The capital city of Qaspool lay sleeping on a cold, bitter night. No souls roamed the streets, for a new curfew had been placed on the city under the king's command. Those who did not follow lay in the deep, damp cells of the Delvar keep dungeons, rotting and rioting while they begged to be let out. This was only one of the new changes encroaching on the city. King Vicar had made several changes in the past week that put his people on edge.
Tax increased, and homes were being searched daily. Trade routes were being controlled in and out of the city. Children were being torn from their mothers' and fathers' care, and churches were being gutted of supplies and knowledge that sat on their dusty shelves. Soldiers roamed the streets, and strict laws forced people from their comfortable living styles. Nothing had been the same since.
Rumors of a curse traveled in small whispers amongst the common folk of their blue-eyed king now bearing a purple stigma. Other stories consisted of strange people staying in the castle. The stories rose when the people began to notice the dark, wandering eyes of the town guard now glowing a luminous purple in the dead of Winterwane's night and their new mindless nature. A sleeping storm rumbled throughout the capital city, and some people even feared for their lives, hiding their children, goods, and wives from the town's guard in fear their eyes might turn with the curse.
Zinlar watched the human kingdom, and the king, unwillingly, gave him a view further into chaos from the castle windows each night. Everything was going according to his plan. Something about fear controls people. He did not fear that he might have started a revolution in his wake.
Facing the window, Zinlar gazed out into the quiet night. He proudly lifted his chin, hands folded behind his back. His reflection stared back at him, shown by the light of the candles off to his right, making his pale features flicker with dark shadows. His eyes, glowing purple orbs, stared back at him. Hurried footsteps behind him did not cause him to turn.
"Zinlar," came his name from a purple-eyed servant. He was round-faced and young, no more than thirteen years of age. His freckled face, once innocent and naive, held a devious expression. Like many others who roamed the castle, he was merely another tool for the elf.
"The night is quiet, Alfred. What must you disturb me at this time of night?" Zinlar said, his voice looming with arrogance.
"It is the host of Ravathor, sir. He awakens from his slumber," Alfred answered and bowed respectfully.
"Our god has awakened, you say?" Zinlar turned to the boy with a calm, cruel smile and walked with purpose from his spot by the window toward the boy, placing a hand atop his head and giving it a light pat as he passed. "Good boy, I have a feeling our guests may require refreshment. Go fetch tea from the kitchens and give it to the council members. They await you in their chambers."
"Yes, sir." The young boy fled the room, down the halls toward the kitchens in the castle's lower floors.
Zinlar paced toward the stairs leading upward toward the bedrooms. Each one was being used as a hold for the dark council members. Those who complied roamed freely. Those who did not find themselves bound to chairs by chains had their rooms stripped of belongings.
Rin sat bound to a stiff, old wooden chair with chains clinging to his wrists inlaid with blue gems. His whole body ached with a throbbing pain in his muscles. His head hung low with his black hair casting a shadow over his eyes and face. He appeared paler than the day before, the awakening having taken effect with the use of the shard, and his body starved of blood, the source of food he needed to sustain his vampiric body. When the large wooden doors opened, he raised his head enough to meet Zinlar's gaze.
The elf walked into the small containment room. Not being one to comply with the cult, nothing of comfort was in the room, not even a bed; just stone-cold walls, six posted guards, and a window that let in less than feeble light. Rin was in the middle of it. Zinlar stopped in front of the man, their eyes now locked.
"How does it feel to die and reawaken as a god, Lord Darkwell?" Zinlar asked, placing a hand under Rin's chin and lifting it so he could see his face.
Rin tried to pull away, only to feel Zinlar's hand tighten on his jaw. "I never asked to be your god," he grimaced.
Zinlar smirked. "We don't ask for many things. We are merely pawns in a larger game of this realm, yet you are my queen piece. You fail to see how valuable you are."
Rin glared at the elf. "I was chosen, but I will not serve you. If I am a god, I am above you. Isn't that how gods work?"
"We like to think so, yet you are chained to a chair and I am not." Zinlar let go of Rin's jaw and paced around the chair heel to toe, his boots clicking along the stone floor. "I believe, Rinlar Darkwell, that we need to agree. You will help me find the Kingdom of Zaniah, you will be my guardian god of Zaniah and watch over it with your power and lend me your aid, and more so, you will kill those with the souls of Drakhorion Flamebane and Seraphina Emberwing along with their guardian god, the host of Albranis."
"I refuse," Rin spat at him.
Zinlar stopped before Rin and swung his hand, slapping him clean across the face. Then, he aggressively took up Rin's jaw, causing Rin to grunt in pain. "I did not ask if you were willing, but I said you will do it. Do you understand? I am king. I am to be the ruler of Zaniah. You will not question me."
Rin breathed heavily. "Why? Why do you want this power so badly? You don't deserve this power; any of it."
Zinlar's fingers curled into the man's jaw, creasing it with small curved indents from his nails. Rin winced. "You think that I care what you think? Hm? I don't," Zinlar said cruelly. "You sit here and starve, and you sit here and yell at me, a worthy king, a ruler who knows many elven clans under his belt."
"How are you worthy as a king?" Rin said bitterly.
"I was there, Rin. I saw Zaniah fall, I lost those close because of the selfish endeavors of Albranis and those who thought they were worthy to sit in the firestone thrones. Weak-minded fools! They do NOT belong there. I will take what is mine and give it to Ravathor, the one true god of Zaniah." He leaned in close to his face, and Rin could feel Zinlar's hot breath against his face. "Don't be a pathetic waste of a host. We did not change you into an undead to be a waste." Zinlar let go of Rin and waved to the guards. "Bring in the wolf."
The large doors to the hold groaned open, and Canin was led inside fully chained and captive. The lycan struggled, trying with all his might to tug against the restraints as he was led inside against his will with spears held to him. With a quick kick to his back, he fell to the unforgiving floor, wavering like a ship being tossed at sea. A low growl rumbled from his throat. He glowered at Zinlar.
"If you have any feelings for your companion here, you will cooperate," Zinlar warned, pulling a knife from his boot. It glittered silver in the dim light of the room. Placing it to Canin's throat, he pressed lightly, the skin on the wolf's neck burning, and Canin himself trying to resist crying in pain with grunts and grimaces. "Did you know, silver is a lycan's weakness as much as a werewolf's?" Zinlar started to push harder.
Rin turned away and closed his eyes tight when Canin let out a wail of pain. "Stop," Rin sputtered.
The crying only got worse.
"I said stop!" Rin yelled, his eyes now a bright purple, but with the surge of power came an instant ripple of shock through his whole body from the chains, and he cried out in pain. He breathed heavily when it diminished. "I'll make you king! I'll do anything. Just don't hurt him."
Zinlar stopped and, with a grin, dropped his knife to the floor. It clattered a few feet out of Canin's reach. "Good, I'm glad we can agree. Take him away. I'm no longer in need of the monster," he said, waving to the guards to usher Canin out of the room.
Strong hands forced the lycan to his feet. Rin could see the damage that had been done to his skin and the festering gash on his neck. Canin locked eyes with Rin, shaking his head. "You're making a mistake, Rin. My life is not worth the many lives of the kingdom. Don't make Zinlar the king! Drakhorion Flamebane and Seraphina Emberwing are the only true leaders!"
"What choice do I have?" Rin thought. He was trying to do the right thing. Rin felt torn between his calling and his upbringing. He had his honor as the Darkwell heir, but now he was Ravathor. Panic stewed inside him, torn between his decisions, and it must have shown on his face.
"You look troubled, Rin," Zinlar said, placing a hand on the back of the chair and leaning in close to his face. It was the first time Rin noticed the elf's breath smelled like fine wine. "Mark my words, Rin. I will kill that wolf the moment you betray me. I will not hesitate."
The pained expression did not leave Rin's face, and he searched for Zinlar's eyes. "I will not betray you. I will make you king. Give me the necessary resources, and you will see the shards and a completed key."
"Very good," Zinlar chuckled, then stood up. A few guards unlocked the shackles from around Rin's wrists and let the chains clatter to the floor. Zinlar turned for the door. "The rest of the dark council awaits you, Ravathor. Do not keep them waiting."