At the very back of the vault was an altar of pure crystal. Crouched atop it was an enormous onyx spider, lit from below by that eerie purple luminescence. The arachnid’s bulbous body had been carved in incredible detail: a thousand tiny spikes, thin as obsidian glass, jutted from its abdomen, creating the illusion of hairy bristles. These spikes also adorned the spider’s sharp-jointed limbs, making the legs look more like deadly weapons than mere appendages.
The spider was frozen in a threatening position, rearing up on its two back pairs of legs. Its two front pairs, as well as its pedipalps—those extra half-legs in front of its mouth—were curled almost protectively in front of its body; it looked as though they’d been grasping something, but the ends of each appendage were rough and blunted, as though they’d been melted away by something corrosive. I swallowed hard and finally let my gaze travel down to the floor.
At the foot of the crystal altar lay a gem. Scuffs in the dirt and dust told the tale of its short journey; after dropping free of the spider’s grip, the gem had hit the ground and rolled, coming to rest a couple of feet away from the altar.
It fit perfectly in my palm, and closing my fingers around its cold hardness felt as natural as breathing.
Fifty-Three
Disciple
Zerin
The next few minutes were a blur. One moment I was noticing the runes engraved in the floor—they looked to have encircled the altar, though the gem had corroded the runes beneath it. The next moment, without moving, I was yanked into the presence of something depthless, ageless—godlike—of which I remembered little afterwards except a sense of tremendous physical pressure, as if I’d been transported to the rocky bed of an ocean trench.
I think terror made me pass out for a few seconds, though I’d never actually admitted that part; Khazla would have rolled her eyes, and Draykon would simply have laughed in that genial way of his.
But when they dragged me out of that vault, they too sensed something otherworldly emanating from the gem clutched in my hand. By that time the other acolytes had gotten bored of their bullying and wandered off, but the three of us huddled there, me whispering to them of what I’d seen, what I’d felt, while the vault sealed itself behind me once more with an echoing thud.
The gem—a Core, I found out later—hadn’t spoken to me directly at first. Even still, I could sense the desires of the being trapped inside, and found myself increasingly eager to fulfill them. The Core—the beautiful Core—was weak, and my own personal devotion could only carry it so far. It needed to grow in power to achieve its full potential—and to help me achieve mine, I sensed—and for that, it needed followers.
The longer I served Melakor, the stronger his voice in my mind became, and the more my own capacity and desire to lead others flourished. Gone was the meek, angry night elf youth; in his place was an adult in control of his own destiny. Naturally, Khazla and Draykon had been the first acolytes I’d recruited. More followed; our secret cult flourished like magmashrooms in a volcano, and Melakor and I along with it.
We called ourselves the Zhintar, which meant ‘Hand of Righteousness’ in the ancient Vrakon tongue. At least, I was pretty sure it did. I was never particularly good at either languages or history, no matter how many fancy tutors my family hired in those early years. Still, the name sounded appropriate, and Melakor had raised no objections. His power had spread, fueled by the sacrifices his growing number of disciples provided.
And now, we were finally outside the manse of the Temple of Arachnia’s high priest, preparing to initiate the final stage of Melakor’s plan. By the end of this night, he and I would become one. He would inhabit living flesh once more, and I would share in his godliness. The Zhintar would no longer be a shady cult, but Uldrazir’s new religion, open to all.
I felt a surge of pride as I recalled my part in it all.
I brought us to this point. And soon we’ll all be rewarded.
“We’re doing the right thing. I’m sure,” I told Khazla, who had remained hovering uncertainly beside the door, while my mind wandered the tunnels of memory. When her frown didn’t abate, I added, “Do you trust me?”
“No,” she answered. “I don’t even like you.” But her lips twitched in what was almost a smile, just for a moment. Then her face grew hard again. “But I dislike Rylviari even more.”
“Exactly. Whatever happens to him, he deserves far worse.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s us. What if something goes wrong? And why does Melakor even need Rylviari, anyway?”
I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, much as Draykon had done to me. She shrugged it off with a scowl. I put it back again, gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then withdrew my hand before she could break my fingers. “Everything is going to plan,” I told her. “If there are any witnesses, we’ll silence them. And I don’t know why Melakor needs the high priest’s blood, but I for one would much rather see it on the outside of his body than in his veins. Can we agree on that at least?”
She narrowed her eyes, and finally gave a short nod. I gestured to the empty doorway. “Shall we?”
Khazla gave a mocking bow. “After you, master.”
The high priest took to being abducted about as well as an octopus might take to being set on fire. After several minutes of him continuing to scream muffled profanities through the gag we’d stuffed into his surprisingly foul mouth, Draykon finally snapped, and thumped him on the head with the silver pommel of his dagger.
“What did you do that for?” I asked through gritted teeth, checking if Rylviari
