POV Ile’Fen, High Spirit of Conflict

  The final blow dealt against the Drowning Dark was cataclysmic, sending plumes of dirt and rock skyward as the subterranean labyrinth was sundered to its bones. Ile’Fen felt the sudden diminishment of conflict like a weight being lifted from tired shoulders. The relief and the loss were hard to explain, with the former coming from the end of demands for power, and the latter coming from the forthcoming supply of that power. A lesser spirit would describe the feeling as painful, but Ile’Fen was old and well entrenched within his power. To him, the whiplash effect of his domain was an old friend.

  He reflected, as he watched his two High Marshals begin the clean-up efforts, that perhaps it was his own faith that made such a state endurable.

  What would my marshals think if they ever heard me say such a thing?

  Ile’Fen scoffed at the thought, but it was true. Everything he did, he did for his faith. The management of conflict was a worthy endeavor, an endeavor that those before him had squandered. Some had feared the backlash too much and engaged ceaselessly in conflict to the point that they had lowered themselves to being mere spirits of war. Some had feared the outcomes of conflict too much and had become spirits of peace instead, endlessly attempting to settle disputes before they happened.

  Only by embracing both sides of the coin could you truly call yourself a spirit of conflict. Ile’Fen had done so, embracing the beginning and end of conflict, enduring both so that he could be a worthy servant of his creator. He would not allow for a situation where The Maker was forced to intervene again. He still remembered The Sanctions he had imposed upon the Fae lords who had been abusing their power.

  He turned his attention to the far north territories and the corruption that blazed there. The conflict in the wastes was never-ending, and it was getting harder to keep himself balanced. His gaze turned to where his nephew resided, just a measly 50 miles south of the larger conflict, and he smiled in spite of himself. His nephew’s territory was small, but the delight it gave him was great and helped to settle the High Spirit’s mind.

  Where the little dungeon had once been a simple experiment, now he was a source of endless amusement and balance. Despite the convoluted way he had built his Dungeon, the conflict there was endless but always brief. Like a staccato of whiplashes, the conflicts of the creatures there helped to offset the growing miasma in the north. It wasn’t much, to be honest. Ile’Fen was so great and his influence so spread out that one little corner of the world shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

  Perhaps it was the Divine nature of his nephew that helped it matter more, but the tiny conflicts of his realm helped Ile’Fen center himself, keep the delicate balance of conflict alive and well. The great spirit left the remains of the Drowning Dark, after giving blessings to those who had gathered to destroy its darkness, and left for the north. He was there almost instantaneously, the spiritual membrane of the world allowing him access wherever his domain was celebrated. There he stood, unseen, and witnessed the coming destruction. Legion upon legion of twisted creatures assaulted a wall of golden light that guarded the northern peninsula. Fashioned from the collective divinities of the High Spirits, it was the most powerful Working they had ever attempted.

  It was breaking down. The interior of the northern wastes could be seen through the barrier, and miasma coated every square inch. Everything there fought, lived, and died under the smog of its embrace. Those twisted creatures were not the true enemy, however. Their attacks on the wall, while many, were not the source of the constant conflict within Ile’Fen’s domain or for the intense degradation of the wall itself. No, it was the slumbering Fallen Spirits dwelling within the wastes that tore at the wall’s integrity. They were The Sanctioned, and even in their sleep, they fought the will of The Maker.

  Ile’Fen’s great mind turned over the council’s plan in his head. He didn’t know what the future held, but he knew that it would be years yet before the wall fell. They had time, but in the lifespan of an immortal, a few years was like the life and death of a fruit fly. Such a thought brought another smile to Ile’Fen’s lips. He turned back toward his nephew’s territory and pondered a new idea.

  We live our lives by the count of centuries, but he does not. A few years is such a small amount of time. But perhaps Valterra, who lives within such time frames, will truly be the solution we wished for but could not see with our view of centuries. Perhaps.

  He let the thought circle within his mind before turning again to the wall. He had no time to investigate the exact goings-on within his nephew’s territory. He summoned his power and pushed Aether and Divine Potential into the barrier, strengthening it as best he could. There was only so much that could be done. The wall would break eventually, and Ile’Fen could only hope that the council’s plans would come to fruition in time.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  POV The Figure

  Cloaked in darkness, a figure made its way down dark stone steps. Wary eyes panned over ancient stone, choked with thorns and ivy. There was a stench that wouldn’t go away, a low fog that wouldn’t disperse, and a black ichor that stained pieces of broken statues. With a low growl, the figure moved on, keeping his distance from the stains and moving deeper into the structure, buried deep within the ground. It had taken no small amount of effort to get here, and the skulking figure wanted to be done and away before his involvement would be known.

  Deeper he went, down stairs slick with an indefinable wetness, past broken vistas of former opulence now choked and broken, and finally arriving at the place he sought. Rising up in a cavern of stone, the ziggurat was like a beautiful cracked vase. Former glory was etched into the sides, but it was a sundered structure with a massive split running the length of the building from top to bottom. It was into the base of this crack that the figure scurried, sensing the end of his mission. As soon as he stepped in, he shuddered with a measure of relief and revulsion.

  There was power here, ancient in the ways of his people, but etched deep into their psyches to the point where he recoiled. But still, the deep recesses of the ziggurat called him into their depths, and he obeyed the unconscious instinct. He delved deeper into the ancient structure's bowels and eventually entered the place of calling. A portal, dark and foreboding, spilled fog from its inky shadows, and the figure made his way hesitantly into the space. A rumble from the portal caused him to lurch as power and presence seeped from the portal to latch onto the figure’s insides.

  Power twisted and rippled, and the figure fell to the ground, screaming in agony as suddenly his racial psyche remembered. Remembered the pain and the depth of destruction visited by this presence upon his people.

  SILENCE

  The voice that was not a voice clamped down on the figure’s vocal cords, strangling the sounds of his agony. The pain ceased after a long moment, but an ache remained, and the figure knew instinctively that the ache would remain indefinitely.

  GET UP

  Whimpering, the figure rose from his fallen position to stumble to his feet, looking toward the portal. The calling he had felt, the one that drew him here, demanded he listen. He hated the call at that moment, hated what it had done to him. There was a dark chuckle from the portal, and pain sent the figure to his knees.

  YOU WILL OBEY OR YOU WILL DIE, AND I WILL FIND ANOTHER

  CHOOSE

  Regardless of whatever else he was, the figure was a survivor. Death was the one foe he would never be able to escape if it came. There was a shaky nod, and the figure flinched as the presence shoved information into his mind. There were a couple of locations and several orders, places to go, an army to gather, and a singular objective. Destroy a thing and bring it back to the portal. Back to his new master. Back to Absolith of the Fallen.

  POV Natalia Talios

  Natalia sighed, even as her mace blasted into a charging boar, sending the beast squealing through the air. She risked a look over at Boris, finding their battlemage’s face twisted in concentration. It was obvious he was having just as much luck solving the issue of getting them inside the dome of wards as he had the last week or so. That was to say none.

  She was in the process of braining another beast in the head when Boris yelped in surprise—literally yelped. Each member of their party whipped around to find their mage staring into the air, like he was dazed. A System message, it had to be. “What is it?” she said, batting her way to her cousin and shaking his shoulder.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Boris mumbled. “A fully integrated title.” He hissed, the sound like a whistling of a tea kettle, and his gaze met Natalia’s. “It's divine!”

  She blinked, letting his words wash over her. She turned and slapped her hand on the barrier, ignoring her cousin’s startled protest. The System unfurled before her naturally.

  Attention to all who would enter! You are about to enter the divine domain of Valterra Unok’Davaas, the Playground of the Gods. In order to enter, you must agree to come under the effect of his title: Transcendent Tiny Dungeon. You and everything you own will be shrunk to 1/24th of its total size. Your power will remain by the Authority of the ruling deity to better test yourselves and his dungeon. Do you accept?

  Y/N

  She turned to find the rest of her team looking at her, hands already placed on the barrier. While a few looked a little concerned, each one met her gaze with a smile. Korim’s was especially bright.

  “Ready for an adventure?” He asked, eyes twinkling.

  “I’m not!” Aliria stated dryly, causing the group to laugh, including Natalia.

  “Thank you,” she said, looking at each one in turn. “Let’s see what this, Valterra, has for us.”

  Each one accepted, and the group disappeared from outside the barrier. They weren’t the only ones, either. Numerous creatures began to claw, poke, or nose at the barrier, only to pop from existence. Soon, the area outside the clearing was bereft of the host of various beasts that had sought entrance for months. The dungeon of Valterra Unok’Davaas was open to visitors.

  Welcome to my home, Natalia Talios.

  End of Book 2