Below the Surface

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In one particular pocket of darkness between the planes of existence, sorcerer ‘Sin Garu slid a pale, long-fingered hand through his hair and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d allowed one measly Storm Lord, the Prince of Fire, and his affai to escape.

The Storm Lords, four brothers, identical in appearance, similar in elemental magic with a smattering of psychic ability and not a one of them a match for his own dark magic. Yet here he sat, while Darius, Prince of Fire, fucked his bride like a rutting bull in the heavenly splendour of Tanselm.

‘Sin Garu had been close to decimating the Storm Lord line for good, his effort to regain his rightful place as overking of Tanselm almost within reach. Yet instead of sitting atop the gilded throne in the heart of his homeland, he wasted his time in the shadows. Always in the shadows.

Instead of a council of Dark Lords, of elders and liaison rogues at his disposal, he had to make use of the reviled, the denigrated and most pathetic monsters of the dark. My distinguished Netharat army, he thought with bitter amusement.

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