Tamir looked on with grim satisfaction at one of the humans that caused him so much pain writhe on the floor. Forced transfiguration was exceedingly painful and he thought it an appropriate punishment after everything he’d been put through.

Turning him into a blight ghoul, while satisfying, served a greater purpose. He would need soldiers and slaves if he was going to start again. He grimaced at the thought.

The fight with Hanson was poorly handled. He was an Igrit knight-- half as likely to kill a vampire as those light-wielding Uvu scum-- and he hadn’t proceeded with caution, and that lapse in judgment had had nearly killed him.

The bastard planted a Blackfire bomb on his person and set off everything just as Tamir subdued him and ripped into his neck. He would have died, if not for his Darkness cloak spell.

That animal’s Blackfire bomb disrupted the ritual, bringing his worst fears to bear. All his preparations and careful planning are all for naught. He’d made his guards seal the temple entrance to prevent entry, and set dozens of defensive spells to keep out intruders. The interrogation was supposed to reveal more, better help him prepare, but questioning that boy and his team took too much time, and Hanson somehow snuck in and brought dozens of Blackfire bombs with him. He bit his lip in frustration.

The ritual was supposed to be a way to commune with the progenitor himself, Malleck. If the passages from Amandriel were accurate, Malleck was supposed to direct him to his next host. Tamir was to track down the creature, turn him with the blood transfiguration spell he’d used on the cattle and bring them to the profane court unspoiled, but that was not clearly not going to happen. The worst part was he couldn’t even reach the center of the ritual circle and stop it without risking death. Malleck could be in the mortal plane right now waiting for him with no way of establishing contact. He could never show his face in front of the deity again.

He was personally tasked with the ritual by his mentor, Ranok. It was his chance to rise up, to become more, and it took him three whole decades to prepare. Everything was done and planned by his hand. He had to search for the perfect location, prepare the darkness essence needed, and strike a bargain with General Ivor to use the temple and spawn thousands of half-bloods using blood transfiguration to fill out his failing army.

Blood transfiguration was older and more unstable than Vraphen’s ways of creating half-bloods, and the Profane court had warned him against using it, but the situation had demanded he took initiative. It was better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission, and he was sure they wouldn’t complain after he returned with results.

Prior spells, rituals, and even the subject’s affinity could sour Blood transfiguration and produce unpredictable results. It was as likely to spawn a subservient half-blood blight ghoul as it was to produce a feral Vetalis, but it was wartime and he had use for both.

He risked everything to make the ritual and lost it all because of Seth’s team and the Igrit knight, and it angered and frustrated him to no end. “Get on with it!” Tamir screamed at his newest transfiguring spawn, but he said, nothing, shaking and fidgeting still.

Tamir felt the Blackfire nip at the edge of his weakened darkness aura. He could feel the heat lick against his skin, despite his aura protection.

He sighed out loud and turned his attention back to the vermin was shaking all over. Most of his wound had healed, but the metamorphosis was taking too long. He would come out feral. Shame, he thought. It must have been the Vemir spell or the darkness arrows-- he couldn't really tell-- but it wasn’t all bad news. A smile crept to the edge of his lips. He could set him on the approaching knights. A feral blight ghoul would serve as a great distraction while Tamir made his escape.

His smile shifted into a deep frown. He would need to go on the run. Perhaps to the Dark Continent, where no one knew of him or his failures. He must never use blood rituals or spells again, or Malleck would know and the profane court would come for him. He would have to build everything from the ground up again. He ran his fingers through his white hair.

“I’m Tamir Vozslov, I can do it. Start again,” he said, but his shaky voice betrayed his anger and fear.

The failure still stung. He'd never had that happened to him-- failure. It felt like he'd reneged on his words somehow. Like he was as savage as the humans or pureblood vampires. A shiver ran through him, and he eyed the boy. Hot rage spilled form him and he kicked the boy back back several paces before he realized it. He caught himself huffing and staring strangely at the still struggling boy, but he felt no remorse. Besides, it was always better to get some distance before the transformation started.

And when it did, it brought him some amusement. The boy’s fingers stretched, his skin whitened, his teeth grew, and his spine curled. His bones sung a violent hymn as they cracked, and he howled like the beast he was. He stumbled to stand, then fell down on his haunches and remained there.

Tamir's savage smile deepened. He loved what came next. The boy would drool like a lost animal, then pounce on him, and Tamir would gladly put him down with Tamir’s grip—his control spell he named after himself—and pummel him into submission, then release him when the humans invaded. As he raised his fingers to cast, the unexpected happened. The monster spoke.

“What is the meaning of this, Tamir?” The voice was shifting and tangled, like two voices speaking as one.

Tamir’s jaw fell. “Not possible--” he muttered quietly, hiding the slight tremble in his voice. He’d performed blood transfiguration on thousands of humans, dragon kins, and beasts, and not once had their minds recovered the instant they awoke. Regardless of aberrations, and inconsistencies, it was not possible. The beast sitting on its haunches before him was unmistakably a blight ghoul. Then how-- it was then he allowed his mind to dare piece it all together. The only other reason why the beast could be speaking “Lord Malleck?”

No response came, but what happened next, all but confirmed his suspicions and caused his entire being to tremble with fear. The transfiguration came undone. His teeth shrunk, his spine straightened, and his black razor claws shrunk back until they were only half their normal length. His skin gained back most of his color and his eyes darkened. He slowly climbed back to his feet.

“Child, why did you not meet me? Our union was to be at my altar,” he demanded, his voice calm yet furious. His black eyes searched Tamir’s, peering deep into his mind and soul, then shifted to his body, floating grimoire, and the Black fire still gaining on them. “You allowed the ritual to be disturbed.”

Tamir crumbled his knees and buried his head in the dusty, stony floor. His entire being shivered as he spoke. “I was disturbed by the humans. My preparations were thwarted by--”

“Excuses,” Malleck said simply. “Your court of Night has failed me again, and that is all that matters.” His Black eyes slowly panned the passage, observing, and learning. He sniffed the air and looked at the rubble. “Rise.”

Tamir hurried to his feet, but still kept his eyes low. He’d been too slow in his escape. His mind spun, deliberating his fate. Banishment, or would he be stripped of his magic and left for the humans to find, but a stray thought occurred to him. He could be saved. He was having an audience with Malleck. The meeting was still happening.

“My lord,” he began, and Malleck’s eyes darted to meet his. He brought his eyes low, in a show of reverence. “If I may. Your return needn’t be delayed still. If you direct me, I can still find your vessel.”

There was silence between them until Malleck said, “Perhaps.” He took several steps forward, right up to a shivering Tamir. “Release Amandriel to me.”

Tamir's stomach sank at the request, but he tried not to let his disappointment show. Though trapped in human flesh, he feared he could hide nothing from the God before him.

“Of course, my lord,” he answered with a bow after a brief pause. With a bit more confidence in his movements, he waved his sole arm and his tome of brown leather and black runes slammed shut. With another gesture, brought the book into his waiting clutches and shut his eyes, and began to chant in an old tongue. Malleck stood across from him, waiting, regarding the process with an imperceptible expression.

One by one, the runes scribbled on his body lost their lights and faded as his voice crescendoed. He was shattering the link between him and his Grimoire. His mind trembled as the spells he’d mastered disappeared, faded, and his magic diminished, and his fear deepened. The Grimoire was never his to begin with, but been with it for decades. He felt vulnerable without it.

He’d found the spellbook on the central altar when he came to the temple 40 years ago. According to Amandriel, she remained hidden, in an array crafted by Malleck himself, waiting for his chosen ritualist. Part of him wondered what Malleck planned to do with it, but he dismissed the thought before he pondered too deeply. Malleck still had use for him, and he would live; it was all that mattered.

Once the connection was severed, the book flew over to Malleck’s waiting palm and disappeared in a gust of black smoke. Malleck looked up to Tamir, his face was clear and dispassionate, a countenance befitting a being so ancient and wise.

“You have served me well Tamir, but this is where it ends.”

Tamir staggered, not quite believing what he’d heard. “What!” Tamir protested, but it appeared the god was done listening. The body he occupied crumbled onto the floor, unconscious. He ran forward to the body to demand more answers but a long violent rumble broke his gait.

“He is bringing down judgment upon me!” He feared the temple was finally falling apart, but the noise came from behind the massive double doors. They cracked and flung outwards, along with the hill of rubble that blocked their path. Cool fog streamed into the corridor, and a titanic figure sauntered into the room. He was over two meters tall with salt and pepper hair with a square jaw. He wore armor that scarcely contained his massive rippling muscles, and he had a low beard and deep blue eyes. On both his hands were giant steel gauntlets with murky brown rune light thrumming.

Tamir recognized him. He was General Roko’s boy. The world seemed to freeze as he raised his hands up and cast “Tamir’s grip,” but he felt the blood magic rebuff him, the god rejecting him. The spell harmlessly rolled off the boy and Harkness struck back with a ruthless fury screaming “Rock Crush”. Masonry and loose stones tore from the floors and ceiling and slammed into Tamir at impossible angles. He could scarcely let out a scream before the spell overwhelmed him and claimed his life.