He felt more alive than ever, and yet, deader than before. The deadness held within, forming an ever growing chasm; an increasing void that could not be filled by any power he possessed. It had been the place of innocence, murdered when he had accepted his heritage.

Turning from his dark thoughts, he scorned the melancholy; it was useless to mourn, and foolish to dwell on the past. He could never change things, only alter the future, perhaps. Yeslick had been right, and his axe should have slain him… but he had never stood a chance. Unable to will himself to turn his blade on himself, the knowledge that there were others such as him out there had stilled his thought long before he had ever reached with his hand.

He was alone now, truly. The dwarf had not lied; Natasha, what had remained of her, was gone, as dead as Davaeron, as dead as Yeslick… as dead as the hole within her last master. He had led her to her death; she had been on borrowed time even before she had laid eyes upon him. Redemption had been denied to her.

Standing within Davaeron's library, he considered the extent of the damage; the wreckage he had caused within her mind, reducing her to a childlike state. Briefly, he had wondered if he could restore her, perhaps turn the very life-essence he had drained into life-giving, using the source to restore as it had restored him. But it was too late; she was gone, and while he might pull her spirit back from the nether, had he the power to restore her mortal body? It had been badly damaged, broken beyond all mortal repair… and yet, he carried the essence of a god within.

It was her mind, however, that concerned him the most; he had fractured it, shattered it: what he had wrought had caused it to splinter into fragments as readily as if he had taken a hammer to a vase. He had used too much of his power; a cord no thicker than half a finger and yet, it had broken her. What had remained was but a shadow; what he had commanded of her 'as before' was nothing more than an echo of her ghost. But even had she survived, he questioned, could he have released her? Not in such a state; perhaps it was a mercy she had fallen. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

With each use, every time he exercised his divine essence, he was taking another step down this path… and only darkness awaited him. The taint was strong, almost too strong, always willing him further down… waiting for a chance to consume him. So far, he had resisted, but his control was slipping. All he had achieved was to turn a sentient being into a living weapon; a weapon that fought – and died – for him. Yet, what was the real difference between her and him? He was the stronger.

His thoughts turned to Yeslick. He had left the dwarf where he had fallen, in the middle of the hall. When this place was sunk, the waters would eventually dispose of the bodies. Yet, part of him questioned the need; would it be of benefit to keep the mine open, but to operate it from under the Fist's control? Had they the manpower? Nashkel would slowly renew the region's iron, yet, there were crates and crates stockpiled here. Enough to provide for a small city! Yet to leave such a treasure unguarded… he could collapse the entrance, as he had vowed to Yeslick.

And then there were the surviving miners… if they ventured down here, he might have to wade through a field of corpses anew. Current market value aside, there was enough wealth down here to spark off a riot. The books alone… he perused the shelves. Black sorcery, necromancy… infernal, foul magicks; rituals and pacts. The knowledge contained within was dark and dangerous, and yet, not all of it was wicked. How had Davaeron fallen so easily? He must have studied these tomes… yet, for all that, he had been caught off-guard, taken unawares – he glanced around; no, he was still alone. It was nothing. – and he had procured the archmage's spellbook. It would be his most prized possession, containing forbidden knowledge within; knowledge he might never acquire elsewhere…

He leafed through a couple of pages, eyes drawn to the arcane symbols. There was power in this tome. He knew better than to read it aloud, and yet, as he traced one such symbol with his finger, he knew he could master it. The power contained within could be his, bound to his will, bound to serve him. He need not learn or even exercise every spell, but knowledge of such dark arts was its own defence… he seized it.

Of equal importance, and perhaps value, were the letters he had found. Contained within Davaeron's personal chest, they revealed his plans, but more importantly, his masters. A link to his employers, the same organisation that controlled the bandit camp. The Iron Throne.

Other books, he gathered also; ingredients, components used within ritual dark and foul… all this, he gathered and placed within pouches, placed within his satchel. He could not take all the books, for even with magic, it was impossible to transport an entire library upon one's person… yet the rarer, most prized tomes he claimed.

To see three walls, separated by two shelves, all as high as his head lost saddened him in a way he could not explain. Perhaps it was his roots, his origin… the tomes reminded him of 'home'; no, he corrected himself, the place he grew up in was no more home than here. His childhood was lost, taken from him before he had drawn his first breath; it had been an illusion, a dream, like so much else he had believed and held true.

He examined the pommel of his now-clean blade, and glanced around at the amassed tomes; knowledge had forged his blade, and with this knowledge gained, his blade would cut through far more than this. He strode from the chamber and did not look back.

Out within the hallway, beyond Davaeron's personal chambers, he paused over the corpses again. In her hand, the creature that was Natasha still clutched the wickedly curved blade she had adored so much. For a moment, he was tempted to take it. About to leave it, a voice chided as he stepped half-way he would require such a blade, stained with the blood of others. He was, after all, it mockingly reminded, intending to study the darker arts. Such things would require sacrifice… be it of himself, or of others… and he wouldn't want to taint his pretty little elfin blade, now would he? He stepped over it, and walked on, chilling laughter echoing in his wake.

Whimpering caught his attention; hunched in the corner, a figure stood trembling. He had almost forgotten; Stephen. Wide-eyed, the boy pleaded silently with him, imploring him as he begged for his life; it was written across him as clearly as if it were spelt out in the sky in fire.

The voice within mockingly inquired if he intended to murder this young lad too; or would he show mercy, nobility, and allow the liability to live. Scorn etched its words and angrily, he snapped with a coldness not his own, "You'll live out your life as a commoner; a peasant, keeping far from the ranks of merchants. You will go and live within a village, settle deep within the Swordcoast and tell no one of your origins, or your connections here. Is there anyone you care for?"

Stammering, the boy sheepishly admitted there was a servant girl he liked and who liked him. She served with the cook.

It was likely the girl from earlier, he realised, "Take her, and go. Leave this place and make no mention of it: your very life depends upon it. Should you be connected with the traitors here…" He watched as the realisation sunk in, "you shall be called one day. I expect you to be waiting for that call. My mercy does not come without cost. There is a price and your obedience is but part of it; you may live out your life, begin a family, but you, or your descendants will answer this, my call, and when it comes, you shall serve me. It may be tomorrow, or it may be next year; it may be within their lifetimes, but they are not to forget it. You are not to forget it. This is the oath I require for your life."

His eyes flickered; he did not have to mention the consequences should the boy refuse. "Hold out your hand." The elfin dagger flicked out and scored across the boy's palm, and then his own. "Your bloodoath."

He received it with apathy; the chills that ran down the boy's spine meant nothing as he clasped hands with him and felt the essence within himself bind the oath. "What magic is this? What manner of sorcery –?" Stephan gaped, as he felt the binding take hold. He turned without smiling, "Pray you never know."

Within him, the voice's laughter echoed.

As Stephan scurried past him, the sick realisation set in: he had just bound another life to him. Had it been worth the cost? Yet a gaes was the only way of insuring his silence… how had he even managed it? He did not know; the knowledge had arise as he scanned the tomes. Muted dread arouse; the other miners, they would not harm him, surely? He was but a boy. He shook his head; he should rest, but he could not, not here in this place.

Slipping the riverplug key into his hand, his blood cooled against the metal. Wrapping the chain around his wrist, he toyed with it as he mused over his plan once more. He had fulfilled his vow, and taken the key off Davaeron's still-warm body, tearing it from his neck. Now, all that was left to was open the plug… and let the mine die with him.

He cast a final glance at the stockpiled crates in the other chamber. It would be such a waste… perhaps… the miners? Could he convince them to move the entire room… his eyes flickered beyond, to the library, and perhaps… to pack away the tomes. He felt his gaze light with greed, then reason returned: where would he store such a vast library? He had no place to call his own. No, it was best to abandon this place… he was loathe to. What if… he were to seal this level? It had been dug last and the stairwell's doors were carved from rock… a final security measure for should the slaves rebel. If he were to flood the rest, perhaps… he might return someday. The more he thought on it, the more he liked it. Yes, that was what he would do. It was decided.

Now to face the miners or their guards. Whatever little remnant remained, that was.