Underland

Centuries before the Father of All sired a scion, Underland was quiet.

The sound of water droplets hitting stone echoed across its tunnels. Invisible eyes of flesh watched two figures in a vault of stone. One standing, his back straightened by age that could be counted in millennia. The other kneeling, crushed under the weight of his own limitless power.

The cycle of sorcery was eternal, unending. A teacher learned all that was worth passing on. An apprentice learned all their teacher had known, before becoming a teacher themselves. Some graduated with honor; and others with steel and blood. Countless generations had been bound through this endless chain across the long history of man.

The teacher observed his apprentice. He had taught many, but none so strong. One day, in the far future, he would create his own destroyer. But today was not that day.

“What have you learned, my apprentice?” the master asked.

The apprentice looked up with burning eyes. “What have I learned, my teacher?”

“How can I know if you are ready to graduate, if I do not understand all that you know?” The teacher encouraged his apprentices to learn by themselves and draw their own conclusions. If not, he set trials for them. His duty was not to shape minds; only to open them. “As your apprenticeship now comes to an end, I will hear it from your own mouth. What have you learned?”

The apprentice meditated on his teacher’s words. He had surpassed his former master in strength, or at least he believed so. His teacher knew more spells than he did, but his magic was potent and singular.

Did his teacher want to hear of the powers his student had acquired? Of his secret spells and public victories? No, the apprentice decided. The lessons he learned over the course of their association ran deeper than snapped fingers and fireballs.

“That day,” the apprentice said as he remembered the time they first met. “I first learned arrogance.”

The golden gong shook and Valar Bethor snapped to action.

He wore no armor but a bright red shirt and pants, wielded no defense but the raw power of his magic. Defensive spells, skillfully honed, protected his handsome face. With short blonde hair, sharp red eyes, and a hawkish nose, the ladies loved to dote on him, though he loved none of them back. Of the three people fighting in the stone arena, he was the youngest, a young adult not yet twenty years of age. His foes were older and better born.

He crushed them all the same.

They both came for him the moment the battle began. They knew they stood no chance alone. The first was a woman of the Oldblood, with long black hair and a scholar’s robe. She moved like water, swift as a snake and lunging at Bethor with sharp claws of crystalized blood. The other was an undead warrior, a corpse wrapped in blood-drenched bandelettes and soulstone amulets. He remained at the rear and crafted lightning-fast projectiles from his bones.

With a wave of his hand, Bethor countered their spells. Sharp weapons of solid blood turned to dust. Bone bullets fell on the ground without ever reaching their target. Then Bethor struck back with the weight of his magic. His psychic onslaught crashed against his foes’ defensive spells. The girl’s shield was simple but eminently strong. The mummy’s protective spells formed a complex array that only an experienced sorcerer with inhuman focus could produce.

They both folded like paper.

Bethor’s magic smashed their defenses like a hammer. His telekinetic assault was not only strong, but adaptable. Tendrils of psychic energy fueled by the Blood scouted for weaknesses in the span of a second and then pounced. He pierced the magical shields at a dozen different points, collapsed them, and then gathered his strength in a final telekinetic wave of force.

The knockback sent his ‘competitors’—victims might have been a better term—flying against the very gong that signaled the battle’s start. So did it signal its end as it bent under the impact. The defeated fell to the ground and the victor stood unperturbed. The fight had lasted less than a minute.

Although they were all competing for the same title, Bethor had never bothered to learn these two’s names. Now, as they struggled to get back to their feet, he remembered why. They were beneath him.

They were stepping stones on his path to greatness. Footnotes in the history of his life.

Bethor took a step to meet with the audience, only to sense life beneath his feet. He leaped to the side just in time to avoid vines bursting out of the ground. Seeds sowed under the arena had grown at an accelerated rate.

The one responsible, the woman he thought beaten, struggled to stand upright. The last blow must have broken ribs and caused internal damage, yet she seemed determined to continue a doomed fight. Bethor couldn’t fathom why. Their last bout should have taught her the gap between their respective abilities.

“Foolish lass,” Bethor chastised her. “This fight is over.”

“Not yet,” she rasped back. Having recovered enough to run, she moved around the arena in a fruitless attempt to flank Bethor. He watched her with bemusement as the mummy rose back up. It seemed his colleague’s example had inspired him.

“You can’t beat me,” Bethor boasted with cold confidence. The vines moved to encircle him, but he rotted them to dust with a glance. “This is useless.”

“Perhaps,” the mummy confirmed with a deep, booming voice. “Yet for honor’s sake, we must try.”

The undead formed circles by motioning his two hands and then joined them. His amulets glowed as his magic tore the gate between worlds open. A swarm of fiendish, man-eating locusts entered this reality to devour life.

Bethor watched the bugs approach before activating his magic. The creatures’ bodies burst open like rotten fruits as his magic drained the blood from their veins. A red rain fell on the arena’s ground.

Yet the mummy didn’t give up. His fingers cackled with crimson lighting aimed straight for Bethor’s heart. He deflected it with a psychic shield before dodging a strike from the woman. She had turned her body to steel and attempted to punch with enough force to shatter stone. Using the Blood to predict her limbs’ movements, Bethor dodged all strikes.

These fools…

Why couldn’t they simply accept defeat? They had no chance to win this round. Why keep fighting against hopeless odds? Bethor would have pitied them if he could feel compassion. Instead, his heart was filled with frustration.

The mummy attempted to summon again. Bethor waved a hand and a telekinetic push sent the undead crashing against the ceiling. The woman exploited the opportunity to strike with an open palm. Bethor lazily took a step back.

Her nails extended into sharp claws at the last second.

Surprised, Bethor barely managed to sidestep to dodge the attack. Yet a nail grazed his left cheek and drew a drop of blood.

It was a light cut, barely noticeable. Yet it drove Bethor to fury. His magic rippled across the arena with his rageful roar. A telekinetic burst of strength threw the woman back.

The moment she hit the nearest wall and the mummy landed on the ground, Bethor grabbed them again with the power of his mind. He smashed them against the ceiling, then against the ground, back and forth. Cracks appeared across the arena. The sound of breaking bones echoed in its halls.

Yet even as he lifted the bodies of his foes before him, Bethor couldn’t find satisfaction.

“Give up,” Bethor ordered.

“Screw you, Valar,” the woman replied in defiance. Her nose was broken, her lips pouring blood, yet she still struggled against the telekinetic choke holding her. The mummy was less verbose, but no less stubborn.

“Then die!” The fight wasn’t meant to be to the death, but if she wouldn’t accept her place, Bethor would put her in the ground. He tightened his psychic hold on their heads and threatened to blow them up like melons.

“That’s enough, Valar,” a voice ordered. “Victory is yours.”

Bethor released his two victims and let them hit the ground; broken, but not defeated. Clapping hands from the arena’s stands acclaimed the victor. Two other sorcerers witnessed the spectacle and one of them cheered Bethor.

Unfortunately, it was the other one that counted.

“Impressive as always, Valar.” General Drusang’s steel gauntlets and bone hands clapped loud enough to wake the living and the dead. His black armor seemed to suck the light of nearby torches and his rapier glittered on its own. “You truly are a prodigy.”

Some would be falsely modest and deny the prodigy label. Not Valar Bethor. He had earned the title. Still, it always pleased him to hear Drusang Reynard’s praise. The general led the Derro border army on behalf of the Dark Lords. He was a skeletal warrior of great repute, a member of the Oldblood that founded Azlant itself, and an honorary Grandmaster of the Knights of the Road. His patronage would propel Valar Bethor to great heights.

Yet even the general paled in importance before his guest. Outwardly, the creature standing next to Drusang appeared as a feeble old man in tattered robes. Bethor’s true sight pierced through the illusion to see the terrible lich hiding underneath. A being as ancient as the stars, as cold as the Whitemoon above.

The Dark Lord of Paraplex, Och. Said to be second only to the Empress herself.

Bethor kneeled, as was his duty. His rivals, still stumbling from the thrashing he gave them, did the same. Bethor paid them no mind. He doubted the Dark Lord would even acknowledge their presence after their crushing defeat. Nobody remembered the props after watching a play.

“I see you have trained excellent battle mages, general,” Lord Och said with a ghoulish smile. “They will serve us well.”

“The Domain of Sabaoth will belong to the empire before the year is done, Lord Och,” General Drusang boasted quietly. “We will push the Derros back into the depths of our world, and this new Domain’s metal will fuel our forges for future conquests.”

“I doubt so. We are already stretched thin as we are. My colleagues are more likely to fight each other over our current spoils than seek new ones.” Lord Och raised an index finger and thumb to his chin. “Good to have young fresh meat to keep the borders safe while we settle our affairs.”

Bethor said nothing, but he listened attentively. The lich was a Dark Lord, one of the most powerful people in the empire. To even be allowed in his presence was a feat for him; he, an orphan boy who climbed the army’s echelons since the moment he heard the call of the Blood.

“What was the purpose of this demonstration?” the Dark Lord asked Drusang. “If you wish for more funding, you should pester Lord Hagith.”

“I do not need additional funds, though they would be welcome.” General Drusang’s back straightened up. “Word has reached me that you seek a new apprentice, Lord Och.”

“Oh, my? You know my terrible secret?” The Dark Lord chuckled sinisterly. “Yes, the itch to teach the terrible secrets of the universe to a young, malleable mind bothers me regularly. Call it a hobby.”

“Have you selected a candidate yet?”

“No,” the Dark Lord replied. “Oh, I see where this is going. Silly young Drusang, you are trying to sell me one of these three?”

“A gift, Lord Och.” The general was always careful with proper phrasing. Good wording could dull the sharpest blades, he often said. “It would be an honor for one of my army’s battle mages to study under your care.”

“Yes, I can see how it would benefit you.” Lord Och chuckled. “The Reynard family is already famed for producing excellent swordsmen. Now it will mentor the best mages.”

“I do not suggest this as a noble undead, Lord Och,” Drusang replied calmly. “But as the head of the Derro border army.”

“What difference does it make? No matter.” Lord Och turned his gaze upon Bethor and his two fellow mages. “I do admit you have an eye for talent.”

Valar Bethor’s heart thumped in his chest so hard that he feared it might explode in his ribcage.

If he was indeed chosen… everything would change. His career would take a turn for the best. He might even rise to general, although his blood was as base and common as they come. He would seize his just reward for a lifetime of hard work. All would know his name.

“Alas,” said the Dark Lord, “none of them are worthy of my teaching."

Bethor kept his head down to hide his deflated expression. His fists clenched in disappointment. His competitors were less surprised than he was, but just as disappointed. Perhaps the Dark Lord already had someone else in mind.

Who was he kidding? The bloody cut on his cheek had disqualified Bethor. He had shown weakness before a Dark Lord and could only blame himself.

Bethor could have borne the disappointment with dignity, if the general hadn’t mentioned his name in his surprise. “Not even Valar?”

“Him least of all,” Lord Och replied coldly.

Bethor’s head snapped up in surprise and anger. “What did you just say?”

While Lord Och squinted in bemusement, General Drusang’s eyes glowed with sinister light. “Quiet, Valar.”

But Bethor’s wounded pride wouldn’t remain silent, even in the face of a Dark Lord. His tongue moved before he realized the danger. “Me, least of all?” he repeated in disbelief. “Is it because of my birth?”

The Dark Lord snorted. “What about your birth?”

He didn’t know? No, he had to. It was the only explanation.

“Valar is not of the Oldblood,” General Drusang said sharply. He had never reproached Bethor for his birth, but in the presence of a Dark Lord, old prejudice was a cloak to shield oneself of reproach. “It’s why he hasn’t learned when to stay silent in the presence of his betters. I will chastise him for his insolence.”

“No need, young Drusang. I care not for formalities.” The Dark Lord chuckled. “My bones were dusty when the Oldblood was young, little one. I predate this entire civilization, why would I care which bug is dustier than the others?”

“Then why?” Valar asked in confusion. He glanced at his competitors, these props who couldn’t last more than five minutes against him. How could the Dark Lord consider him less worthy than them? “I am stronger than both of them combined. It took all they had to even scratch me. I lead my own company of battle mages, although I’m half as old as any of them.”

Lord Och seemed more bored than anything. “So?”

“So what do I lack?” Bethor snapped. “What secret strength do you need?”

A psychic pulse of pain from Drusang hit Bethor. His protective spells stopped the attack before it could harm him, but the message was clear. Silence was the order of the day.

“No need to intercede on my behalf, general,” the Dark Lord said softly. “I am happy to enlighten the foolish.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” the general apologized. “I failed to teach him respect.”

“Then it falls upon me to complete his education.” Lord Och locked eyes with Bethor. “Suppose you become my apprentice, young man. What then? What will you do with my knowledge?”

Bethor’s answer was obvious. “I will become the best battle mage Azlant has ever known.”

Bethor immediately knew he had answered wrong. He could see it written all over the Dark Lord’s face, even before he shrugged. “I see,” he said with heavy disappointment. “What about the rest of you?”

The young woman straightened up in shock. She hadn’t expected for the Dark Lord to even acknowledge her existence. She had cast healing spells to repair her nose and broken bones, but her face remained drenched in blood. “I…”

“Come on, don’t be shy,” the Dark Lord encouraged. “You cannot ridicule yourself more than the petulant child next to you.”

Bethor bit his tongue, but a glare from the general convinced him to shut his mouth.

His competitor cleared her throat. “I would honor the empire by pushing back the Derros into the depths of Underland,” she said, before delivering empty platitude. “Our civilization will never be safe so long as they threaten us.”

“Good, good, you remembered our propaganda. I am so proud.” The Dark Lord nodded mockingly. “And the real reason?”

This time, the woman said the truth. “I would take the Derros’ technology for our own.”

“Oh?”

“I know this might sound… seditious…” The woman hesitated a moment, until the Dark Lord silently encouraged her to speak up. “But Derrotech has achieved things that are currently impossible with our magic alone. We shun it and cling to the Blood, when it can’t do everything. But by combining our sorcery with Derrotech… I believe we could finally reconquer the surface. Perhaps even destroy the Whitemoon itself.”

“Very ambitious… and interesting. I am pleased to see youngsters with such vision.” Lord Och turned to the last member of the trio. “What of you?”

“With all due respect, my lord, the empire’s obsession with rewriting the past has caused us to forget and suppress important knowledge,” the mummy rasped with a deep bow. His ribs were broken, alongside one of his dusty arms, but he managed to look dignified all the same. “We know precious little of the Derros, of the Dokkars, and the extinct Pleromians.”

“We know how to kill them,” Lord Och mused. “Some would say that’s enough.”

“I politely disagree. The Pleromians ruled Underland for centuries, and yet they vanished without a trace.” The mummy marked a short pause, as if afraid the Dark Lord might smite him where he stood for his heretical words. “We have raised an empire on the tomb of a civilization that mysteriously went extinct without explanation. This is not a good thing.”

“Perhaps not,” Lord Och agreed. “So you would turn to the past for answers?”

“Yes. With your resources, I would uncover the mysteries of the civilizations that preceded us or coexist with us today. For how can we hope to survive tomorrow if we do not learn from yesterday’s mistakes?”

“Wise words indeed. Your insight does you credit.” The Dark Lord nodded at the answers appreciatively. “Here you have it, young Bethor. The secret strength you lack.”

“I do not understand,” Bethor replied in utter confusion. “How are their goals better than mine?”

“Because they fight for something greater than themselves. True, the girl’s spellcasting forms are subpar and my fellow undead is middling in the Blood… yet both persevered in the face of terrible odds. They were willing to endure pain to achieve their goal. But you…”

Valar Bethor felt a chill running down his spine. Where Drusang’s magic failed to bypass his defenses, the Dark Lord’s power seeped through them like poisonous gas through a wall. An unnatural cold grasped him, seized him, choked him. Bethor scratched his throat as his breath left his lungs.

“You possess talent denied to most and the work ethic needed to nurture your natural aptitude for violence… and you waste it on seeking cheers and acclaims. If a mere cut was enough to destabilize your fragile ego, what will happen when you face a true hurdle?”

Lord Och’s contemptuous words resonated inside Bethor’s very bones. His vision blurred from the lack of air. His magic no longer answered him.

“What will you do when faced with the wall of human ingratitude? When the glory you seek is denied to you? I seek apprentices with inner light, and all I see in your soul…” The Dark Lord locked eyes with Bethor, his gaze shining with cold twin stars of magic. “Is empty vanity.”

The words echo in Valar Bethor’s mind like shattered glass.

The Dark Lord released his hold on his captive. By the time Bethor fell on his hands and gasped for air, Lord Och was already walking away, his back turned. General Drusang watched him for a few seconds, before turning his cold gaze upon Bethor. The shame hurt as much as the psychic attack.

“Disappointing,” said the general.

Bethor touched his bloody cheek. His fingers trembled, before tightening into a furious fist.

From this encounter, I learned nothing.

But then…

Ash thickened the simmering air of Sabaoth.

The smell of sulfur flooded his nose as he walked through the dark caverns. Pools of bubbling magma cast a red light upon walls of asphalt stone and unblinking eyes of flesh. The heat made him sweat, yet he powered through. Neither fumes nor dust would stop him.

He walked all the way to a military choke point; the last before his target, or so he had been told. Six Knights of the Road protected the entrance into a larger cavern. Armor of the finest soulsteel protected them. They were alert, wary, and ready to defend the frontier of civilization with their lives. In this wild, unconquered Domain, the empire’s reach only extended as far as their blades could strike.

“Halt,” one of them said. Bethor stopped. He could force his way through if needed, but he would rather have an audience to report his achievement to. “Identify yourself.”

Bethor extended his right hand. The knight lightly cut his thumb with an obsidian dagger and harvested the crimson fluid on an emerald tablet. Words appeared on its surface, detailing Bethor’s military record.

“This is Valar Bethor,” the knight, whom Bethor assumed to be the leader, commented as he read. “Commander in the third legion.”

“At that age?” another asked, dumbfounded.

“There is no age to serve the empire,” Bethor replied.

“Yet you are far from your assigned area,” said the leader with suspicion. “What purpose do you have?”

Bethor examined the knight. He thought about lying about his knowledge, but decided he should gather information instead. “I’ve been told a dragon made his lair in the next cave.”

“You’ve heard correctly.” The knight leader straightened up, as if fearing the beast would fall upon them at any time. “That is why we couldn’t progress further in Sabaoth through these tunnels. The monster kills anything that wanders into its territory. Even the Derros dare not tread these ashen halls.”

“I have been tasked to do recon,” Bethor lied. “Leadership is looking for a new path to surprise the Derros.”

“There is none that is safe to travel, unless a Dark Lord will slay the beast for us. We’ve lost three hundred men to its hunger. Even driving the Derros into the dragon’s path is a perilous proposal.” The knight examined Bethor head to toe. “And why would the general send a commander on a recon mission?”

“He did not send a commander.” Bethor smiled with pride. “He sent me.”

The knight leader chuckled back. “Confident, are you? Well, I won’t stop you. But do not expect reinforcements if you wake up the beast. Our orders are to hold the area, nothing more.”

Bethor wondered if they might abandon their post once he told them how he had slain a dragon. “Any advice?”

“Do not make noise. And if it sees you…” The knight commander shook his head. “You better run as if your life depends on it. Because it will.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Bethor said without really meaning it. He questioned them about the location of the dragon’s lair and the presence of Derros nearby, before going on his way. They did not stop him. Nor did they expect to see him return alive.

He would surprise them all.

Who cared what the Dark Lord thought? Once Bethor became a dragonslayer, the old lich would have no other choice but admit his mistake. Even General Drusang would forgive his insubordination. Dragons were the greatest creatures in all of Underland. Their blood held miraculous properties, and their bones made for the finest weapons.

His journey led him to an oval cavern large enough to contain a city. Flames flickered on rivers of lava. Watching them streak the ground reminded Bethor of bloody veins, and the large fissures spewing fumes and sulfur of wrinkles. This place was ancient. Through the Blood, he sensed the presence of dusty bones under his heels. Wisps of pale gray smoke carried the smell of charbroiled corpses.

The stench of death led him to his target.

He felt the beast’s presence long before he reached its lair. The creature radiated power in the Blood. Its lifeforce was a lighthouse in the darkness. It was almost… oppressive. Bethor checked his defensive spells for the fifth time since he left his barrack. He knew he would prevail—he had to—but he wouldn’t underestimate the threat ahead. This would be a hard-fought victory.

At long last, he reached the cavern’s center, so far away from the outpost that Bethor doubted the knights would hear the battle. A colossal volcanic stone stood in the middle of a cracked, ashen plain. It loomed larger than any fortress Bethor had seen yet. A lava tube wide enough to let an army through occupied its foot. The tunnel within brightened from the light of flames in its depth.

The beast’s lair.

Bethor gathered his breath. First, he checked his protective spells. Then he sprayed the ground with blood, for the purpose of summoning reinforcements and distractions. Magical traps were set and a strategy was prepared.

At long last, when Bethor felt confident enough, he stood in front of the lava tube’s entrance and uttered his challenge.

“Come out, child of fire!” he shouted. “Come out to die!”

His voice echoed across the caverns of Sabaoth.

His plea went unanswered.

Bethor’s confusion turned to annoyance. Was the beast asleep? With a thought and the power of the Blood, he seized control of the bones in the ground. A tremor traveled down the earth in response. He heard an echo in the Blood, a stirring.

Bethor waited.

He waited a long time.

Then, when he thought he would have to drag the beast out of its lair by the tail, he noticed the sweat on his forehead.

“The heat…” he whispered.

The air grew warmer and the earth trembled. Soft tremors, first almost imperceptible, then strong enough to shake stone. The lava tube before Bethor brightened.

“Finally,” Bethor whispered as he adopted a fighting stance. “You have found your master…”

His last word trailed on as his stomach soured. The air wasn’t just simmering from the heat. It rippled. Space itself bent around Bethor. A presence in the Blood bent the very fabric of reality. He had never seen anything like this.

Two red eyes, each larger than him, glared back from within the lava tube.

Bethor couldn’t explain what happened. His entire body tensed. A voice as old as his species screamed at him to run, run, run. An instinct shaped by fear and generational trauma awakened in the depth of his soul. But Valar Bethor had gone too far to turn back now.

Yet as a colossal reptilian head emerged from the burning heart of Sabaoth, doubt seized him. A crown of horns sharper than spears hit the ceiling. Jet black wings unfurled to cloak the cave in their shadow. Fumes erupted from scales of volcanic stone. A maw wide enough to swallow a giant beetle opened to reveal rows of glistening fangs. The monster towered over Bethor like a man over a rat.

The beast of hell howled loud enough to wake up the damned.

I learned fear.

The dragon’s roar shook the cavern. Stones fell from the ceiling and the ground quaked beneath Bethor’s feet.

Battle instincts honed over countless drills and victories pushed him to take action. His skin turned to carbon steel, his flesh reinforced until no weapon could reach his bones. A dozen protective spells flared to shield him from harm.

Since a telekinetic push wouldn’t work on a creature so large, Bethor targeted the chinks in the beast’s armor. His hands fired a dozen homing bone bullets. His mouth opened to fire crystalized blood projectiles. They swirled across the air before targeting the dragon’s exposed eyes. Once the beast was blinded, Bethor would use his superior agility to run circles around it and—

They bounced off.

Bethor snapped back to reality as his projectiles bounced off the dragon’s eyes. Bone bullets strong enough to pierce through steel flattened on impact. Crystalized blood shattered with a rippling noise.

Only then did Bethor realize his mistake.

There was no chink in the armor, no frailty to exploit. This almighty creature, this ultimate predator honed to perfection through millions of years of relentless evolution, struck fear in all civilizations across Underland. If it had had a weakness, it would have gone extinct long ago.

Flames lit up in the dragon’s maw and a forked tongue licked its fangs. Realizing the danger, Bethor fought back. It was for naught. His traps created spikes that shattered upon hitting the dragon’s scales. His summoning circles fizzled out without summoning anything. The dragon’s spatial anomaly interfered with the Blood somehow.

The dragon widened his maw and light poured out.

For a brief instant, Bethor wondered if he was facing the sun spoken of in ancient legends. He had never witnessed such radiance. Searing flames brightened the world. The cavern, the dragon, Bethor’s hands, all of them vanished in the brilliant glow. Their heat incinerated his clothes and collapsed all his defenses. The flames swallowed Bethor.

And then…

Then I learned pain.

No word could describe his baptism of fire.

Bethor’s steel-hard skin was peeled like a fruit. The flesh underneath melted from the heat before the flames could even devour it. His eyes boiled within his skull; blood turned to ashen smoke. Organs crisped in his chest. His hair, and his handsome face, was ripped away to reveal the bones underneath.

Without the Blood, without his countless defenses and reinforced body, Bethor would have been incinerated in an instant. It would have been more merciful. His outer nerves were burned to a crisp, yet he kept suffering. Every inch of his body, every drop of blood, every bone went through utter agony. He was stabbed and beaten and broken and butchered. Every form of pain known to the brain struck him at once.

When he screamed, smoke flowed out of his lungs instead of air.

The pain of the soul echoed with that of the body. The flames stripped away Bethor’s delusions as easily as his skin. His achievements were blasted away. His pride and ambitions were burned to ashes. His illusions of greatness were shattered.

He was no future master of Underland.

He was prey.

He couldn’t tell how long the baptism of fire lasted. One second? Five? Ten? It didn’t matter. To Valar Bethor, the pain lasted a lifetime. His mind broke along with his bones.

When the flames receded, he couldn’t see through his eyes nor sense the world through his skinless touch. Only his fading connection to the Blood allowed him to visualize the world around him. His fading magic let him witness the dragon tossing his roasted flesh into a fissure. Bethor sensed the eyes of Underland gazing at him from all sides. They watched his agony with utter indifference. Why wouldn’t they? The fissure was a tomb filled with the bones of his predecessors.

The dragon glanced over Bethor’s future grave. The frightened, dying sorcerer sensed its gaze… and how he looked to the dragon.

A flea.

Annoying enough to sweep aside, but too small to remember.

Did Bethor look like this to his rivals? Did they feel as he did now?

Bethor sensed the dragon turning around through the Blood. The beast could have picked him out of the fissure to devour him, but he wasn’t worth the effort. The dragon retreated back into his lair, leaving Bethor alone to suffer.

Alone with the dead.

But most importantly…

I learned humility.

From the tomb of Valar the Vain, a new creature crawled out.

It was a pitiful thing. A blind, deaf, skinless lump of boiled flesh in the rough shape of a humanoid. His fuming blood heated his body so much, that not even flies would dine on him. The handsome, proud battle mage had become a charred corpse that stubbornly refused to pass on.

Valar Bethor should have died. Maybe he was dead. His lungs breathed smoke and his brain had boiled, yet his black heart kept beating in his charbroiled chest. The Blood demanded a healthy body to produce magic, but willpower mattered just as much. Valar Bethor’s prodigious magic kept his body ‘alive,’ or what could pass for it. It forced his broken arms to pull his body. It kept his flesh from falling off his bones. It prevented his soul from leaving his carcass.

He wasn’t undead either, no. His fate was worse. He was a living being kept on the threshold of death’s door. Hours had passed since the baptism by fire. To him, they lasted a century.

Valar Bethor couldn’t sleep. His magic would fail him the moment his resolve faltered. He needed to remain awake through the pain if he were to have even the slightest chance of surviving back to safety.

But…

Should he?

Only disgrace awaited him in Azlant. The dishonor of abandoning his post on a foolish quest. The shame of failing so utterly. The Dark Lord had been proved correct in his scorn, and General Drusang would not forgive failure. No biomancer would nurse Bethor back to health. At best he would be turned into a mindless undead sent to the frontlines. At worst, he would be buried and forgotten. The Light’s grace was denied to him, as were the honors he once sought.

Wouldn’t it be better for the pain to end? To just let himself perish among the ashes, on his own terms?

…

No.

No…

No!

“Not yet…” Bethor growled. Not while the dragon yet lived. “Not yet…”

Unyielding rage filled Bethor’s heart. An anger pure enough to dull even the harshest pain. The Blood echoed his seething fury. Where the body failed, the spirit remained undying. His magic found a fertile new wellspring of power.

Bethor drank the milk of hatred like a thirsty man in a lifeless tunnel. The fire inside his heart burned hotter than the dragon’s flames. His thoughts coiled around this wrathful lantern as it banished the cloud of despair troubling his mind. His hatred gave him focus. The Blood, so well-fed, allowed his spirit to cling to his cooked flesh. And Valar Bethor hated so many things.

Hate for the dragon, for melting his flesh.

Hate for the eyes, for witnessing his shame.

And most bitter of all, hate for his own weakness. Hate for his foolishness. Hate for his misplaced pride. The flames had burned away everything else. The pride, the fear, the hopes and dreams… naught but embers remained.

Valar Bethor was simply too angry to die.

He would not perish here on this foreign land, forsaken by the living and the dead, broken and defeated. He refused to die. He would shoulder the pain and the shame and the flames, but he would crawl his way back to civilization. He would lick his wounds and kill and train. Then one day… he would return to this place and repay the dragon’s lesson. Fire for blood, death for life.

Not for glory. Not for the empire. Not for a Dark Lord’s praise.

For himself.

And so, Valar Bethor crawled across the ashen plains, with a broken body and newfound resolve.

And finally…

I learned to live.

PS: Hi guys, this story has been released at the same time as Underland's first volume on Kindle and Audible.

As I've said many times, it's my hope that the book finds more success on Amazon than RR. The more support its gets there, the better. So please, if you've appreciated this side-story and enjoyed reading Underland on RR, I implore you to leave a review. All of them are appreciated!