Abraham Micayne sat at his desk, his long, thin fingers steepled as he stared ahead into nothingness. Nothing had gone right since he’d made that deal with Constance. On the surface, it had seemed like nothing short of divine providence. Constance had always been a friend as well as a powerful ally, but when she’d lost Jeremiah, her whole demeanor had changed. Suddenly, all the things that had once mattered to her had ceased to exist in her mind. Whether it was family or the fate of Beacon, she began to see them all as nothing more than means to an end. Game pieces to be moved.

In that respect, she and Micayne were on the same page. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but after seeing the true nature of the world, he had begun to see the people of the Radiant Isles as what they were – fuel for the advancement of the elite. They were barely more than memories of a long dead world. The death of Kyla, his own wife, had severed the last hint of an emotional connection with the world.

In the beginning, he’d tried desperately to bring her back. That was why he’d eschewed modern convention and delved deeply into the forbidden art of necromancy, eventually earning a wild skill that, in turn, corrupted his entire path. That journey had been so transformative that it had even changed his skills to better suit it. But year after year had passed, and he’d gotten no closer to resurrecting her. Certainly, he could have turned her into a zombie at any time, but that wouldn’t be enough. He wanted his wife back, and an ambulatory corpse simply wouldn’t do.

That was why he’d made the deal with Constance. She would provide him with the fuel – in the form of her children – that he needed to further his research, and he would use his expertise to try to resurrect Jeremiah. In return, she would send powerful, freshly evolved adventurers into his territory, thus augmenting his undead army. It was perfect, and it had worked extremely well, right up until it had all fallen apart.

He'd thought the alchemist was cowed, that he wouldn’t dare act even if the opportunity presented itself. However, when it had, the man hadn’t hesitated to ruin a decade’s worth of research. In addition, he’d somehow used Jeremiah’s soul as fuel to resurrect Constance’s daughter, and in the process, she had been transformed in all sorts of interesting ways. If Micayne hadn’t been so angry, he would’ve focused on capturing her and studying the transformation she’d undergone. But he’d lost that chance. She was gone, now, which had left Micayne in a precarious position. Not only had he transformed Constance’s last child into an undead miscreation, but he’d also lost his hold on Jeremiah’s soul. Now, there was no way to bring him back.

Micayne sighed, running his hand through his long, black hair as he glanced around the tent. It was made of pitch-black fabric, and the space had been furnished with expensive rugs and luxurious furniture. But it wasn’t home. Idly, he wondered if anything ever would be again.

Knowing that Constance wouldn’t take Jeremiah’s loss lying down, Micayne had moved immediately after he’d dealt with those troublesome caprids. Why they’d strayed so far from their own territory, he had no idea. But like most living monsters, they had no love for the undead; when the caprids had descended upon him and his horde, the monsters had lost all semblance of rationality and threw all caution to the wind. Aside from the alpha, they hadn’t posed much threat to him and his horde, but it had created an opening for the intruders to escape along with the alchemist and the transformed Talia Nightingale. By the time the goat-men had been dealt with, the trail had gone cold, leaving Micayne with a decision to make. With nothing but bad choices before him, he had chosen the only one that might let him deal with Constance on an equal footing.

For a long moment, he closed his eyes, wondering if any of it was worth it. What would Kyla think, if she could see him now? Even if he managed to resurrect her, would she thank him? Or would she shy away from the horrible monster he’d been forced to become?

“It is about to begin, my lord,” came an abyssal voice from the opening of the tent. Micayne opened his eyes to see a wraith floating before him. The creature was one of the undead – a semi-sentient, mostly noncorporeal upgrade over a normal zombie. Comprised entirely of white fog, they looked like prototypical ghosts, save that their faces were obscured by white mist. Micayne had no idea how far their self-awareness went, but they were not unthinking monsters. That made them valuable. It also meant that raising them was a complicated process that involved a complex ritual and dozens of sacrifices. But they made competent lieutenants, even if they didn’t have the capacity for creative thought that a real person might enjoy.

Micayne nodded, rising to his feet. “Very well,” he said. “Let us see what Bastion has in store for us.”

After that, he followed the wraith out of his command tent, and he nearly flinched away from the sun’s bright rays. Over the past ten years, he’d seldom left his estate, and he’d gotten used to the murky atmosphere. Now that the horde was on the move, there was no such protection from the sun’s harsh influence. To combat it, he flipped up the hood of his cloak, glancing around the camp.

It was comprised of a half-dozen tents, though all but three were unoccupied. The largest belonged to Micayne himself, and next one in line housed his lone remaining child. After Aramis had been killed, his sister, Ariadne, had been so distraught that Micayne had been forced to take control. Of course, neither of them had been truly awakened; they were lesser creatures who, when everything was said and done, were little better than elite zombies. They were stronger, faster, and more durable, but his children’s memories and personalities had not survived the transformation. The only exception to this rule was the twins’ connection to one another – a curiosity that had once given Micayne quite a bit of hope. However, he’d been forced to admit, after dozens of experiments, that it was neither repeatable nor the foundation upon which the retention of sapience could be maintained through the transformation process.

Absently, Micayne wondered what it said about him that he regretted the loss of a capable minion and experimental subject more than he mourned losing his child. There was a part of him – the piece of his mind that still clung to his old identity – that was filled with shame and horror, but it was a small sliver of his otherwise committed psyche. He knew that most people would consider his actions monstrous, but they didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know that this world was little more than a training ground for elites. All of its inhabitants were fodder. They weren’t real people, and they didn’t matter – not in the grand scheme. Micayne had once seen the truth, and the moment he’d opened his eyes, he’d begun to drift away from his old perception of humanity. At best, they were tools to be used. At worst, they were fuel for his ascent. On that, he and Constance agreed, even if they’d come to different conclusions on what it meant for their place in the world.

For her part, Constance tried to maintain a sense of morality. Aside from the sacrifice of her children – which, from experience, Micayne knew was rooted in emotion as opposed to reason – she endeavored to do right by her subjects. In doing so, she had a vast network funneling opportunities her way. The guilds in her city worked in similar ways. However, Micayne knew that it was inefficient and wasteful. Humans were an abundant resource. One only had to have the willpower to take that resource and turn it into power. And Micayne’s will was like iron.

The final occupied tent, which was situated opposite the one claimed by Ariadne, belonged to what remained of Abdul Rumas, who’d finally awakened to some level of independent thought. His old personality was gone, and he was only a little better than a run-of-the-mill zombie, at least in terms of intelligence, but his power was overwhelming. Micayne only wished the former paladin hadn’t been so weakened by the transformation when he’d joined the fight against the alchemist and the intruders. Things would have turned out very differently, had that been the case.

Abraham followed the wraith through gathered army of zombies. There were thousands of them in the camp, though they instinctively gave Micayne and his escort a wide berth. The rotting, ambulatory corpses might not have been intelligent, but they were aware enough to know when their master was in their midst.

Not that he noticed, of course. The grotesque creatures – along with the horrible smell – had long since faded into the background. After a decade, he was used to it. So, he paid little attention to the slavering monsters as he was led to their destination – a field outside of the waystation known as Redoubt.

It was the northernmost and most remote of all the waystations, intended to service the miners who made their living in the mountains. To that end, it was constructed like a fortress, with high walls, an imposing keep, and hundreds of defenders. In that respect, it had endeavored to live up to its name as humanity’s last redoubt before it gave way to the wilderness of the north. Over the centuries since its founding, it had never fallen. That would soon change, though.

Micayne made his way to the front of the gathered horde to stand beside a hulking figure in black armor. Abdul Rumas had once been a shining knight devoted to the false goddess, Shar Maelaine. A true paladin who embodied the image of a holy warrior. With his fall, he’d changed in a multitude of ways. His equipment had mirrored that change, and his shining armor had taken on a shadowy sheen. In addition, his once-silver sword had been corrupted by black tendrils of creeping death.

Unlike the zombies, Abdul wasn’t a collection of rotted flesh, but his skin had taken on a waxy sheen. Having thrown off the shackles of the living as well as his undeserved faith, he was far stronger than he’d ever been. The armor he wore was less powerful now, but it didn’t need to be as durable if his skin was like steel.

“Master,” Rumas said without looking away from the towering walls. His voice came out in a strangled croak that reminded Micayne of hanged man. “May I begin?”

“In a moment, my friend,” Abraham replied, stepping forward. He saw a familiar figure perched upon the wall. He raised his voice, shouting, “Surrender, Francis, and we will allow you and your family to leave unmolested. Resist, and you will join the horde.”

The man atop the wall was nearly a hundred yards distant, but Micayne had no trouble hearing his reply. “You and your unholy rabble will break upon the walls of Redoubt, just like any other monsters!” the man yelled. The soldiers upon the wall raised a cheer.

Micayne didn’t bother with an answer. Francis Easton had always been intractable; it was one of the reasons he’d been made Bastion’s Watcher in the first place. He’d rather break than bend, even in the slightest. The lich had never expected the man to surrender.

But that’s what Abdul Rumas was for.

Micayne nodded, and the former paladin, who’d permanently adopted the larger form of one of his skills, strode forward. He’d always been a big man, barrel chested and thick limbed. However, under the influence of that skill, he could grow nearly ten feet tall, with corresponding increases in his strength. Now that it was permanent, so, too was, his might. The only downside was that his staying power had been affected – an issue that was easily subverted by Micayne, who constantly funneled energy into his former friend.

A hundred skills activated all at once. From the Watcher’s spectral swords to mundane arrows to fireballs and spear-like icicles, Abdul soon found himself beset by a barrage of attacks. Some landed, their effects ineffectual, but others missed completely. A tiny percentage seemed to injure the hulking undead behemoth, but none of them stopped his charge. Behind him, thousands of zombies surged forward, and the battle was joined.

Rumas covered the ground more quickly than expected, and when he reached the towering gate, he wasted no time before hammering his huge sword into the thick, rune-covered wood. It shuddered under his terrifying strength. All the while, he was pelted with various attacks that either broke on his armor or did so little damage that they might as well not have even bothered.

After three strikes, the gate cracked. Two herculean swings later, it fell apart. The moment it did, a wave of zombies flooded through the opening. Most were decimated by the defenders’ attacks, but this was a horde that had been built up over a decade, and eventually the tide became overwhelming.

Micayne watched impassively as the defense turned into a route. Soon, his horde would grow, and now that his rear had been secured, he would turn his attention to Beacon. Hours passed until, at last, the wraith reported that the fort’s inhabitants had been defeated down to the last man, woman, or child.

“Begin drawing the runes for the conversion ritual,” he ordered. “I will empower it the moment you are finished.”

Eventually, all of the waystation’s occupants would rise from the dead and join his horde. However, the impending war necessitated a faster process, which was where the conversion ritual came into play. Drawing upon his skill, [Empower], it would speed the zombification process, cutting down the required time from a few days to less than an hour.

After giving the order, Micayne left the battlefield to return to his tent. However, when he slipped through the entrance, he saw a familiar figure waiting for him.

“Are you here to try to kill me?” he asked without looking at Silas Martel. The man hadn’t changed in the past ten years. He still dressed like he was in a kung fu movie, and he had the same long, wispy beard he’d always had. Outwardly, Micayne forced himself to appear unconcerned by the man’s presence, but inwardly, he’d already begun his preparations. He embraced one skill after another, holding them at the brink of activation. He wasn’t as talented of a combatant as Beacon’s spymaster, but he had the advantage of raw stats. Martel was an elite among elites, but he couldn’t hold a candle to one of the Chosen. Still, he was dangerous, and if Micayne didn’t take him seriously, he’d end up dead.

“No,” Martel said. “I’m here to beg.”

“What?” asked Micayne, sitting behind his desk. Even as he sat, he mentally directed Ariadne as well as a few hundred zombies to surround the tent. In addition, his hand hovered next to one of his desk’s drawers, which held a wand through which he could channel truly devastating amounts of energy.

“Please go back to your estate,” Silas said.

“Why?” was Micayne’s next question. If Martel was here, that meant that Constance was afraid. Or perhaps Constance didn’t even know her spymaster had come at all.

“If you clash with Lady Constance, thousands, if not millions, will die,” Martel stated. “Even if you win, very little of humanity will remain. Future generations of the reborn will find nothing but ash and death to welcome them into their new lives.”

Micayne sighed. “You know it doesn’t matter, Silas,” he said. “This world, it’s not real.”

“It is real for them,” the man retorted. “It is real to me. Just because there’s more out there does not change that. You would see that if you hadn’t run away from reality when Kyla died.”

“Tread lightly,” Micayne whispered, menace enveloping the words. That Silas would even mention her name was almost enough to send Micayne into a rage. “She isn’t gone. She is only resting. I will bring her back, and when I do, we will leave this mockery of a world.”

“Even if it requires the death of millions of people?” Silas asked, raising his eyebrow.

“Even then,” Micayne stated. “When I am done, I will be powerful enough to awaken her.”

His experiments had failed, one and all. The only thing left was to gather more fuel. If he drained enough zombies, if he gained enough power, he could do anything – even subvert the rules of their new reality. Raising the dead was supposed to mean the loss of sapience. He didn’t accept that, and not just because, by all accounts, Constance’s daughter had retained her identity. No – he didn’t accept it because he had seen true power. Shar Maelaine, the supposed sun goddess, had it, and so would he. He only needed the fuel. If he had to convert every human in the Radiant Isles to one of his undead, then drain them for his own power, he would do just that.

Silas must have seen the conviction in his eyes, because the man let out a sigh before saying, “So it must be. I beg you to reconsider. If you push her, she will retaliate. She is only barely constrained as it is. One spark, and everything will burn. Do not be that spark. As your friend, I beg you.”

For a long few seconds, Micayne was reminded of their shared past. Once, they’d been companions. They’d had adventures. They had saved people. But those days were long gone. Micayne had chosen his path, and he wouldn’t be deterred.

“No,” he said. “But for the sake of our shared history, I will allow you to leave. Tell Constance that I’m coming for her. If she doesn’t want to end up as fuel for my fire, she would do well to leave this plane.”

Silas shook his head. “I wish it were different,” he said. “But I understand. I will tell her.”

With that, the man shimmered and disappeared. Micayne knew it was an illusion – a skill called [Smoke and Mirrors] – but he still couldn’t tell whether or not Silas had left. It was only two hours later that he dropped his guard even a little. Still, he didn’t relax until a day later, after he’d converted the former citizens of Redoubt, and his army had begun to move on. Silas, despite his relatively low level of power, was one of the most dangerous men in the Radiant Isles, after all. Usually, if he wanted someone dead, they would simply disappear, and Micayne knew that the only reason he hadn’t been ambushed was because of their shared history. In a direct confrontation, Micayne felt confident, but he knew that if Silas chose to act, he would never see the man coming.

How long would their former friendship stay Silas’s hand, though?