The Prologue: Tark's Soul
"Master... Master Tseldora?"
The Duke spun on his heels, imposing a glare of irritation upon Manscorpion Tark. "What is it?"
Tark withdrew for a moment, scalded by his master's fury. But, strong as he always tried to be, he soon regained his composure. "Master... can you please let her go for today?"
The Duke's eyebrows furrowed, and hot, gaseous lava simmered behind his pupils. "I beg your pardon?!"
Tark swallowed his fear, and pressed on. "My darling... she has less tolerance of the pain. Every coming night now she is ever the more distant from me. I'm afraid... sire."
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid that one day the woman I love will go into that chamber, and never come out again."
The Duke was seething with rage, unable to comprehend such a petty concept as love or compassion. Such futile and banal emotions surpassed his intellect completely. "So, what do you ask of me?"
Feeling his gut swimming with acidic butterflies, Tark proceeded. "Let me take her place. Give her peace. I beg of thee."
The Duke of Tseldora froze, his body more rigid than crystal. Then, he threw his head back, and laughed. The sound of his sadistic pleasure was like a knife in Tark's heart. Every second that it persisted, Tseldora's fingers were on the hilt, thrusting it deeper inside.
But as abruptly as it had begun, the laughter stopped. Tseldora breathed deeply, and looked upon his creation with something approaching reverence.
"You are strong, Tark. But you do not possess the raw potential for sorcery like Najka does. Magical inheritance... is something I cannot yet graft to my creations. But at one time... long, long ago..."
Tseldora paused, as though lost in the field of his memory. "...I was so very close."
Suddenly, he was yanked back from his nostalgia like a fishing line withdrawn. His eyes, previously glazed over with a milky glass, were now focused, and piercing into Tark like spears.
"I must make up for lost time now. There is much to do, and little time."
Tark waited for Tseldora to elaborate. He did not.
"You may go now, Tark," he told the Manscorpion. His words connoted an element of freedom, but the vicious tone of his voice told otherwise - it was a command, not an offer.
Tark bowed. "Yes, my master."
As he began to scuttle away, Tseldora spoke again, freezing him in his tracks.
"Here, we are the architects of miracles, Tark. There are no gods, save the ones that we make for ourselves."
The true malice of the Duke's words bounced off of naive Tark. As if in response to its creator's dulcet tones, a creature in a nearby cage twisted as though in agony and roared vehemently, filling the room with a scorching yellow light.
The Duke continued, a sly arrogance creeping into his viscous tones. "And we're only just beginning..."