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On a misty and gloomy night, a handsome soldier marches through the narrow, dark corridors of the cursed Palace of Nightmares.

The dreary obsidian walls cascade higher into severe jagged arches as a thick gray mist settles along the expanse—swallowing up the light rather than being illuminated by it.

The sound of wails and moans of the haunted spirits grow quieter as the somber man passes by.

It’s as if the spirits know that he is the one they should fear: a ruthless High General to a wicked king.

As a boy, the High General was trained to become a weapon to win bloody wars and create destruction wherever he went.

“Death’s Shadow,” the king’s subjects whispered as he rode by.

“A demon… a monster,” they’d say, fearfully wondering which of their towns the High General would destroy next on behalf of the vile king.

Perhaps they were right to fear him .

Yet, there is more to this powerful general than meets the eye.

Before he became the monster, he was just a quiet, kind boy with dreams like any other child.

He wished to use his abilities to better the realm rather than be the force to cause its downfall.

If one were to look deep within his soul, they would find that he commits to memory every devastation and fearful look of his victims, for they haunt his dreams.

For if he outwardly showed remorse about the atrocities he committed, it would indeed proclaim his weakness to the king.

His life was engulfed in darkness. So, the demon he became, leaving the once kind boy buried within the recesses of his mind.

His strides are long as he climbs the deep onyx stairs to the main entrance of the Grand Hall.

The balusters are beautifully crafted from a mixture of dark oak and bronze.

The horizontal designs are symmetrical and add balance to the architecture of the elongated stairs.

A sudden chill takes over his body, the cool temperatures settling over the palace at this late hour.

He picks up his pace as the beating within his chest falls in sync with his ominous steps.

Thump… thump… thump.

Every thud of his boots against the marble floors reminds him of the drums that the executioner plays when a life is taken for the pleasure of the king.

It is a haunting cadence that starts off slowly, with one mallet striking the drum.

Then another. By the third, the musician picks up the pace, drumming faster and faster as the prisoner—who’s bound and blindfolded—is thrown into the center of the arena.

When the cadence meets the crescendo of its tune, the beasts from the darkest parts of the Abyss descend and feast on their victim’s flesh and soul.

The execution is over almost as quickly as it began.

This is how my life has felt over the past ten years , Emyr thinks to himself. I’m only one drum cadence away from death.

Thump… thump… thump.

The High General’s heart is in turmoil as he ponders the reason the king desires to meet at such a late hour. It is rare for his royal highness to send the Scythe, his right-hand demon, to call upon the High General—especially after he recently returned from a battle.

An hour before, three sharp bangs on the door woke the High General from his light sleep.

Reaching for his blade on the chair near his bed, he slowly walks toward his entry door.

Once it is opened, he finds Domhnall on the other side.

Unlike most of the soldiers in the Nightmare Palace, the general never cowers under Domhnall’s scrutiny or supposed power.

Perhaps this is why he was promoted to High General merely three years ago.

“General Emyr. Hisss Majesty requiresss your presencccee in hisss study immediately. It’sssss urgent,” Domhnall hissed.

Domhnall, also referred to as the Scythe, is a soulless creature of death that can only be described as a being conjured from one’s worst nightmares.

His body is tall and skeletal with four jagged claws where fingers should be, and a face with two deep cavities for a nose.

It is accompanied by decaying flesh and tendons that move and flex whenever the creature speaks in its serpentine, otherworldly voice.

The most disturbing features of Domhnall are his eyes, which are the color of dark crimson blood.

His gaze makes even the most well-honed soldier squirm under his scrutiny.

It feels as if he can glimpse into one’s soul.

Domhnall is as creepy as he is ruthless, with an unquenchable thirst for power. He’s been the king’s advisor over the last decade, steering the king into bloody wars and chaos. A vicious poison to an even deadlier king who needs no encouragement in his cruelty.

A union that the depths of the Abyss have craved.

“Well, it must be, if His Majesty requests I be woken in the dead of night. By all means, I don’t need rest. I’m just a weapon at your disposal,” the High General deadpans.

“You would defy the orderssss of the king?” the Scythe replies.

“Oh, come now. Of course not. I just don’t understand why our king wants all of us to be hideous, like you.

Some of us need our rest to stay this good looking.

However, I doubt resting would do you much good, Domhnall.

You are hideous, regardless of what you do,” the High General retorts with a smirk.

“Hisssss Majesssssty hassssss no ussseeee for your exxxcusssseesss, boy,” Domhnall hisses. “Be in hisssss study in precisseeely fifteen minutessss if you value ssleeeeppping ever again.”

Then, in a swirl of black vapor, the creature vanishes as if he were never there.

“Bloody urchin,” Emyr murmurs to himself as he dresses in a dark maroon tunic and leather slacks.

The High General clears his head of the recent memory just as a yawn overcomes him.

The king really should learn how to sleep, he thinks as he approaches the king’s study. Why, of all the cursed nights, would I need to be summoned this late?

The soldiers straighten their stances, attempting not to fidget with their black uniforms.

“Ellis. Jasper,” Emyr says in greeting.

They bow at the waist before their leader. “High General Emyr,” they say in unison.

Emyr raps his knuckles on the dark oak door of the study.

Knock! Knock!

As Emyr waits, he takes in all the details of the study door.

It’s beautiful and intricate, in an eerie sort of fashion.

A tall, pointed arch at the apex of the door brings a level of malevolence to its design.

The wood is sanded in a way that makes it appear more rustic than it actually is, with carvings of creatures only the Drakhul is capable of siring.

The carvings display demon-like creatures with long, pointed teeth, snarling lips, and bloodlust-filled irises.

The depictions are typically of the creatures from the Abyss, torturing some poor soul.

If they’d been of something with a little more grandeur, I might’ve enjoyed the craftsmanship of such detail, Emyr thought to himself.

“Enter,” echoes the king’s voice from within the study.

Emyr takes a deep breath and quickly slips on his mask of indifference as the heavy door swings open.

The study is ominous. Much like the rest of the palace, it is designed with a mixture of dark oak, bronze, and alabaster.

Floating candles illuminate the space just enough to give the study a foreboding appearance.

It’s wide, with cavernous walls that are lined from floor to ceiling with books on war strategy, cartography, philosophy, and history.

The shelves are enchanted to bring a reader the topic they most desire.

One simply must think about what they wish to know, and if there is a book that matches the topic, the book will materialize before the seeker of such knowledge.

Emyr’s gaze roams to the figure standing in the center of the study—King Tiernan, running fingers through his hair as he studiously examines the papers on the round mahogany table before him.

As always, Domhnall stands to his right to ensure that anyone who draws near the king knows who has his listening ear.

The king slowly lifts his head to acknowledge his High General’s arrival.

Though his stature is slightly less than the High General, King Tiernan is a man of nearly six feet, four inches, with short, coiffed ebony hair and a dazzling smile.

His bright amber eyes, a trademark of all Galrosans, have a way of unraveling hidden secrets.

Compared to their usual spark for greed and bloodlust, his eyes are unusually haunted.

While his youthful appearance allows him to look no older than twenty-five, he’s three-hundred years old, due to his Galrosan heritage.

Tonight, he dons a rich tunic of deep burgundy, with a gold-plated chain draped across his shoulders. He looks fearsome and sinister, with only the planes of his face illuminated in the dim light.

Emyr bows his head in reverence. “You sent for me, Sire?” he asks.

A smirk teases at the corner of Tiernan’s mouth. Always a flair for the dramatics, Tiernan enjoys signs of submission to his power. Tiernan is clever and wicked, definitely not someone a person desires for an enemy. He’s like the wolf amongst the sheep—deadly when provoked.

“General Emyr,” the king’s velvety voice calls. “ I am pleased you could join us at this late hour.”

The king’s manner of speaking is reminiscent of a time long forgotten.

It appears you’re the only one, Emyr thinks.

The king gestures to the table. “Please, come join us,” he says softly.

Tiernan watches the High General’s every move as he draws near. “I trust your latest escapade went well,” he inquires, looking back down to the papers in front of him.

“If you consider the destruction of your enemies a success, then yes, my liege, it went well,” Emyr replies with perhaps more snark in his tone than intended. The High General can’t help his reaction in his sleep-deprived state, however.

The thought of his last escapade sours his stomach. His orders were to crush a small faction of Malvorians who allegedly followed the prophecy of the Na Fíréin. No one, not even women or children, were spared.

Slowly, the smirk that appeared on the king’s lips fades as his sharp amber eyes blaze with an iridescent glow. “They are not just my enemies,” he says, taking a step toward Emyr.

“They are our enemies.”

Another step.

“ They are this empire’s enemies.”

The king stops just a breath away before he continues to speak, in a lethal tone, barely above a whisper . “Anyone who opposes my rule must be snuffed out. It would serve you well to remember that fact, High General.”

This is not going well, Emyr thinks.

The High General bows, placatingly. “ Forgive me, Your Highness. It was a careless slip of the tongue. I’ve just arrived six hours ago but had only slept an hour when your Scythe summoned me. My priority is to serve you and this illustrious empire you have built.”

Tiernan’s cold eyes bore into Emyr, as if trying to see any deception within the general’s words. Emyr stares back, willing himself not to be the first to break eye contact.

I am the High General after all. I break before no man or creature—including the king I serve, Emyr thinks.

They stand there for one heartbeat… then two…

Finally, the king releases a breath . “Never forget your place in my presence again, General Emyr. Remember that I made you what you are, and I can easily unmake you.”

The venom of his threat rings true.

As usual, Tiernan knows where to strike the killing blow with his words.

When Emyr was in his eleventh year, his abilities manifested stronger than any other Galrosan his age.

“A miracle,” the high priest had said. Usually, only a small glimpse of power manifests until one’s twenty-fifth year, but Emyr could fully harness his abilities.

Tiernan, seeing an opportunity, taught Emyr how to wield his abilities—often spending hours training him, as well as Emyr’s two closest friends: Laisren and Riordan.

The young lads were told it was a great honor to serve the King of Zulgalros.

They were promised riches, fame, and glory for their service.

By their thirteenth year, the boys were ready to begin combat training.

This consisted of grueling exercises and sparring matches for at least five hours a day.

Sometimes, the sparring involved using their abilities, while others involved learning the art and dance of sword play.

At first, it seemed almost like a fun game with dull practice blades… until it wasn’t.

Emyr was in his sixteenth year when he received his first assignment. It was in his seventeenth year that the boy was ordered to take another’s life. It would be the first time he had blood on his hands—the first time he questioned his loyalty to the king he served.

The High General shudders at the memory of the pleas for mercy. He can still feel their blood as if it’s permanently stained on his hands.

“I remember quite well, Your Majesty,” Emyr says with indifference.

Tiernan glances over him one last time before returning to the documents strewn on the table.

“Now, High General, come. I have a new assignment for you.” He holds the reports that he’d been studying out to Emyr .

“I need you and your cadre to track down the Malvorian in this report. Then I need you to bring them here alive. They’re of great value to me. ”

Taking the documents from the king’s hand, the High General skims over the reports about a strange occurrence in the small southern Malvorian town of Aurelius.

“Who am I supposed to find, Sire?” Emyr asks trepidatiously.

As if sensing his unease, Tiernan’s lips curl into a broad smile.

“The young woman with the Dragon’s Flame.”