III. Andromadus: The Dark One (Chapter One)

I still think about him. That fat fool of an old whisker. No matter how bad a day he was having, my father would always come home with a grin plastered on his face and greet me. He would prattle on about the wares he had sold and items he had acquired throughout the day, which I hardly cared for, but at the end, he always said, “As surely as the sun goes down, your Father will always come home to you, Andromadus.”

“Liar!”

I slam a fist against the wall of the icy tunnel I’m passing through, wincing as pain shoots up my arm.

I forget that the body I am inhabiting is a fragile thing. Nefexian’s magic is thorough. I had indeed fully transformed into the elderly female Windrosian whisker I had seen picking flowers on the outskirts of the city. I disposed of her promptly to quell suspicion, of course. This disguise had allowed me to confirm the Atlas was with those bumbling whiskers in that bar, and after tracking their movements, I knew they were headed to the Northern Mountains.

I had no idea I would be returning to my old stomping grounds so soon.  Even in this frail body, my experience meant I traveled rapidly through the mountains, several days ahead of them.

Foolish whiskers. They are unaware I can sense their magic from a great distance, and in this isolated part of the Pond, they may as well shine a beacon to the sky as they travel north. I have planned my ambush and, though it is a hindrance, I will keep this body for now. I am eager to see their faces as I transform into my true form, to let them know how easy it had been to outwit them before I crush their shards of ends and extinguish their lives.

I emerged from the tunnel onto a frost-covered ledge on the eastern face of the great mountain, Dragonfall. The sun has just begun its rise, but its light barely penetrates the thick fog that blankets many of the northern valleys. Below, the Northern Creek winds like a serpent, slithering its way through dense snow banks lined with clusters of pine trees huddled together. I sit with my legs dangling off the edge, looking further down the valley to the distant point where I know the party would eventually make its appearance. I had lain my final magical snare and now all that is left is to wait. The past few days of isolation had given me plenty of time to organize my thoughts, though when the echoes of ideation have emptied from my mind there is one thought that always remains:

Father.

The very notion sends me into an uncontrollable rage. Why? Why did he have to be slaughtered on that cursed caravan trip to Amalhasu? I still remember the morning he departed. He had barely left for work when he came rushing back in his usual ludicrous excitement, babbling about a rare item he had just acquired. He declared he must travel to Amalhasu that very moment to get it appraised, and off he went. He didn’t tell me what the item was or how he got it. I was young, but old enough to understand his business. He was a kind whisker, and his expansive personality was the key to his flourishing trade. His success meant I received the finest in magical education. While kind, he was prone to fluster when excited. I could only imagine the many whiskers he had divulged his special acquisition to on the way home, and I believe one of those confidants was a bad lot.

I still remember the moment, the aggressive knock on the door. It was late in the afternoon, but when I think back, it was too early. Much too early for Wisterian soldiers to be on my front step, informing me of my father’s death due to a caravan attack by roaming bandits. I inquired about the important item he had been carrying, but they shrugged and promptly left. I calculated the time according to his reported location of death and the number of shades passed since his departure. If it were a random bandit raid, there was no way Wisteria would have known that quickly. It was planned.

It was from that day my rage had overtaken me. Controlled me. Until that moment, I was happy. It was an ordinary life, but it was full. But that fullness was robbed. Stolen.

Wisteria.

I no longer cared if my hypothesis about his death was correct or not, but my instincts were never wrong. Wisteria had caught wind of the item, and valued it far greater than my father’s life. At times I questioned the legitimacy of my father’s acquisitions, or whether his dealings were always as above ground as he claimed, but I could not blame him for long. My focus on my magical studies intensified tenfold, but my dedication took on a new path. One that embraced my rage and amplified my sorcery to heights I never knew existed. It responded to my need to gain the power to destroy Wisteria. I had kept my intentions hidden as I studied the Dark Magics. At first, they lauded me. I could complete quests no ordinary whisker could hope to do. They cheered me on for every accomplishment. At times my rage abated, surrounded by my admirers. Perhaps I could be their savior after all.

My appearance underwent a transformation. I rather enjoyed my new look, but it was not appreciated by everyone. The Wisterian Monastery may have been tipped off to my activities as I was once surprised by a troupe of Paladins visiting my home, announcing a raid for objects of Darkness. I did not have the strength yet to destroy several Paladins without raising suspicion, so I had no choice but to let them in. They confiscated all of my tablets and scrolls, years of my meticulous work, and declared them the property of Wisteria. To leave my precious items lying around like that…it was a mistake I would never again repeat. They thought it would discourage any further attempts to study Dark Magic, but they knew nothing of my dedication. My hatred for them only grew, and I became craftier and more devoted. I had gathered enough knowledge to perform a truly terrifying spell; a contract with dark forces from the Under. The demon who completed the transaction gave me a vial of their blood. I asked how to use it. They cackled, telling me it was proof of our contract and to never let it out of my sight. I dared not ask what would happen if I opened the vial or lost it.

By then, my growth was complete. I had waited for this day. The day when I would have the power to raze the entire Western Kingdoms to burning rubble and smoldering ash. I had made every preparation, but when the time came…I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. Often, I ask myself why, after all my preparation, I was unable to complete my revenge. Always, I cannot answer. I do not think it was out of love for those wretched whiskers nor nostalgia for the only place I’d called home. I had imagined that all of my rage, my loss, would disappear with the smoke from a scorched Wisteria, but perhaps it was not so. It would not return my father to me. Days went by, and still, I made no move. Then the letter came. It was a royal summons to Castle Wisteria itself. I already knew what was to come. I should have set the castle alight then and there as the decree for my banishment, proclaimed for the delving of the forbidden arts, was read aloud. I should have slaughtered the impudent messenger that handed me the royal summons. The same messenger had informed me previously that my father’s body was unrecoverable and, therefore, his resting place unknown. I had attained the greatest power known to the Pond, yet I felt powerless still. As I gathered my pitiful belongings, I only had a singular thought. I wanted to see my father. He was dead, for certain. I could feel it. But still, I wanted to see him again. I heard rumors of a sinister place called the Settlement of the Dead, tucked away deep in the Northern Mountains.

Now here I am again in this forsaken landscape as the same bitter wind paws against my face. But it feels different this time. I tremble with anticipation. I look down the valley where the creek leads up from the mouth of the mountain range. They will arrive soon. My traps are ready.

The hunt begins.