Streaks of lightning shot across the sky.
The echoes of thunder roared across Monda, making it difficult to distinguish between the reverberations and the original rumble. The great magical storm had ravaged Capital City and its outskirts for months, igniting immeasurable fires and destroying buildings and eardrums alike.
Mykos had had enough.
The former soldier, a direct understudy of the greatest warrior in the Imperial Army, dashed up a hill toward the “god’s temple” with a knife in his hand, rags on his body, and only his training and instincts to protect him. The weary, emaciated shell of a warrior timed his runs with the storm, using the darkness as his defense and the thunder as his shield. He had one goal, and he would sacrifice his life to accomplish that goal if he had to.
Kill the self-proclaimed god of Monda and bring back the rule of humanity to Capital City.
The goal lodged in his mind, as much an instinct as breathing was. He didn’t dare even think the enemy’s name, lest the “god” sense him, strike him down, and make an example of his death to all of Monda’s incarcerated labor. But when he would thrust the knife through the enemy’s throat, even if Mykos himself were dying, he would be sure to say his enemy’s name with as much venom as months of slavery could produce.
At the top of the hill, Mykos looked at the temple—or, as he had known it, the Imperial Palace, where the great Emperor Caius Orthran had once peacefully and fairly governed his land. The temple had decayed with its plant life ignored, its presentation shoddy, and its foundation cracking.
“Disgraceful,” Mykos muttered, careful not to speak over the drumbeat of thunder up above.
He pushed himself against the wall, his dirty body and brown rags providing convenient camouflage to the eyes of the magicologists guarding the temple. He turned the first corner, the one which placed him in front of the wall around the palace, and glanced. No one guarded the perimeter, though that gave Mykos little comfort.
He reached the edge of the first entrance, and his hand gripped his knife so tightly it felt welded to his whitening fist. Before he peeked around, he heard the steady crunch… crunch… crunch of a magicologist patrolling on the dirt road leading up to the temple’s actual interior entrance. He quieted his breathing and waited until the magicologist’s footsteps had gone just past him. He took two elongated steps, touching down with the deftness of a bird, and grabbed the black-robed figure’s face from behind. With his free hand, Mykos stabbed the magicologist until he went limp, and Mykos let the body fall to the ground.
Seeing the corpse of the magicologist, he felt tempted to desecrate the body further, to treat it with the same respect his enemy had to humanity—none. But then his commander’s words echoed in his head as he remembered not to waste energy on a dead enemy, no matter how emotional the sight made him.
He waited for the lightning to stop and quickly continued sliding on the wall. In the absence of bolts in the sky, Mykos felt confident that only one more magicologist awaited him—one strolling in front of the interior entrance. But every time lightning flashed, he would see something that made him doubt his sanity—shadows of magicologists and enemies on the rooftop and the exterior wall.
“Stay focused,” he mouthed to himself, knowing now was the time for silence, and the time for fury would come.
When a great boom of thunder roared—so great it left Mykos hearing a high-pitched echo for several seconds—he made a dash for the wall of the interior. Disoriented by the thunderous sound, he leaned against the wall to recover. He slid to his left, one foot following the other, and when he reached the corner, he listened for the footsteps of the approaching magicologist.
Then the steps stopped.
The magicologist muttered a few incomprehensible words with a rising voice.
And Mykos knew he had to act.
Ignoring subtlety, he dashed out and found the magicologist a mere four feet from him, his head slightly bowed, ready to cast a spell—or, worse, alert magicologists in the interior of Mykos’ presence. He ignored the consequences, figuring his death was imminent and drove the knife straight into the face of the magicologist, through his red robes and white mask.
The magicologist crumpled to the ground, and Mykos ripped his knife back.
“That one’s for Crys—”
Before he finished, a massive lightning strike hit the ground a foot away. It blinded Mykos, who put his hand to his eyes. Another lightning strike came, this one further away, but it illuminated the ground in front of him, and what Mykos saw terrified him.
Rows upon rows of black and red-robed magicologists stood, all with their hands out, combining forces to cast a spell on him. They all looked right at him, and Mykos raised his knife, ready to yell as he charged at them.
But just as quickly, the lightning stopped, the magicologists disappeared, and Mykos was left with just the two dead bodies.
“Stay focused.”
He peered inside the temple, no longer having to rely on storms to guide his way. The torches lining the walls leading to a stairwell provided lighting. He kept his back to the wall and his hand on the knife, but unlike before, he didn’t hear any magicologists on patrol. He didn’t see any. Even his soldier’s instinct told him that, at least on this floor, he was alone. He figured it was more trouble than it was worth to have someone here.
After all, no one would ever get this far.
He crouched as he walked, taking care not to let more than his toes touch the ground, as he comfortably moved just outside the torches’ light. He reached the stairwell, placing both feet on a single step before going further. Whoever awaited him in here—the “god,” his creations, more powerful magicologists—would provide a far greater challenge than regular magicologists.
On the second floor, he found much of the same. The hallways, the barren rooms the Emperor used to use for council members—all empty, all abandoned. The enemy had guttered the entire place, leaving only the torches and whatever monstrosities he had waiting on the third floor. Mykos couldn’t wait to make the first touches of humanity’s return to this palace the blood of the “god.”
Someone rushed behind him.
Mykos ducked and held the knife in his hand, swiveling around and waiting to kill.
But there was no one.
He waited silently, looked everywhere—even on the ceiling, for magic had no bounds—but to no avail.
Someone climbed the stairs to the third floor.
Again, he turned, and again, no one was there.
But something was—something he couldn’t see, something playing mind games, something intent on destroying his sanity before it took his life. And Mykos would have none of it.
He took a breath, thought of his target, and ignored his pounding heart as he ascended halfway up the stairs when he heard—this, he felt sure, was real—two magicologists talking.
“… hasn’t been the same since Calypsius died.”
“What do you mean?” the other magicologist said in a hushed tone.
“I think we’re going to return,” the first one said, rather excited. “We’re going to go back.”
“Don’t presume so much. You know how he feels about that place.”
The second magicologist went mute as Mykos noticed his own rapid, audible breathing, which, try as he did, he could not silence.
“I know our Lord, and I know he will want his vengeance.”
“Yes, but he will not want to stay long. He…”
The two magicologists walked out of range of Mykos. Go back?
They’re going to leave Monda?
It almost seemed like a well-designed trap—make Mykos think the magicologists were leaving, and then they’d slaughter everyone.
He ascended the rest of the stairs and came to an open door, the only door that presented the crest of the Empire when both doors were shut. Nothingness awaited him on the other side—literally. Mykos could not make out the floor of the room, nor the walls, nor a ceiling.
He was in here.
Mykos knew this was where his sanity might be broken, but he would get an audience.
Mykos looked out and saw the conversing magicologists turn a corner, leaving him alone and out of sight. He took a deep breath, told himself this is what he had come all this way for, and dashed inside with his knife and wits as his only weapons.
He ran… and ran… and ran some more, trying to find some part of the room that was not completely black. Strangely, though he could see himself and his knife, the rest of the area was as dark as the deepest part of a cave. He knew he should have hit a wall by now.
This was all magic, all the work of the enemy. He had not stepped into the former throne room so much as he had into a dark, horrible void where reality meant nothing.
He turned around. He could not see the entrance anymore. He sprinted back, but even as he calculated how far he had run, he knew he would never see those doors again. This void marked his death—he just wanted to make sure he brought along company to the grave.
Behind him, he heard soft footsteps increasing in volume. The steps were deliberate but forceful, and Mykos gulped as he held his knife out to fight. Soon, the footsteps had gotten so close, whoever created them should’ve been face to face with him.
But he saw nothing.
Up above, he heard a disturbing growl, like a hungry lion might make. He held his knife up. But nothing came.
He heard the crawling of a spider and swore he felt pricks on his back, as if several creatures were skittering on him. He flailed and shook, trying to get them off, but every time he touched his skin, there was nothing there.
Then, straight ahead, he saw two massive yellow eyes looking at him. The eyes rested on a black, demonic face with three giant horns. The eyes contained much venom in them, and Mykos looked at the beast.
Finally, under the pressure of losing his mind and having gone as far as he could, he broke.
“Fight me!” he yelled. “Fight me!”
He swung his knife through the air as the beast growled. He tried running at its face, but he seemed stuck in place, never drawing closer.
An unseen force yanked Mykos’ knife with such viciousness and strength that the handle bloodied his skin as it left his grip. The knife clanged off in the distance, no longer visible in the dark void.
“Fight me!” he cried again, but his voice had devolved to panic and uncertainty.
Suddenly, he could not control his legs. They felt heavy and paralyzed. Six magicologists appeared before him, each with black robes, with different colored stripes on them—two with red stripes, two with white stripes, and two with gray stripes. They all kneeled, and Mykos could hear ominous footsteps behind him.
He heard angry breathing, clearly behind a mask, as the footsteps drew closer. The enemy had finally appeared. Mykos had gotten his wish—and he knew he had no chance.
He would have to face his death bravely and with nothing other than weak, brittle fists.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, sending a heavy chill down his spine. He felt a brutally scarred hand, the bone all that remained on several fingers, squeeze his skin. Mykos, his breathing shallow, gulped. He was whirled around with such force he thought his neck might snap.
There the “god” was.
Tall—possibly six and a half feet. Broad shouldered. Wearing dark robes—somehow even darker than the six magicologists now behind him—with dark red stains on it. Blood. The blood of those he’s killed. A long, thick sword in the sheath on his hip. A dark, flat, gray mask over his face.
And Mykos knew if ever a man existed that was a god, it was him.
Typhos.
