The air in Oscar's cell hung heavy with failure. He had accepted his fate when the shadows consumed him, his spirit as cold as the despair gripping the Elven realm. Their hubris had been colossal. They had summoned a being of darkness under the guise of light, believing the scriptures of the MagalaN's inherent goodness. But had they instead twisted reality itself, unleashing the very shadow they sought to destroy?
The world around him shifted. In an instant, he stood within a chamber of chilling grandeur. Obsidian walls shimmered with a malevolent glow. A colossal dragon skull—its jaws frozen in a silent roar—formed a throne fit for a god of ruin. Skulls of men, elves, dwarves, orcs, and worse littered the floor in grotesque tribute.
On that throne sat the MagalaN. Cloaked in shadows, only his burning eyes pierced the gloom—twin embers of chaos.
"Oh Light," Oscar whispered, horror trembling in his voice. "What have we unleashed?"
Beside the Dark Lord, a woman lay with her head in his lap, raven hair spilling like ink. She was beauty made flesh, and when he bent to kiss her, the tenderness of it defied the terror radiating from him. Then she dissolved into the shadows, vanishing as though she had never been.
The Dark Lord's gaze fixed on Oscar. A chair materialized beside the throne.
"Sit."
Oscar obeyed, though his legs trembled.
"I trust Puff has tended to your needs? Are you well-fed?" the Dark Lord asked, voice a low rumble, calm yet perilous.
"Yes, Dark Lord," Oscar stammered.
The Dark Lord leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Why did you summon me here?"
Oscar swallowed. "Our realm is at war with the Demons. Our warriors are dying. We sought a champion—a MagalaN of legend, born of light. We… made a mistake. We brought a Demon Lord instead."
The Dark Lord's gaze sharpened. "And if you sought a champion, why bind him in the Thorns of Ra?"
Oscar flinched. "It was… a safeguard. A measure of control."
"Control." The word cracked like a whip. "You would chain a savior before knowing whether he was foe or friend?"
Oscar faltered. "We were right," he whispered. "You are no savior. You are a Demon Lord."
The Dark Lord's smile curved, cold and amused. "And who decides what I am? Tell me, sorcerer—can a Demon Lord not also be a MagalaN?"
The question struck like a blade. Oscar's faith wavered. If the world's lines of light and shadow could blur… what else had they been wrong about?
The Dark Lord rose slightly, the throne room trembling with him. "You judged me before you understood me. Yet you will learn. I will build my kingdom in this realm. Armies will march to destroy me. Many will fall—some guilty, some innocent. I will need a voice to speak for the innocent."
Oscar's heart lurched. "You… want me to advise you?"
"I require an advisor," the Dark Lord said, each word deliberate. "A voice for the Elves. I will not always heed your counsel—but I will hear it."
The offer dug into Oscar like hooks. Advisor. Influence. A chance to guide the storm rather than be crushed by it.
"And my freedom?" he asked carefully.
The Dark Lord's tone softened, though his eyes remained unyielding. "I will release my captives. Fear serves me better than chains. They will be free, yet silent—bound not by obedience, but terror."
He leaned closer, his voice velvet over iron.
"As for you: serve me, and you may come and go from my domain. You will earn twice your former salary. A guardian will accompany you—protector, and reminder of the Thorns of Ra."
Oscar's breath caught. The chains of his cell felt lighter already. To walk free. To speak in council. To shape the fate of the world from the side of the most powerful being alive.
"I will not force you," the Dark Lord said at last. "Consider it. Choose wisely."
With a snap of his fingers, Oscar was back in his cell. But it no longer felt the same. The walls pressed close, yes, yet beneath the fear simmered something more dangerous.
Temptation.
To advise the Dark Lord was to betray his people. But to refuse him… was to unleash chaos without any possibility of order.
And for the first time, Oscar felt the faint, terrible pull of ambition.