Realms, the absolute cold of the void swirled around an anomaly. Where nothing existed—or, more properly, an inversion to matter and order, where unreality lurked and unmade what is—a wall jutted out into a sea of darkness.

The wall, formed from massive stone blocks, once stood straight and even. Now the misplaced structure, buffeted by the corrosive influence of the void, shivered in the unseen currents of energies churning around it. Geometric precision distorted, leaving splintered stone. The sturdy wall bent into impossible shapes, all twisted angles and recursions. In the center of the slowly-spinning mass of fractured stone and magic, a door appeared.

Space unfolded, blossoming like a flower next to the wall. A pinprick of light, glowing with the resplendence of the sun, expanded into a shimmering, opalescent disc. The film of the portal trembled with the energy it contained, vibrating like the taut skin of a drum struck by a mallet, as the portal grew in the stillness, yawning wider and wider like a hungry maw.

With a rustle of sudden sound, like fluttering wings or the rush of water, the portal blinked once and then went still. The circle stabilized, no longer growing outward, but appearing twice as sturdy as before. The movement on the surface froze. The center deepened into utter darkness, like the eye of the abyss.

A man stepped through the liquid black opening, dispersing the pool of ink. Beyond him, a small squadron of [Soldiers] waited in ranks, lined up ten deep in a magnificent stone courtyard. Above them rose a hundred dark spires backlit by rose gold—a city skyline at dusk.

The man put a hand to the door in the wall, let out a breath of air that instantly crystallized into mist and ice, and tugged on the handle. The door opened outward soundlessly, revealing a twisted maze of hallways within that appeared far larger than the wall itself, despite its bulk. He turned to the [Soldiers], nodded once, and beckoned them to follow.

In tight lock step, the [Soldiers] marched through the portal at double-time, leaving behind the city and entering the uncertain domain of the void. Once through, the seemingly-solid disc fell inward, wavering and collapsing like a soap bubble. Spatial cracks radiated outward in the wake of their passing, brilliant and jagged, before dimming and mixing with the chaos of the void. Soon, they too faded into the ether, and all evidence of the passage disappeared.

=+=

A week after the advance team spearheaded the excursion into the void, a makeshift war camp bustled with activity deep within the pathways of the shattered wall: [Soldiers] pitching tents, a harried [Cook] plying his arts to make slop look palatable, and a nervous [Lieutenant Colonel] tugging at his collar, which suddenly felt three sizes too tight.

“[Lieutenant] Shellington! Everything is in order?”

Shellington, a slender man with a blackwood cane topped in silver, turned toward his superior officer and clasped the cane to his chest. “Sir, the situation is normal. No change in threat levels since I opened the passage. Space is stabilizing.”

“Very good,” the [Colonel] replied, tapping his own cane over his heart in salute. The silver lion’s head shimmered on impact, and he could have sworn that its ruby eyes opened on their own, regarding Shellington with a hungry, temperamental air.

Shellington stared back defiantly. He wasn’t in the mood to be consumed by a bauble.

His commanding officer tilted his head. “And the charges?”

“Primed and in place, Sir. The [Sappers] stand ready; you have only to give the word. If I may be so free, Sir, the detonation will be spectacular.”

The [Colonel] scoffed, ignoring the enthusiastic report. “Well and good. Let us speak about the other matter. My eyes are growing a bit rheumy, so forgive me if I’ve overlooked your no-doubt valiant efforts, but I have yet to see our fugitive in camp.”

[Lieutenant] Shellington’s left cheek twitched just under his eye, but he kept his gaze straight ahead, staring into the empty air just over the [Colonel]’s shoulder as though it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. “My team has located recent traces of Void magic use, Sir. We’re close.”

“You have either found him, or you haven’t. ‘Close’ is only a hope, not a reality.”

Shellington’s gaze never wavered, still fixed on the empty air. “Sir. As you say, we haven’t found him yet.”

The smartly uniformed [Colonel], neat and tidy in his gray jacket with polished pewter buttons, tsked. “Shellington, you’ve heard the speech about not failing me. You’re not a raw recruit anymore. I don’t need to scare you into submission.”

“No, Sir,” Shellington said, his jaw working as he fought off the urge to run. He harbored too many ambitions to give in to fear or anger.

“Alert me as soon as he’s found. I expect you to take care of things.”

“Don’t worry, Sir. We’ve gone over this in training; my team knows their role,” Shellington said as he snapped a crisp salute, hoping he would be dismissed.

The [Colonel] coughed once into a handkerchief. “Carry on, Shellington.” He shuffled out of the ruins of the broken labyrinth, back toward the [Spatial Specialist] who could open a portal back to the Densmore capital. He paused in the twisted doorway of a hallway that had once been as straight as an arrow, but now crumpled in on itself like a tin pail run over by a carriage, and turned to regard Shellington with grey, lifeless eyes. “Tell me the truth, Shelly. I’m not going to be embarrassed by today’s display, am I? If you make me look bad in front of the [Viceroy], then I’ll have your fingers crushed with a hammer—and that’s me showing mercy.”

Shellington swore under his breath. I hate that nickname. “Why would a [Viceroy] bother with a mission like this in person?” He bit his tongue at the gleam in the [Colonel]’s eyes, not giving voice to his next thought. Too dangerous to the cause if he’s seen. Why risk it? Instead, he saluted again with his cane over his heart. “You can count on me, Sir.”

A thin, cruel smile crossed the [Colonel]’s face. “I’ll have my blood price. Remember that, my dear Shelly.” He slipped through the door and vanished from Shellington’s mana senses.

Releasing a pent-up breath, Shellington sagged against the wall for a moment, collecting his composure. “So much for not needing threats anymore,” he muttered to himself.

He clenched his jaw, his resolve firming, and stalked back into the main room. Sneering at his subordinates, he rapped his cane hard against the remains of the stone flooring. Instantly, the [Soldiers] in camp dashed over to stand at attention, the rank scent of their fear billowing off them. As one, they stood at perfect attention, awaiting his orders.

Pride swelled in Shellington’s chest as he surveyed his hand-picked team. They were the best Densmore had to offer; they would not fail. He was no weakling to be bullied by those above him. His star was rising. He would not forget today’s insults once the tables were turned.

Shellington raised his voice, booming out an order. “Summon that twisted anathema of a [Tracker]. We've got a rat to catch.”

=+=

Shellington kept a grimace of displeasure from twisting his face as he regarded the strange man whom the [Spatial Specialist] had transported into his camp. After opening so many portals in quick succession, the specialist lay on his back with his eyes rolled up into his skull, twitching and breathing erratically. A small price to pay if they achieved their goals. He would recover—or not, and they would bring in the next specialist. The machine marched on.

“I’m told that you can find a man for me,” Shellington said sternly, facing down the new arrival in their forward operating base.

“Can find anything,” the man corrected in a prideful hiss, leering back at the [Lieutenant].

Even the other [Trackers] backed away from the hunched-over man, and not merely because their jobs were on the line. His bright eyes and smooth cheeks spoke of youth, but his blackened teeth, gnarled fingers, and halting gait belonged unmistakably to the elderly. He was a [Twin-Soul Tracker], two creatures in one, an amalgamation of an old [Blood Mage] and an odd, unknown variant of [Augur], destroying the people they had been in order to become a bizarre, fused version that inherited some of the talents of each—and something more.

Shellington shuddered inwardly at that thought, breaking eye contact with the [Twin-Soul Tracker]. He hated the fact that he looked away first, unable to hold the man’s too-eager gaze, but some sort of ancient malice lurking in the depths of his eyes wanted access to Shellington’s very soul. He wasn’t about to let the man scan him any longer. Foul abomination. I’d incinerate him on the spot if he weren’t reportedly so useful.

“Need a proxy,” the [Twin-Soul Tracker] rasped. “Sympathetic resonance with your target preferred, if you’re all in a rush. Doesn’t matter to me; like sightseeing in the void.”

A [Tracker] stepped forward and handed the creature a small locket. He spat on the floor as he retreated, making a show of wiping his hands on his hauberk.

The [Twin-Soul Tracker] snapped open the locket, cocked his head, and studied the small portrait within. Grey-black, diseased-looking mana shimmered across his eyes as he completed the examination. He shrugged, then crouched down to the hallway floor, sniffing at the stones, and a wave of unease rippled through the [Soldiers] and [Trackers] around him. They all backed away, giving space to the creature.

To a man, they all felt the surge of warped power rattling the room. Trickling out of a rent in space, a ghostly trail of water—no, blood—dripped to the floor. It spread and flowed in halting measures, like a macabre overlay of reality. A smile twisted the [Twin-Soul Tracker]’s face. He lurched forward, like a bloodhound on a scent.

Shellington didn’t need to give the order to follow. Despite their shared distaste for the tracking method, his men were well-trained and loyal. They marched silently, following the form of the [Twin-Soul Tracker] as he loped along in front of them, hot on the trail that had eluded the rest of the team for the last week.

=+=

“No mana Skills!” Shellington growled, although his [Soldiers] and [Trackers] had already cut off their Skills, switching over to more mundane weapons for the upcoming fight. He tightened his own grasp on his channels, ensuring that not a single drop of energy leaked from his body. The Mage Killer took no prisoners and left no witnesses; Shellington wasn’t about to fail now, just as they finally found the man for whom they’d been searching.

His men fanned out, surrounding the side room that the [Twin-Soul Tracker] had led them to with eerie precision. Disgusting methods, but he gets results, Shellington thought grudgingly.

As their target shuffled into the middle of the hallway, blinking at the harsh light of their magitech torches—they didn’t dare risk anything mana powered in his presence—no cry of defiance or raised sword met their anxious ambush. Instead, the old, shriveled man sank to his knees, glanced around at the troops, and cried.

“Found him!” the [Twin-Soul Tracker] cackled. “Now let us feast.”

“He’s not for you, dog,” Shellington snapped. He gestured with his right hand—his left still on the hilt of his sword—and two [Soldiers] stepped forward. They restrained the hunched [Twin-Soul Tracker], promising him whatever compensation he desired when they returned to Densmore, and dragged him away from the soon-to-be prisoner.

The man in question dried his eyes with his sleeves. He slowly lifted his empty hands in the air in a universal sign of surrender, and stood on shaky legs despite the spears leveled at his chest. His face was worn and ashen—a far cry from the deep sable, like the sky after twilight but before midnight, with which he’d been born. Wrinkles marred his visage, and long, ropy hair hung down past his waist.

“Sure this is the right man, Sir?” a soldier asked, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “Looks too old by a generation to be the Mage Killer.”

“The void does strange things to a man,” Shellington replied dismissively. He frowned, privately sharing the [Soldier]’s doubts, at least until the carved handle of his cane pulsed with a hidden message. This man was their target, no matter how unlikely his appearance. Something had happened to him, but Shellington didn’t intend to find out first hand.

“Look at you, Mage Killer! Once the pride of Densmore, now groveling in the dust like a dog,” Shellington said, scorn bleeding through his words like acid. Still, he gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw and defend himself if it wasn’t too late. He feared few men, but the Mage Killer had earned his reputation.

“Am I supposed to know who you are?” the killer replied softly, still blinking against the harsh, unnatural glow of light from the torches the [Soldiers] held aloft.

“That’s the best you can come back with? No matter. Your time is at an end, Mage Killer; our time has come,” Shellington declared grandly.

The lines of confusion deeped on the man’s face. “Who are you, again?”

The rasp of metal on metal rang through the hall as Shellington drew his sword. The sharp point nicked the Mage Killer’s bare throat. “I am [Lieutenant Colonel] Shellington of the Densmore Royal army, nephew to the late [Count] Bogdan, slain at your hand. Submit to chains, and live.”

A short, slender woman, [Major] Clarkson—Shellington’s second-in-command on the expedition—pushed forward and presented a pair of shackles and chains. “[Expert Counterspell Scout] Tem Cytekin, formerly of the [King]’s special forces, you stand accused of high treason. Resist, and we are within our rights to execute you without trial.”

“Treason?” the Mage Killer scoffed. He stepped back, arms crossed over his chest, and glared at [Major] Clarkson with enough force to stop her in her tracks. “On what grounds?”

“Silence, Mage Killer!” Shellington roared.

“My name is Tem. Or [Expert Counterspell Scout] Cytekin to you, boy.”

[Major] Clarkson caught Shellington’s eye, and she shook her head slightly. She stepped in between the two men, holding up a scroll with the charges against Tem Cytekin. “A formal arraignment will be held back in the capital. If you want to try your luck before then, then I’m happy to run you through right now.”

“That would be a mercy too good for the likes of him,” Shellington spat, rage spinning to the surface as he glared at the man who’d taken too many of his friends and relatives. “Cuff him and let’s get out of here. We’re on a timer. The [Sappers] are eager to destroy this place, and you know that High Command won’t shed any tears if we’re caught in the fallout, no matter how much they may claim to want the Mage Killer.”

The Mage Killer’s grandfatherly face hardened. “You have no idea what kind of havoc you're about to unleash.”

“He might not, but I certainly do. And havoc is exactly the point,” a new voice interrupted, smooth and refined, like a scholar talking to eager students. No, Shellington thought a moment later, like a celebrity speaking with his adoring fans. He stifled a sneer. No one liked the [Viceroy], whether friend or foe.

“I thought I smelled your stench, [Viceroy] Tapirs,” the Mage Killer said. He shifted into a fighting stance, his hands wreathed in silvery-black power that made Shellington’s vision swim just to look at it. Accursed power of the void!

“Ah, ah, ah,” [Viceroy] Tapirs chided, gliding into view. He gestured toward the old man with a perfectly manicured hand. “Drunk too deep, have we, Tem? Look at the price you paid this time! After swearing you’d never succumb, too. Where are your principles now, old friend? Well. I never have known a man could resist the intoxicating power of the void for long.”

The Mage Killer vanished in an explosion of void energies.

“None of that now,” [Viceroy] Tapirs said, sighing wearily. Time seemed to slow as he pointed a finger at the empty air and spoke in a ghastly, echoing voice. “[Death Shall be Their Shepherd]. Hmm, just to be safe: [None to Deliver].”

Power ripped through the hallway, rippling in waves from the outstretched finger of the [Viceroy]. Space warped and distorted as the fey Skills rampaged through the labyrinth like a deluge. The air itself split open with a shudder, and the Mage Killer tumbled to the ground. The square set of the man’s shoulders slumped, and he offered his wrists to [Major] Clarkson, a glassy look in his eyes.

The [Major] quickly bound him before he could change his mind, although Shellington didn’t think he could break free of the two masterful Skills anytime soon. Against anyone else, they would have spelled certain death.

“Good work, Shellington. You’re dismissed.” [Viceroy] Tapirs left no room for discussion as he floated forward, his slippered feet making no sound—if he even walked at all, often seeming to float through the air, above the petty needs and demands of humanity. Unlike the assembled [Soldiers] and [Trackers], with their utilitarian uniforms of grey and blue hues, the [Viceroy] favored fluttering red silk. His vest and flowing pants looked like a splash of blood against the dark backdrop of the labyrinth wall. Delicate black lace traced intricate patterns of embroidery along his high collar, his only nod to a different color palette.

[Viceroy] Tapirs took hold of the chain from [Major] Clarkson without resistance. He tugged to draw the Mage Killer after him as he left the hall in stunned silence.

Shellington wanted to countermand the order, to shout for his men to stop the theft of their hard-won prisoner. That snake is going to take all the credit! But Shellington’s mouth had gone dry. He only stared after the pair in helpless anger as the [Viceroy] stole his prize. The [Soldiers] shrank from his presence, and the [Viceroy] waved his hand again, summoning his own portal without the need for the [Spatial Specialist] to recover.

“Best take your men home, little Shelly. Our work has just begun. The people will need strong [Soldiers] now more than ever, now that the war has begun.”

“You’ll pay for this,” the Mage Killer vowed, shaking off his stupor long enough to glare at the [Viceroy]. “Densmore will bleed because of your ambitions.”

“And yet they’ll blame the butcher’s bill on you, old friend,” [Viceroy] Tapirs replied as he stopped through the portal, dragging his prisoner behind him. The portal snapped shut, and just like that, they were gone.

Shellington ground his teeth, watching his dreams of glory go with them. He sheathed his sword with more force than necessary, then banished his annoyance from his mind. He had a job to do. He was still a [Soldier] at heart, after all, and the [Viceroy] wasn’t lying about one thing: war was at the gates.