Author’s note(s): I’d like to take this moment to express my immense gratitude to Tiffany Kremer, the love of my life, for helping so much in the editing process of this ongoing work. She just helps to give it that special touch that I refuse to post a new chapter without…she makes it seem right. Also, I would like to thank her for the huge amount of support she’s been giving me, and she’s the real reason this project is still moving strongly. If you like this story, and haven’t done so already, please send Tiff your thanks by reading some of her writing and giving her feedback. Thank you Tiffy, I love you. You’re my inspiration, and this story is for you.

Seregor found himself struggling to keep up with Aertha as she led him swiftly through the labyrinthine hallways of the castle. To him, all the long stone corridors were the same, lined with hideous sculptures of various monsters wrought in marble and torches that cast menacing shadows upon their forms. The pain in his side had returned with the increase of pace. Now he wished the staff he had used as aide was not still lying in the chamber full of wounded soldiers. His lungs were ablaze, begging for him to slow and allow them air, but Aertha’s pace did not slow. To lower his own speed would mean falling behind. Being so deep within the mazelike passageways, he held a good deal of doubt about his ability to find his way back out. Despite the pain and weariness that had oozed into his bones, he pressed onwards.

Aertha hadn’t looked back a single time to check that he was still with her. For all he knew, she had walked these halls countless times and took the knowledge she possessed of them for granted. Finally, he saw her come to a stop at a door further down the narrow hallway. It took him several moments to catch up with her, his breaths heavy as he halted. He directed his gaze to the floor and began his enjoyment of sweet rest, the air cooling his fiery chest and the pain slowly numbing. Leaning forward, he rested his hands on his thighs. She decided to look at him then, turning completely about and slipping her arms across her torso with a snicker.

Seregor’s face was dark, black blood having rushed to it while he pushed his damaged body to its limits. His ruby eyes rose to her face.

“We seek a supreme general, and Rathernal gives us some sorry old soldier who can barely manage to follow me through a few hallways,” she said, almost to herself. There was a piercingly sarcastic tone in her voice, but Seregor noted something in her eyes. He could almost categorize it as a friendly glow. “Catch your breath. We’ve all day to wait.” She tapped her foot impatiently.

Taking in a deep breath, Seregor straightened. His side began to once again ache, though it was quite bearable compared to the previous sensations that had tortured him. Reaching up with both hands, he tucked his straight hair behind his ears and loosened the collar of his uniform.

“I am ready. Forgive me for having been injured in battle for our cause.”

He immediately regretted his words. Now he had retaliated with his own sarcasm, something that he had hoped he was beyond. To his surprise, Aertha slapped his shoulder approvingly, a smug smirk across her lips.

“Maybe you aren’t as spineless as I thought you were.” Her eyes took him in slowly, scanning his body from head to toe. Her tongue of dull violet poked slightly out of her lips, vanishing almost before Seregor could notice. He swallowed nervously. She turned away again with a snicker, likely for having made him feel uncomfortable, and wrapped her delicate hand around the doorknob. Before she opened the door, she looked back over her shoulder to him. “You are the supreme general. I just want to make sure that you understand that. Remember that your input is welcome.”

She twisted the knob and pushed the old wooden door open, the hinges sending a creak into the atmosphere that echoed throughout the passages. Without a word she slipped into the darkness of the room, his drow eyes cutting through the darkness, following her every move. He stepped through the doorway behind her, turning slightly to close the door. The sound of the door shutting rang out in the quiet room, causing Seregor to wince. He directed his attention ahead, searching the small chamber that he had entered.

Compared to all the other rooms that he had seen in the castle, this one was miniscule. Curtains of deep purple hung upon the walls for decoration, though opposite the entrance was a massive tapestry bearing a map of the known world. A bright star was nestled against the range of triangles that represented mountains, marking the location of Denmas. His heart suddenly floated back to his home city, a place that he had to leave due to the outbreak of war. All of his childhood memories were in Denmas. Having been away from the place for so long a time, he could not summon them up any longer. Instead of time spent with childhood friends, he could recall only darkness and fire. He could remember only his own crimes. He searched in vain for the part of himself he could no longer find.

“Master Seregor.”

The heat of the flames was intense, searing his flesh. Their bright orange dance leapt out at him before the backdrop of solid night, darkened by billowing smoke that curled up into the air. Scent came next, burning wood drifting into his nose, followed by charred flesh. Screams pierced his ears as women and children cried out in pain and agony. Why did they deserve this? Why did he have to be the one to do it?

“Master Seregor.”

He was instantly pulled out of his own mind, his face tightening as everything blurred by. Once again, Seregor found himself in the small room. Sweat beaded upon his forehead, and his breaths were raspy due to imagined smoke. His eyes were wide, focused on nothing but soon moving to the small table standing in the room’s center. It was square, a seat on each side. The chair directly before him was empty. Opposite that one sat Zefrenilx.

The wise drow’s face was grave, his mouth a thin straight line. The sorcerer’s eyes were dull with worry. They remained locked on Seregor, Zefrenilx’s gaze unwavering. It took Seregor a moment to realize what had happened, the sudden flashback leaving him dazed. A hand rose to move through his hair, stopping as it touched his forehead. It was damp. Lowering the hand, he glanced at it, just barely able to make out the moisture now upon it. His sweat was icy cold, as though somehow frozen in time.

“Please, take a seat,” said Zefrenilx in his soft voice, which was only slightly above a whisper.

With an awkward nod, Seregor stepped forward and sat down, his cheeks still stained with embarrassment. Aertha had already seated herself, leaning back slightly in her chair with her arms folded in their usual manner. Just as he had become accustomed to seeing, one of her brows were raised slightly as she watched him. To his right was the young Orthynx, his face the most joyful off the four. His lips were pulled into a smile, his eyes bright with eagerness.

“Forgive me,” Seregor mumbled. He was unable to summon up his voice at first, his words nearly inaudible. Nervousness began to creep up on him, seizing him from behind.

Zefrenilx nodded solemnly, his face suddenly appearing gentler. Perhaps he could relate to Seregor’s feelings? “Thank you, Master Seregor. Now that our leader is here, we have pressing matters to attend to.”

Zefrenilx was getting right to business. For that, Seregor was grateful. He honestly did not want to stay down there a moment longer than necessary. Never before had he asked for the position of Supreme General, and he had never had any sliver of desire for it. But there he was, Supreme General of a new drow army. There was an illusion that the position was offered to him by Rathernal in the dining hall. And that idea was naught but illusion. Through manipulation and skillful oration, Rathernal had forced Seregor to take the position.

His wandering thoughts were soon ceased as Zefrenilx continued. “I had personally not thought it possible for Lord Rathernal to unite the drow. Even among the four of us, there are vast differences in beliefs, and those differences have torn our people into several factions that would likely war against each other once they defeat their common foe,” the sorcerer trailed off, his gaze lowering to the table.

“Well how good a job has he done of uniting us?” asked Aertha, the way she was sitting now appearing quite disrespectful. For once, Seregor could not detect sarcasm in her voice. Only seriousness. He watched her for a moment before turning back to Zefrenilx.

“A far greater one than any could have anticipated,” replied the sorcerer. “Before he arose with this new empire, we counted six different armies. Their numbers varied from one or two thousand to upwards of fifteen thousand. Now, there are barely enough of them left independent of Rathernal to muster a group of eight hundred. And that number is if all of their remaining soldiers did gather.” He paused. “And only if the remnants of all six armies combined their strength.”

Aertha’s eyes went wide as she leaned forward, her arms coming to rest upon the table. Her mouth hung open in shock. “How many are under our command?”

Zefrenilx sighed softly. “Estimates count it at nearly fifty thousand soldiers, with a wave of fresh recruits due in by the end of the month.”

Seregor was open-mouthed as well. The numbers were staggering. He had moved from a force of four hundred to one of fifty thousand. The difference was clearly immense. He would not come to know more than a handful of the soldiers now under him, whereas he previously knew every single warrior that he commanded. He could not allow the facts to set in. He could not be granted so much power. Of all people, why was it determined that he would know how to use it? How could anybody know that he could successfully lead an army to a victorious end of a war that had raged for years?

“Fifty thousand!” were the words that burst out of Orthynx’s mouth. “We can’t lose now!”

Seregor’s eyes narrowed as he slowly turned to the overly-enthusiastic drow. He could feel the watch of the other two at the table do so as well. Orthynx’s broad smile faded as his eyes darted from person to person as he shrank back slightly.

“We have the same amount of soldiers we had before. It may seem like a large number now that they are unified, but the drow army has been this large for some time,” explained Zefrenilx to the youth, his stare seeming to ice over. “Yes, fifty thousand is a lot. But you must remember that the enemy has just as many, if not more. And this battlefield, our homeland, is a huge one.” His arm shot back, a thin finger directed at the map. “Fifty thousand may prove far too few when there are so many places to attack and defend.”

His young face now serious, Orthynx leaned forward. “We’ve been in a stalemate. That was when we were separate, when we were hardly working together. Now, we are unified. We are one.” The drow’s voice was a whisper, as though the words he spoke were some sort of secret. “Our strength together is ten times what it was apart! Scholars are already writing of our glorious victory, for it is imminent!”

Aertha slammed her fists upon the table and rose, hovering over the seated Orthynx. Her lips were curled in anger, her eyes ablaze. “You will show some respect!” she hissed through gritted teeth.

Seregor’s eyes widened a bit, and he turned his gaze away from the table. This was his way of ignoring the tensions. Orthynx had backed off a bit, clearly shaken up by Aertha’s sudden outburst. Zefrenilx was silent, letting out a sigh.

“Thank you, Lady Aertha. It is much appreciated, though not necessary. We are all adults here, and we can talk things out in a civilized manner,” the sorcerer told her gently. Her gaze remained frozen on the young drow across the table from her, arms crossed tightly beneath her breasts. “We are going to have to come up with some sort of framework for how we will separate our forces.”

Seregor had liked what he’d heard of Zefrenilx only through stories. Now he was with the sorcerer, and was even more appreciative of him. The drow had a no-nonsense style, cutting straight to business and leaving out what was unnecessary. It was likely from having decades of military experience under his belt. He had been doing things like this since Seregor was a child, knowing what was important, and disregarding what was not.

Seregor slowly turned his gaze upwards as he felt eyes upon him. Zefrenilx was focused on him, though it was not the piercing stare that Rathernal held. The sorcerer’s manner was much kinder and far more welcoming.

“Is there anything you would like to add, Master Seregor?”

He shook his head, his mind suddenly wiping itself clean. “No, no, nothing. But please, I’d prefer it if you call me simply Seregor.” The words had slipped from his lips without him realizing it. In his mind, Seregor cursed himself. He did not like being addressed with titles that were meant to show his superiority, because that did not exist. Despite this, he still saw the action of dismissing one’s own title as humble arrogance, just the sort of thing he hated. But it was too late already. Wondering if anybody at the table shared his thoughts on the matter, he quickly and discreetly as possible scanned their faces. Aertha was still boring holes into Orthynx with her stare, and the young drow watched her with traces of fear and uncertainty.

Zefrenilx nodded slightly. “Alright then, Seregor. As I had been saying,” the sorcerer continued, “we will need to draw up plans to properly disperse our forces. The enemy still holds most of Felnas, our only strongholds being in the northwest. This one is the closest to enemy land, and will rightly need a sufficient amount of protection.” The drow sorcerer frowned slightly at the last part. To Seregor, it almost seemed like Zefrenilx regretted having to devote soldiers to defending this castle. He watched as the sorcerer’s gaze slowly fell, and the old drow went silent.

Seregor felt the urge to sympathize with Zefrenilx at that very moment, before the other two generals. He wanted to tell the sorcerer of the sickness that rose in his stomach whenever he knew Rathernal was near, of how he had suffered through the dinner. He even wanted to get into how horribly twisted Rathernal’s philosophy of complete drow superiority was, that it was so nauseatingly a falsehood that it had made his very skin crawl.

But he couldn’t. The sorcerer could likely relate to his opinions on the matter, but Seregor knew not enough about Aertha and Orthynx. He knew that Aertha was likely very opinionated, and stuck strong to what she believed. If she did indeed believe Rathernal, then she would likely tear Seregor’s head off his shoulders and send it through the air off the balcony with a well-placed kick. He couldn’t risk meeting her limitless wrath. Orthynx, on the other hand, he did not fear for demeanor. Rather, he was worried that the young drow, most probably seeking fame and fortune at his age, would rush off to Rathernal and relay the words that came from Seregor’s mouth. Now Seregor’s eyes drifted downwards as well.

“Seregor, may I speak with you for a moment in private?”

His gaze shot back up to Zefrenilx, who was now looking at Seregor. With a nod, he watched as the sorcerer rose, Seregor doing the same a moment later. The sorcerer stepped to the door, his movements fluid. Seregor followed closely behind as the sorcerer pulled the door open, stepping out into the hallway. Seregor shut it gently behind him.

“Come,” Zefrenilx motioned with his hand for Seregor to follow as he moved further down the hall. “We cannot speak in this corridor. Our voices will carry too far, and we must be weary of prying ears in our new positions.” Seregor nodded again and followed behind the sorcerer, his limp slowly returning as pain once again began to awaken in his side. Absently, he pulled his left arm tightly against the wound, as though it would press the pain to nothingness.

Ahead of him, Zefrenilx turned down another of the long passages, stopping before another door and stepping into it. As Seregor moved in behind him, he found himself in a dank, musty storeroom. Old barrels and crates were stacked all about, leaving a small walkway against the wall and one down the center of the items. The air was heavy and moist, but oddly cool and refreshing at the same time. The sorcerer turned to face Seregor, looking him over slowly and giving an approving nod.

“I apologize for having to move to another room, but what we are about to speak of cannot be said in front of Orthynx,” Zefrenilx began. “I know how Rathernal makes you feel. I feel the same way, and can see it in your eyes. I know you try to mask it, but your body language also communicates to me. He sickens you, makes your already battered body deteriorate more rather than heal as it should.”

Seregor nodded slowly, a bit surprised that Zefrenilx knew so much. They had not even spoken prior to this occasion. There was a natural warning now surfaced in Seregor’s mind. There was a slim possibility that Zefrenilx, like so many others seemed to be, was in Rathernal’s pocket. He could simply be creating a false air of understanding to get Seregor to admit his hatred for Rathernal. But there was something about Zefrenilx. His kind eyes, his genuinely caring and knowledgeable persona. Something told Seregor that he could trust the sorcerer. And he decided that he would do so, for better or for worse.

“I’m sure I don’t have to explain much of it to you. Rathernal is a manipulative leader, who will do anything he can to spread his power and influence. This war was never about race. He’s just making it that because people will follow him under that flag of supremacy. Because it allows him to mold people to fit his will, and control them absolutely. Personally, I do not believe we should allow him to do this. There will be a point he can reach at which he’ll be too powerful, and in spite of our best efforts, we too will eventually succumb to his power. Aertha realizes this as well. You can trust her, if you can allow yourself to get past her,” he paused for a moment, “manner.”

Seregor released a sigh of relief. It was good to know that Aertha and her fairly intimidating way of behaving were on his side. That information alone was enough to ease his mind. “And what of Orthynx? Is he too loyal to Rathernal for us to share these opinions with him?” Seregor inquired. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly comfortable talking to another person.

“Orthynx? It’s not necessarily that he is too loyal to Rathernal. I believe he’s a bit too naïve to truly know loyalty,” Zefrenilx explained. “But it’s the fact that he is young and talkative. Talkative at least when Aertha isn’t snapping at him. We’ve also taken into consideration the fact that he is Rathernal’s nephew.”

Seregor blinked several times, a brow arching sharply. His mouth hung open slightly in shock. “Rathernal’s nephew?”

Zefrenilx nodded somberly. “Yes. He is the child of Rathernal’s younger sister, who passed away during Orthynx’s birth. I don’t believe Rathernal ever really cared for his sister, however. Still, he showed what might somewhat resemble love to Orthynx. Rathernal could sympathize with the youth. He lost his parents at a young age, and was raised here by his uncle. Born into riches, spoiled beyond one’s wildest dreams. It’s no wonder he became what he is. His uncle wasn’t exactly the kindest drow in Felnas.”

Perhaps there was room in his heart for Seregor to pity Rathernal. But that room had been filled already by his disgust with what Rathernal was. When a man has become such a monster, he deserves no pity. Rathernal could have prevented himself from becoming the scheming fiend that Seregor saw. Rathernal had likely done nothing to stop it, and everything to expedite the process.

“What do you think should be done about this Rathernal issue, Seregor?”

Seregor’s attention returned to the sorcerer. He thought for a moment, feeling his cheeks heat up. His stomach began to churn uneasily as his mind raced in contemplation. “Well, he is doing a good job of bringing our people together. We should leave him in power for now. At least until we are sure that our resources and troops are secured. We can decide how to take care of his lust for power at that time.”

“All right,” Zefrenilx replied with a nod. “That’s as good a course of action as any. He can prove useful in bolstering our strength just enough to give us the advantage.”

“Tying strings to the puppet master,” Seregor muttered offhandedly.

There was a silence between them, but it lacked the awkwardness that silence usually attached itself to. It was a quiet contemplation as Seregor sifted through his conscience. What lay ahead would by no means be easy.

“It will be difficult to function as a group with the differences between us,” Zefrenilx said, trailing off.

“Aye,” replied Seregor, his mind still dwelling on what the future would hold. “We will have to learn to work together, I suppose. In time.”

Zefrenilx’s gaze floated up to Seregor from the floor. “I was given some news earlier. Perhaps it would be best to tell you now.”

“What news?”

There was a hush about the room for a few moments. “Rathernal ordered the enemy wounded executed shortly after the dinner. He justified it by saying that the resources needed to care for them could keep twice as many drow soldiers fighting for our cause.”

Seregor felt his knees weaken. His stomach tightened, a painful cramp now in his abdomen. Clenching his fists, his knuckles faded to a lighter shade of gray. It was a struggle to remain standing, his head beginning to swirl and pound all at once. He staggered and shut his eyes firmly.

“Are you alright, Seregor?” Zefrenilx asked with concern, taking a step forward and placing a hand upon Seregor’s shoulder.

“I just need to lie down.”