The Crimson Legion

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A white globe appeared in the black grotto that was the mind of King Tithian I, casting a brilliant light over the warped spires and gloomy depths of the cave’s snarled terrain. Sable-winged bats and ebon-feathered birds-dark thoughts given form by his mind-fluttered away into murky nooks and alcoves, angrily screeching and chirping.

“I’ve done it!” Tithian reported.

You’ve done nothing until you project it, came the answer, echoing inside the king’s mind.

Tithian opened his eyes. Before him sat the disembodied heads who were tutoring him in the elusive art of the Way. One was sallow-skinned and sunken-featured, with cracked lips that looked like shriveled leather. The other was grotesquely bloated, with puffy cheeks and eyes swollen to narrow, dark slits. Both wore their coarse hair in long topknots, and the bottom of their necks had been sewn shut with thick black thread.

“Where?” Tithian asked.

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