can't believe my eyes-
how can you be so blind?
is the heart of stone, no empathy inside?

(within temptation, our solemn hour)

Once again, a cold and lonely night fell on Castle Dragonspyre. Malistaire sat in the throne-room, with Zarathax and a few of his more-intelligent henchmen, trying to figure out a way to combine spells— Beguile and Sacrifice, in particular— to restore Shadowsong's life and keep her under his control.

"No offenssssse," Zarathax hissed calmly, sharpening one of his claws on a nearby slab of marble. "But this whole plan seems a bit ridiculoussss. Killing the girl was the entire reason for keeping her here, was it not? So why not just leave her to the ravages of eversleep?"

Malistaire sighed, resisting the urge to clock him. Zarathax and the wraiths wouldn't understand how important it was, that they revive her, and he'd be laughed out of the Spiral, if he told them why. His henchmen were simple creatures; how could he ever expect them to understand something as complex as the madness of love—the kind that wizards killed each other over? He hadn't given much thought to that part, but winning Shadowsong's affections would likely entail a great deal of bloodshed— especially since her loyalties lay with his nemesis. Nonetheless, he was prepared to fight Alhazred— and perhaps the entire Order— for her, and what a fight it would be!

"It's just that… I have uses for her, you see. But that's none of your business— just figure out how to combine the enchantments, and leave the girl to me."

With that, he left them to their plotting and went to fetch Shadowsong's body from its place in his secret underground lair. No one knew of its existence, except her— he didn't trust his own minions to keep its location a secret, and yet he had told her everything, knowing full-well that she'd likely disclose it all to her master. Rather, that's what she would have done, had she survived the loss of her soul.

That will change, soon enough. In time, she'll breathe again… and her soul will be mine.

As with any spell, of course, there was a slight chance that it would fail— she could go rogue, steal his powers or, worst-case scenario, be completely immune to the effects. The last two options were highly unlikely, as necromancy was a more-evolved form of magic than basic sorcery, but Shadowsong was full of surprises, constantly pulling new tricks from her seemingly-endless repertoire. Unlike his own abilities, the scope of her power knew no boundaries, and it both intrigued and terrified him at once.

Moments later, he arrived in his secret room, where Shadowsong's body lay atop the wyrm-crowned bed. Even in death, she looked alive; her lips were still red, soft and plump against the luminescent backdrop of her skin— perhaps she had merely feigned sleep, to avoid what she knew was coming. But she remained cold and motionless, like a marble statuette— her eyes had lost their sparkle, and the sight was almost soul-crushing. Rather, it would have been, if he'd had a soul.

Just then, he had an idea. If he was the master of death, then why couldn't he just combine the spells himself? He didn't trust the minions to do it properly— they were too stupid to figure out the right combination of runes and such. If he wanted it done right, he'd have to take matters into his own hands.

And why shouldn't I? They don't call me the Necromaster for nothing, after all.

He leaned over and brushed a strand of dark hair from her face, studying her intently for a moment before planting a cold kiss on her forehead. He could bring her back, if he tried hard enough—casting Beguile would bind them, and he could finally claim her as his own. Yes, it could end badly… losing his magical abilities would be less than ideal, but still preferable to an eternity of loneliness.

Free her soul from the bondage of time and space— cast out the shadows of death, and restore to life the one who sleepeth eternal.

A few moments passed, with no indication that the plan had worked. Malistaire sighed, and was just beginning to worry that he'd gotten the words wrong when, all of a sudden, an eerie, grey light settled over the room. Shadowsong suddenly sat up straight— her eyes glowed red, like a Chimera's death-stare, and her head swivelled toward him in an otherworldly fashion.

"Kill," she hissed, with the fervour of a woman possessed. "Kill the Master."

So it had worked, after all! He had beaten the nearly-impossible odds, but it was still too early to call it a victory. "Good girl," he whispered back, and gently caressed her cheek before he took her hand and led her to the other side of the room, where a statue of a Krok adorned the otherwise-empty shelf. "Now, tell me… What does this remind you of?"

"Alhazred, the Master."

"Right," Malistaire continued, clasping her shoulders tightly— he could feel the blood pumping through her veins, restless and hungry for revenge, and it made him delirious. "And what did Alhazred do to you, my love?"

"He betrayed me."

"So, what are you going to do about it? Kill him?"

Shadowsong eyed him strangely, her face taking on a lifeless grey colour. "Why, of course," she replied, slowly and mechanically. "I want them all dead."

Satisfied, he let go of her and quickly cast a Death aura over them. Victory was so close, now that he'd successfully corrupted Alhazred's apprentice— much to the chagrin of his human side. But she was his, and no one would ever come between them again.

"Now," he instructed. "Think about how you plan to destroy them—imagine yourself delivering the final blow as they fall to the ground, writhing like snakes in a lava-pit. Embrace the storm, my dear—grasp it, breathe it; let it hold you in its arms!"

Shadowsong's eyes closed and her body went limp, but she remained upright, held in place by the greyish beams emanating from his staff. But it wasn't over yet. "Embrace it," he commanded, concentrating all of his energy on breaking through her weakened consciousness. "Become the destruction you wish to inflict!"

At that moment, the Krok statue exploded into a million tiny pieces. Shadowsong slumped to the ground, completely drained of life once more, and Malistaire smirked horribly to himself. "Yes," he murmured aloud, marveling at his own sadistic genius. "This is just the beginning— Wizard City will fall, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. The Order will perish in the flames of death, and they'll never know—"

That you and I were one.