Isle of Man

Magic and Monsters. The Mythological world never left. While we pursued science and technology, wars were being waged. Now one of those wars has reached our world.

Isle of Man


Prologue: The Plain of Towers


Blood and darkness…

The Plain of Towers was filled with it. Balor, the giant Fomorian demon-King, towered unrelentingly over the battlefield. The earth shook with each blow of his mighty hammer, and those not crushed instantly soon found themselves thrown painfully into the air. His massive third eye opened and shut at will, each time sending a wave of light that instantly killed anyone who fell under his gaze. It mattered not to him who he killed, be they friend or foe, for he fed on the souls of the departed. The more he killed, the more he was fed, and Balor was ravenous.
Far across the field, Caen, the champion of the once-peaceful Tuathan Kingdom, knelt resolutely beside the body of his fallen king. The rain relentlessly poured from the darkened sky, while men and demons clashed violently around him, neither side willing to yield an inch. With his dark hair drenched and matted to his face, he fixed his gaze on Balor, who turned his massive form to confront him and opened his eye. The lethal beam of light that had claimed so many lives that day surged toward the ground, carving a path through the chaos and leaving a deep scar in the earth. Caen dove aside, his heart pounding with dread as the ominous scar of darkness stretched across the battlefield, creeping ever closer to the lifeless remains of his beloved king. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and blood, and the echoes of distant cries seemed to pierce his very soul. Time slowed as he gazed at the king’s once-mighty form, now a tragic sight, lying motionless amid the chaos. Each heartbeat felt like a drum signaling the impending doom that threatened to consume everything he had ever cherished. The massive beam unleashed by the giant crashed down onto the earth with a thunderous roar, sending shockwaves through the ground. In an instant, it hurled soldiers, weapons, and remnants of the fierce battle skyward, scattering debris in every direction as dust and fragments filled the air, creating a chaotic whirlwind around the site of destruction.
Caen sprang to his feet, his body aching from the ordeal. He fought to regain his balance, feeling the weight of his sword slip from his grasp before vanishing from his view entirely. At that moment, the chaos around him blurred, but he knew he couldn’t afford to falter. As he rose to his feet, a surge of adrenaline coursed through him. He turned just in time to witness the gleaming axe blade of a snarling Fomorian warrior swing down with ferocious intent, narrowly missing him. The heavy blade thudded into the damp, muddy ground, sending droplets of earth splattering in all directions, marking the spot where he had been standing just moments before. The warrior's fierce expression and the primal growl escaping his throat only heightened the sense of danger that now surrounded him. The demon creature lifted the axe for another swing. Pulling a small steel blade from his belt, Caen spun around behind him and drove it deep into the creature’s neck. It clawed at the wound and fell to its knees with a filthy gurgle caught in its throat. If it died, Caen didn’t bother to see, as something more important had just caught his eye on a small hill far from the battle.
Amidst the chaotic backdrop of the storm, a dark silhouette emerged, taking the shape of a man. He stood tall and broad-shouldered, exuding an air of intimidating strength, with a massive axe resting casually over one shoulder. Despite the carnage surrounding him�"debris scattered and remnants of battle strewn across the ground�"he remained motionless, like a statue carved from stone.

Suddenly, another figure stepped into view. This man was smaller but bore a commanding presence that drew the eye. As lightning illuminated the scene, the darkness peeled away to reveal the intricate engravings glinting on his armor and the regal flow of his cape, billowing in the wind. It was a sight that sent shivers down Caen's spine�"the traitorous former king of the Tuatha�"General Vasili. His eerie calmness in the face of destruction spoke of a power that sent ripples of dread through the air.
He was the one who had unleashed this wave of misery and bloodshed upon the land. Although it had been deemed necessary to dethrone him as King, General Vasili remained resolute in his belief that his removal was unjust. He had returned, forging a sinister alliance with Balor and his formidable army, intent on subjugating the peaceful inhabitants of Tuatha once more.

As he marched across the rugged terrain, his massive and imposing figure cast a long shadow across the landscape, momentarily blocking out the sunlit sky before he disappeared over the crest of the hill. Close behind him was his loyal companion, a hulking man wielding a massive axe that glinted ominously in the light. He hesitated for just a moment, surveying the battlefield, before turning to follow his General, both of them vanishing from view as they advanced toward their dark intentions.
The earth trembled with each step Balor took. Caen looked to his left just in time to see Balor’s club smash the ground before him. Caen was thrown backward, and Balor pressed his advantage. All around him Formorian warriors followed the Demon-King's example and began to force the Tuathan soldiers back- the sounds of swords and shields clashing were deafening in every direction. Caen knew the giant had to be stopped or else defeat here would be all but certain. The Fomorians would take the field, and soon all Aïos Sï would suffer.
He would not let that happen.
His heart raced furiously in his chest, pounding like a drum as adrenaline surged through his veins. He sprinted forward, each breath coming in sharp gasps, filled with determination and a hint of fear. The enormous figure loomed ahead, casting a long shadow that darkened the ground beneath him. Every muscle in his body tensed with both anticipation and resolve, urging him to confront the colossal challenge that awaited.
Without warning, a Fomorian chieftain, his skull burdened with an abundance of horns and teeth, hurled itself into Caen, sending him spiraling to the side and stealing the breath from his lungs. Springing to his feet, Caen felt the weight of his missing sword like a phantom limb. Adrenaline surged through him as he steeled himself for whatever lay ahead. The chieftain stood before him, its massively deformed jaws grinding in a lustful smile that turned upward into a grotesque expression. With a fierce glint in his eyes, the chieftain hoisted the axe high above his head, showcasing his strength and skill. In a swift, almost mesmerizing motion, he brought it crashing down toward Caen, the air thick with tension and the promise of a fierce clash. The champion knelt swiftly, the massive axe whistling just above him, its lethal edge glinting in the light.Cae n surged forward, thrusting his shoulder out to gain an advantage. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he launched himself forward into the chieftain’s chest, the sudden movement knocking the beast off his feet, sending him stumbling and disoriented. Caen didn't hesitate, surging bravely towards the chieftain, his resolve unyielding. In a powerful move, he seized the massive axe from the creature's grip, wrenching it away as if it were a mere twig. Charged with a thrilling mix of courage and determination, he readied himself to shift the momentum of the battle in his favor. The champion swung wide, and in one single slice cut the chieftain cleanly across the neck. A putrid aroma wafted from the gaping wound, causing the demon to stumble, its confidence wavering for the first time.
It shuffled backward a step or two, its eyes widening in disbelief as a look of sheer surprise crossed its face. Its head landed in the mud. The chieftain's body crashed to the ground next to it with a heavy thud just moments later. Caen barely had a moment to savor his hard-won victory; the overwhelming presence of Balor loomed over him, the ancient giant's eye flickering to life once more, its immense form casting an imposing shadow. In a split second, panic surged through Caen, and his instincts took over. With his heart racing and adrenaline pumping, he sprinted directly toward Balor, threading himself through the colossal legs that towered above like ancient pillars. The ground churned beneath him as he maneuvered through the giant's massive stride, desperate to escape the terrifying gaze that threatened to engulf him.
Balor seethed with uncontainable fury, his frustration boiling over as he realized he had once again failed to confront his sworn enemy's champion. His massive frame trembled with rage, and his fierce, crimson beard bristled as if it were a living thing. With powerful strides, he stomped across the ground, each footfall echoing like thunder, and his heavy boots kicked up dust and debris in a wild frenzy. The air around him crackled with his palpable anger, and his scowl deepened, casting dark shadows across his weathered face as he expressed his seething disappointment in a torrent of chaotic movements. He flung his huge club down again and again, trying in vain to either crush or pummel Caen underfoot. Repeatedly he smashed and beat at the ground until nothing remained at his feet but churned earth and a pile of now unrecognizable corpses. When Balor was positive that there was no way Caen had survived, he stopped, breathing heavily and grinning wildly as he kicked the bodies crushed beneath him, searching for proof of the champion's death. However, the champion was not dead. Against all odds, he had been flung clear of the brutal onslaught, landing in a patch of darkened earth, breathing heavily. His armor, which had once dazzled like polished silver, now lay tarnished and scratched, the intricate engravings obscured by dirt and the marks of battle. The once resplendent metal, adorned with engravings that told tales of valor and glory, now appeared dull and weathered. Though battered and bruised, the champion's spirit flickered with the unyielding flame of resilience, ready to rise once more.
At his feet lay a Fomorian archer, teetering on the brink of death. His face was pressed into the cold, unforgiving mud, and his limbs convulsed in a desperate struggle for breath, the agony of suffocation evident in his every movement. With resolve etched on his face, the champion planted his right foot firmly on the creature's back, holding it down and denying it the chance to rise for breath. The champion's left ankle appeared to be broken at a strange angle and his face winced briefly at the pain. Tightly in his grip, he now held the bow of the drowned demon archer, its sleek form glimmering in the dim light. Caen had a single arrow poised and ready- a silent promise waiting to be unleashed. He knew he would have only one chance. If he missed, there would be no time to avoid the deadly gaze with his broken foot. His head hurt, and his eyesight swam. Aiming was difficult. He tried to right his head and aim properly, but he could feel the shot pulling to either side. Balor spotted him and gave a spine-chilling bellow of rage as his third eye seemed to open in slow motion. Caen took a deep breath, held it, and set his target.

With a sudden surge of energy, Balor's eye snapped open, unleashing a blinding beam of light that cut through the darkness.

With precision and focus, the Champion loosened the string and sent the arrow soaring through the air.

For a fleeting moment, there was an eerie stillness. The brilliant beam of light flickered into existence, illuminating the darkness, but just as swiftly as it had appeared, it vanished, leaving a lingering sense of curiosity in its wake. The Champion released the arrow, and it soared through the air, striking the Demon King right in his eye. In that moment, everything seemed to freeze�"time itself holding its breath as destiny unfolded. Balor stood motionless, the light in his eye extinguishing as shadows encroached on his vision. The colossal giant lurched ahead, and just moments later, the arrow materialized again, emerging from the depths of the giant’s towering figure, as if summoned by an unseen force. The colossal creature swayed unsteadily, teetering on the brink of collapse as it struggled to regain its balance. With a deafening roar, its colossal form thundered down, crashing into the earth with such force that a shockwave rippled through the ground. The very battlefield trembled, the air thick with tension, as an eerie silence descended, leaving only the echoes of the impact in its wake. Caen was once again knocked to the ground and showered with dirt and mud. This time however, with Balor dead, he let the dark weariness overtake him.
A thunderous cheer erupted among the Tuathan soldiers, filling the air with an electric sense of triumph as they witnessed their champion’s victory. The once-arrogant Formorians, shaken to their core by this unexpected turn of events, began to scramble in a desperate bid to escape. Panic spread like wildfire through their ranks; many were cut down where they stood, while others fell victim to hails of spears and arrows that whistled through the air, striking them down as they raced toward the treeline�"the one last flicker of hope beckoning them to safety. Soon, only the Tuatha remained and the battlefield became a chaotic tapestry of bravery and despair.



_________________________________




Caen stirred awake under the dim glow of the moonlight filtering through the canvas of the Tuathan encampment. The cot beneath him was a makeshift nest of hay and goose feathers, offering a meager comfort that did little to alleviate the throbbing pain coursing through his body. He shifted slightly, wincing at the sharp reminders of his wounds, each one wrapped securely yet still pulsing with discomfort. Desperate for relief, he scanned the cramped confines of the tent for water, but his search yielded no results. Resigned, he allowed himself to sink back into the cot, releasing a heavy sigh that seemed to echo in the stillness around him.

Just then, Riza, his steadfast companion and confidante, entered the tent with a quiet urgency. The heavy flap of the entrance brushed aside as she stepped in, her presence filling the space with a sense of familiarity and comfort. She hurried to his side, the joints of her armor creaking softly with each movement. As she settled beside him, she removed her helmet, revealing a riot of curly red hair that tumbled around her shoulders, wild and untamed from the night's battles. Her eyes, a vibrant green, were sharp with concern as they met his, and at that moment, the warmth of her spirit cut through the chill of his pain.
"Greetings, my champion," she declared firmly.

"Greetings," he acknowledged, forcing himself into a sitting position. "What news do you bring?"

"Sire, our vanguard has reported that countless Formorians have been slaughtered. No mercy has been shown. Those who fled into the forest are still being hunted down."

"What of Blackstone and General Vasili? Is there any sign of them?"

"Regrettably, no," Riza said with a hint of frustration, pulling a flask from her belt and presenting it to him. "It seems they have escaped, either underground or across the water. We can't be certain."

"They must be located. If they manage to reach�""

"I understand," Riza interrupted, her tone resolute. "We're all fully aware of the catastrophic consequences if they reach the castle. Now, drink." She extended the flask to him again. Caen accepted it without hesitation and brought it to his lips, pausing only to assess the liquid's scent.
Riza told him, 'It's water from the Sirona Spring.'
'Was Airmid around?'
'Of course, she was just as annoying as ever. Now drink up and get your strength back.'
Caen let out a dry laugh at her insistence and took a big gulp. He could feel the pain in his body start to fade right away. Before long, he’d be back on his feet. He’d be sore for a bit, but at least he’d be healed enough to join the hunt.

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That night, as the victorious soldiers of Tuatha reveled in their hard-fought triumph, the serene waters of the Sirona spring lay still, shimmering under the soft glow of the moon.
Shadows danced around the tranquil oasis, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. Suddenly, the stillness was pierced by the rustling of branches from the edge of the nearby forest. With a suddenness that startled several nightbirds, a leshy emerged from the brush, its wild mane of leaves and twigs framing a gaze that shimmered with ancient wisdom and mischief. Small and gnarled, the creature appeared almost otherworldly, with its unkempt, scraggly fur bristling in tufts and a wild beard that sprawled in every direction like tangled vines. The large leather bag it carried swung heavily against its chest, a testament to the weight of its secrets and treasures. As it moved through the dense underbrush, it scampered nimbly, its thick boots making no sound on the soft, moss-covered forest floor, almost as if it were part of the very silence that enveloped the woods. The leshy paused at the edge of the clearing, his keen eyes scanning the open space for any signs of life. A flicker of excitement danced within him; he longed to draw someone into the depths of the forest with him. The thought of weaving a playful trap amidst the ancient trees made his heart race with excitement. Once he found his plaything, he planned to subdue them, taking pleasure in their discomfort�"though he knew he'd likely lose interest before long. Then he would end the life of his new plaything, right then and there.
However, the clearing was empty save for his task, so he grumpily went about it.

The Leshy knelt beside the clear, glistening spring, its waters shimmering under the dappled moonlight that filtered through the leafy canopy above. He reached into the worn leather bag slung across his shoulder, retrieving a large glass vial that caught the light with a slight sparkle. As he carefully lowered the slender vial into the crystal-clear water, the coolness enveloped it, sending ripples across the surface. The moonlight danced on the water, creating shimmering patterns that seemed to reflect his growing excitement. With the vial submerged, he began to hum a gentle, melodic tune, his voice blending harmoniously with the ambient sounds of the forest�"night birds chirping sweetly in the trees, leaves rustling in the soft breeze, and the distant trickle of a stream. Somewhere close by he could hear the whispers of other nocturnal predators stirring in the underbrush, their rustling forms blending seamlessly with the shadows of the night. The melody he hummed flowed effortlessly, each note rising and falling like the gentle sway of the branches above, creating a maliciously peaceful symphony that filled the air around him. When he had finished his song, a mischievous giggle escaped his lips, a sound both playful and mysterious. He scratched the rough patch of skin on his behind with his long, dirt-streaked fingers. The vial gradually filled with crystal-clear water. Once it reached the brim, he swiftly corked it, sealing in the essence of the spring.
With a satisfied nod, the Leshy tucked the precious vial back into his creaky leather bag. With a fleeting glance and a hiss at the babbling brook, he melted away into the shadows of the ancient forest, leaving no trace of his whimsical presence behind.
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The underbrush rustled with a vibrant energy as the Leshy darted through the greenery, his nimble legs propelling him deeper into the enchanted forest. A rabbit, sensing the presence of the swift creature, froze momentarily before bolting down a narrow path in a flurry of fur and panic.

After a time, the Leshy stumbled upon a massive hollow log, gnarled and worn by the weather, its bark peeling like a sunburn. It lay tilted down the edge of a small ridge, forming a natural slide that the Leshy took full advantage of. At the bottom was a small cave, barely big enough for a dwarf but the perfect size for him. Beyond the entrance was a vast valley, hidden in the center of the mountainside. Also hidden inside the valley was a waterfall, its cascading waters glimmering like jewels in the moonlight. Before the waterfall, in the river before it, were several moss covered stones, leading directly into the hissing foam of the waterfall. With grace, the Leshy stepped lightly across the smooth, moss-covered stones. He paused on the last stone, just before the wall of water. The Leshy could feel the cold wet spray on his face and in his beard. He hated it.
He put three fingers to his cracked lips and blew a low, melodic whistle. In response, the water parted like a shimmering curtain, revealing a secret passage beyond. With a swift bound, the Leshy jumped the last several stones inside, and the waterfall cascaded back into place, concealing all signs of the hidden entrance and leaving the Leshy in blackness.
A long, winding rock tunnel stretched out ahead, its cool, damp walls shrouded in darkness as the Leshy moved forward with cautiousness. Not out of fear, he had been here many times in the past for various reason. No, he did not fear the cave. He feared what had recently taken up residence here. The silence of the cave was soon shattered by the flicker of a distant torch, casting dancing shadows against the rugged stone. One by one, additional torches blinked into life along the walls, illuminating the path ahead with a warm, golden glow.
As the tunnel twisted sharply to the right, it sloped downward, the air growing heavier and more fragrant with the earthy scent of moss and ancient stone. Emerging from the cramped confines of the tunnel, the Leshy found itself staring into an astonishingly bright light that pierced through the cave's oppressive darkness.
Narrowing his eyes, the Leshy stepped into the grand chamber that lay beyond. It was a breathtaking sight�"a veritable underground palace�"filled with opulence that seemed to radiate from the gold-trimmed walls which were adorned with intricate carvings and fabulous decorations that seemed to glow with their own light. The chamber was expansive, with high ceilings that loomed above, and numerous ornate doors flanked the walls, hinting at a labyrinth of additional rooms hidden beyond.
But amidst the splendor, a sound both chilling and exhilarating caught his ear. Cries of pain and anguish echoed from a distant hallway to the left, a hauntingly welcome tune that tugged at the very essence of the Leshy's being. Those desperate wails ignited a thrill within; it was intoxicating and irresistible. The Leshy felt a magnetic pull towards the source of the misery, the whispers of dread urging it to abandon the allure of the chamber and pursue the tormenting cries that promised a darker thrill.

“Payment comes after delivery,” a voice that was both soft and chilling drifted from behind him. The leshy turned slowly, his eyes landing on an imposing figure: a giant of a man, his black beard wild and unkempt. His armor bore the scars of recent conflict, caked with the grime and blood from the day’s battle, glinting dully in the fading light. The atmosphere thickened with unspoken tension as the leshy regarded the formidable presence before him.
Despite his small stature, the Leshy appeared even smaller under the man’s intense gaze. It felt itself get smaller as the imposing figure spoke again-
“It seems my messenger successfully found you, though I notice he is now absent. Might I assume you have him safely tucked away for future use?”The Leshy smirked at this and chuckled softly.

“It’s for the best,” the large, imposing man declared, his deep voice resonating through the vast chamber as he settled onto the grand stone throne, intricately carved with ancient symbols so strange that even the Leshy, with his hundreds of years of life, had never seen before. The throne, which dominated the center of the room, seemed to absorb every bit of his commanding presence, casting a shadow that stretched across the cold, dusty floor. His broad shoulders relaxed slightly, but the weight of his authority lingered in the air.
“He was of no use to me, which is why I sent him. Did he happen to mention who I am and what I require?”
The Leshy nodded, a glimmer of intrigue sparkling in his eyes as he retrieved the vial from his bag. The large man leaned forward, his powerful frame radiating energy, and took the vial in his strong grip. He scrutinized it with a keen gaze, turning it over in the light, before leaning back with a contemplative expression.

"You have rendered me a remarkable service, small one. Airmid, with her keen senses, would undoubtedly have detected the presence of a human or wizard near her sacred pond, but a forest creature like yourself would likely have gone unnoticed and for that, I am grateful." With a commanding sweep of his arm, he gestured toward the heavy doors looming ahead. “Beyond these gates lies the fate of those who dared to defy me,” he declared, his voice dripping with authority. “But today, fortune smiles upon you. My Slaugh creatures have just returned from their latest hunt, and they’ve brought back a bounty of human prisoners.” The air crackled with tension as he spoke, painting a vivid picture of despair and dark delight.
The leshy’s eyes lit up with excitement.
“Feel free to take anything that catches your interest, as payment.”
A mischievous giggle echoed through the dungeon as the leshy disappeared into the shadows, sparking an immediate resurgence of screams and anguished cries from the prisoners. The man on the throne watched the Leshy briefly, then turned his attention to the vial. He turned it in various directions, then a smile broke the fierceness of his face.
“Rankin!” he bellowed, his massive voice reverberating off the stone walls. It wasn't a moment later that a side door flew open, revealing a small, impish servant who scurried in, his movements frantic. He stumbled awkwardly twice, nearly toppling over his own long, hooked nose as he rushed to answer the call.
“Y-yes… Lord Vasili?”
“We have what we need. Prepare the body.”
“Yesss, my lord,” Rankin hissed, his voice trembling. “B-but sir, what about the human prisoners? Shouldn't we keep them alive? The Fomorians might require fresh recruits….” His fingers twisted anxiously over the frayed edges of his uniform, the weight of uncertainty pressing heavily upon him.
His master rose, casting a dark silhouette against the flickering torchlight, and moved to a far door opposite the throne. Rankin hurried after him, his small frame struggling to keep up. General Vasili let out a disdainful sigh that echoed through the chamber. “Those demon-s***s will thrive again once the Tuatha tire of their foolish hunt. They always do.” A cruel smile curled on his lips as he continued, “But alas, their lives hold no value to me anymore. I had every intention of ending them regardless. This,” he gestured malignantly toward the vial, “this is the very key to my dominion.” With a savage glint in his eye, he seized a torch from the wall and strode down the long stone staircase, his footsteps echoing in the dark like the harbinger of doom.
As they descended the final steps, the walls of the staircase loomed open into an immense chamber, illuminated only by a cluster of flickering torches that made the dripping stalactites shimmer like jewels above. The distant hiss of a waterfall and the gentle rush of a river echoed from somewhere high above. The vast cavern was far from empty. At its heart lay the massive, still-warm body of Balor, the Formorian King. His eyes stared wide in a visage of unending shock, while his third eye, once a source of ruthless power, had devolved into a pulpy mass of crimson. Encircling him, a collection of Fomorian warriors sat, looking weary and defeated. They sneered, baring their ragged teeth as the newcomers approached.
"Sire..." Rankin inquired, his astonishment palpable, "how did you manage to bring him here so swiftly? General Vasili paused for a moment, his eyes never leaving the scene before them. He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly with the frustration of dealing with Rankin.
"Ah, Rankin," he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "how did you manage to bring him here so swiftly?" He glanced sideways at the smaller creature, his gaze cold and calculating.
"The Formorians would not abandon their king so readily," he continued, his tone laced with nonchalance,bordering on boredom. "I extended to them a sanctuary. In exchange, they shall serve me until I can arrange for the resurrection of their king." In the flickering torch light of the cavern, shadows danced ominously around General Vasili, the weight of his ambition pressing down like the suffocating darkness that enveloped him. With a disdainful glance over his shoulder at Rankin, who struggled to keep pace, Vasili felt an intoxicating surge of power coursing through his veins. The chaos of battle had been a stroke of luck; Balor's demise had opened doors he had long yearned to see unlocked.
"Those demon-s***s will undoubtedly return," he stated coldly, a cruel smirk curling his lips. “It’s ingrained in their nature. They’ll claw their way back from this debacle, as they always do. But the Tuatha�"oh, they will crumble. I’ll ensure that their resolve shatters like glass underfoot.”His voice dripped with contempt as he envisioned the plight of his foes, relishing the thought of their inevitable defeat.
The farther into the cavernous chamber they went, the weight of the air pressed down upon them, thick with a primal essence steeped in fear and desperation. Shadows flickered ominously along the stone walls, whispering tales of dread as the giant corpse of Balor lay in repose, a silent titan shrouded in darkness. The remnants of his terrible power seemed to pulse, saturating the space with echoes of forgotten battles. It was a haunting reminder of the cost of ambition, and they could feel the menace crackling in the stillness, an omen of the reckoning that awaited.
The body, a grotesque monument to Balors’ hubris, remained disturbingly still�"a stark reminder of what had transpired. The third eye, once a harbinger of death, was now a grotesque ruin, a grim testament to Caen's audacious victory. General Vasili’s smirk widened as he observed the murmurs and furtive glances exchanged among the remaining Fomorian warriors, their fierce faces now marred by defeat. They were broken, cast low by the loss of their leader.
"Their loyalty now lies with me," he declared, his tone laced with confidence. "See how weak they appear? Bereft of their king's dominion? They seek vengeance, yet they lack the strength to seek it without leadership."
The warriors, huddled together like scavengers around a forgotten meal, raised their eyes to him, an unspoken mixture of uncertainty and begrudging respect reflected in their gaze. Vasili took a step forward, brandishing the vial with a flourish. "What I hold could change the fate of your kind," he proclaimed, the thrill of wicked intent bubbling to the surface. "This is the essence of life from the very spring that nurtured your fallen king. Imagine it�"the power to resurrect him, to bring the mighty Balor back into the world!" A murmur rippled through the group, intrigue igniting the air as their despondent expressions flared with the embers of hope. Yet they remained wary. Balor, their pride and pain, would only return to life through the darker machinations orchestrated by Vasili, who fully planned that he would use them�"these battered remnants of a once-feared army�"until the moment he no longer required their allegiance. Vasili’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with deception.
“Join me. Offer your loyalty, and together we will weave the shadow of dread across the Tuatha once more.” His words hung heavily, thickening the air as broken warriors exchanged glances filled with longing for vengeance. As the general stood before them, torchlight flickering against his grim visage, Vasili knew that with this dark pact, he was one step closer to weaving his dominion across Aïos Sï, one step closer to igniting a new war that would reverberate throughout the realms.




Part 1
Manticore

1.

(Earth-Realm, Present Day)
Coffee spilled from the gas station cup, scalding Lauren Grace's inner thighs as she drove down the desolate road. She jolted in her seat, trying to rid herself of the searing liquid while keeping control of the car. Despite her efforts, the hot coffee continued to spill, burning her hand in the process. With a frustrated sigh, she eventually managed to secure the cup in the center console, berating herself for not doing so earlier. Her legs still throbbing, she refocused on the road ahead as her mind wandered to the disturbing case regarding the disappearance of her former boss.
Phillip Marco’s disappearance had sent ripples through Lanston, Oklahoma, a town now cloaked in whispers and speculation. Just six months earlier, he had been a towering presence as CEO of Wallace-Stone Investment�"charismatic yet shrouded in a growing cloud of doubt. The investigation revealed a tangled web of deceit woven with the threads of bribery and clandestine dealings with the underbelly of the city. News outlets had exploded with allegations that Marco had orchestrated a spree of financial fraud, one that crossed moral boundaries with conversant ease. Behind glossy headlines, his name morphed into a haunting specter, synonymous with treachery and violence, sending the community into a state of anxiety. Investors and employees alike watched as the company, once a bastion of stability, plummeted.
The buzz of corporate triumph morphed into a chorus of reassessment. The wheels of business, never dauntless by death or disaster, moved forward immediately by hiring a new management team and etching a different arc on the corporate timeline. Meanwhile, the shadows surrounding Marco’s fate deepened�"an unresolved puzzle still beckoning for answers, lingering like the acrid scent of burnt coffee long after the spill.
Amidst the flurry of allegations, Marco’s wife had clearly divorced him, and after many months of his absence, he was officially declared deceased. Investigators suspected that he had been eliminated by the same alleged criminal groups to safeguard their own interests. Even Wallace-Stone had moved forward and was thriving as a result. The company's stock had plummeted after the scandal broke, leading to layoffs and strategic corporate changes. With the appointment of the new CEO, Mr. John Tyler, a jovial and round man, the stock of Wallace-Stone had soared. As Mr. Tyler's new executive assistant, her life had transformed entirely. She now had a larger office, a heftier paycheck, and, most importantly, vacation time, which she was currently enjoying. Bound for the airport, she was embarking on a trip to California, where a luxurious cruise ship awaited her for a journey to the finest ports of the Caribbean.
First, however, she had to get through this traffic.
The road ahead sprawled ahead sluggishly; taunting her with its relentless congestion. Each honk of a horn and glimmer of brake lights chipped away at her tranquility. She tapped her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, envisioning the sun-drenched beaches, palm trees swaying in soft ocean breezes, and the vibrant life waiting just beyond the gridlocked asphalt. Time felt suspended, and with each passing moment, the cruise seemed to drift farther away.
A mid size SUV with custom plates cut her off, weaving in and out of traffic before disappearing into the mass of vehicles ahead. She turned on the radio, and one of Bob Marley's reggae tunes about legalization and freedom flowed through her speakers. The music intensified her daydreams of sitting on a beach, sipping drinks named after unfamiliar birds, watching the tide, and thinking of absolutely nothing. In her mind, worries would slowly fade away, leaving her with complete and utter peace.
The tranquility of Lauren's daydream shattered like delicate glass, consumed by the ominous growl of the SUV crashing into her side. The impact reverberated through her bones, time stretching into an unfathomable landscape of panic. A symphony of chaos erupted around her as the guardrail gouged at her car, metal shrieking against metal in a cruel duet of destruction. The car spun, a dizzying whirlwind of colors and sound, as bright sparks, vivid yellows and oranges, flared against the asphalt like startled fireflies fleeing a predator.
In a split second, the world fractured�"a kaleidoscopic blur of glass shards engulfed her, their sharpness weaving a tapestry of crimson across her forehead. The previous serenity of her thoughts, filled with sun-drenched beaches and fruity cocktails, evaporated, pulled into a nightmarish whirlpool of confusion and acute pain. The SUV abruptly lurched away from her, its tires kicking up gravel as it skidded to a stop just a few feet ahead on the shoulder of the road. Lauren came to a sudden halt, her heart pounding wildly in her chest as she took in the devastating sight before her. The front end of her car lay crumpled and unrecognizable, a twisted mass of warped metal and glinting shards of shattered glass scattered across the pavement. Thick, acrid smoke curled menacingly from beneath the crumpled hood, rising into the air like a sinister serpent. The engine emitted a weary groan, the deep clunking sounds resonating in her ears like a fading heartbeat, each noise amplifying her sense of dread and the stark reality of the chaotic scene.
Dazed and disoriented, Lauren watched as the imposing SUV loomed ahead before coming to a sudden halt. The rear doors swung open, and two men, their faces obscured by dark, ominous masks, emerged with eerie precision. They stepped out on either side of the vehicle and moved toward her car. Lauren's heart raced in her chest, each beat echoing the sense of impending danger. She instinctively wiped her brow, only to feel a warm, sticky smear of crimson across her forehead�"a stark reminder of her situation.
The men advanced toward her vehicle, their heavy boots crunching sharply against the gravel of the breakdown lane, punctuating the tense silence that enveloped the scene. Panic clawed at her throat as she wrestled with the seatbelt, the webbing coiling tightly around her as if greedily refusing to yield to her frantic pulls. Whether it was a cruel twist of mechanical failure or the suffocating grip of her fear, the seatbelt had betrayed her, leaving her trapped in her car like prey ensnared in a trap. Cars sped by on the highway as she made desperate attempts to cry out for help. Her breath came in short gasps, making it difficult for anyone to hear her over the roar of vehicles zooming past at nearly 70 mph. She fell back into the seat, her heart and mind racing. Fighting with the seatbelt, her hands trembled uncontrollably. Just then, an arm reached through the broken window. One of the masked men quickly unlocked the door, while the other helped him wrench it open with force. The twisted metal screeched sharply, sending glass shards flying onto the pavement. One of the men produced a knife and cut the seatbelt. They dragged Lauren out of her car and threw her into the back of the idling SUV. The assailants jumped in after her, and the driver peeled away, leaving her formerly brand-new Subaru (now a husk of broken glass and metal) abandoned on the side of the interstate.
In the back of the SUV, she struggled as they restrained her arms and legs with zip ties, then gagged and hooded her. Her mind raced with panic, betraying her as it replayed every terrifying scenario she had ever seen or heard about situations like this. The thoughts only deepened her panic, and she kicked out wildly against her restraints. She felt her foot connect with something that felt like a leg, prompting a yowl of pain in response. The retaliation was swift�"a fist struck the side of her head, and she remembered nothing after that.




Not far behind them, a beat-up blue pickup truck pulled up behind the wrecked vehicle. The driver stepped out, approached the car, and performed two acts of kindness.The first step was to turn off the engine; he didn’t want anyone else to get hurt while waiting for help to arrive and clean up the mess. The second step was to collect Lauren’s purse. He figured that when he freed her from her captors, she would appreciate having her personal belongings with her.

After finishing these steps, he returned to his truck and followed.















2.
At that very moment, just a few miles away, Phillip Marco hung up the phone, his brow furrowing as he studied the wrinkled map spread out before him. The late afternoon sun bore down mercilessly, casting shimmering waves of heat across the asphalt. He felt utterly disoriented, wrestling with the decision of whether to turn left or right, each option appearing equally uninviting. After more than an hour of driving, the directions he had received seemed like a cruel joke, and the air conditioner sputtered uselessly, leaving him to contend with the oppressive heat. It was well over 101 degrees, but to Phillip, it felt more like a sweltering 201.

“At least Diego took care of the woman,” he thought to himself, trying to find solace amid his escalating frustration. A sharp headache throbbed at his temples, and he was acutely aware that this day was only destined to grow more exasperating.
Behind the wheel, Phillip reflected on just how much he loathed driving. In his former life, when he held the position of CEO at Wallace-Stone Financial Group�"an empire founded by the now-departed Wallace and Stone�"he had navigated the corporate world with fierce determination, reaping lavish rewards for his efforts. Travel was a luxury he had seldom taken on himself, preferring the plush comfort of personal limousines and private jets, where air conditioners worked flawlessly. Now, faced with a map that felt like an insurmountable puzzle, he couldn’t help but long for those days of ease and elegance. His people always ensured that everything functioned exactly as it was supposed to�"or rather, how Phillip wanted it to. The reason for this was simple. In his position, nobody dared to cross him. It wasn’t just because of who he was and his title, but because he had a reputation for retribution. Anyone who crossed him�"be it a client, employee, friend, or even a close family member�"disappeared. Phillip had a crew that handled these situations for him, operating in the shadows and working under the table for a considerable fee.
That was before his loving wife discovered his secret and went straight to the police. Now, he was a fugitive, vanishing because he couldn’t face the jail time he knew awaited him. He had lost everything, and he intended to make her pay for that. Deep down, he felt cowardly hiding out, avoiding the consequences, especially when the DJ was playing his song. He justified this by telling himself that at least now he could reinvent who he was. He could leave behind the coward that was Phillip Marco and present someone new to the world.
He just hadn’t figured out how to do that yet.
This situation, however, was not one he could simply outsource to anyone. He wanted to handle it himself. He and his wife had been married for 28 years, and to address this issue without doing it personally felt like an insult to both of them. As much as he resented her for what she had done, he also respected her for the time they had spent together and for the love he had once felt for her. He believed he owed it to her to carry out this unpleasant task himself. In a strange, dusty corner of his mind, he found it slightly romantic.
Now, here he was in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma, battling a pinching headache, struggling with vague directions, and driving a beat-up Ford that he had bought with cash from a newspaper ad. Next to him on the seat was a shoulder bag. Phillip reached into it and pulled out a road atlas. As he did, a snub-nosed .357 revolver fell onto the floorboards. He picked it up and returned it to the bag. His shirt made a wet, suction sound as it released from the leather seatback, and he groaned.
The gun was something he had also purchased from a private seller�"a drunken old man with a permanent limp and a pressing need for cash. Phillip was glad to oblige this pressing need, and the old man was happy to return to drinking. Everyone was a winner.

* * *
Phillip had been eagerly anticipating this meeting, but now he found himself hopelessly lost. He stood at a desolate Midwest crossroads, encircled by an expanse of golden cornfields that stretched endlessly under the blistering sun. The heat was oppressive, and the unfortunate malfunction of his car's air conditioning had transformed his vehicle into a stifling sauna. Sweat trickled down his forehead, pooling in the nape of his neck and making the back of his dress shirt cling uncomfortably to the smooth leather seat. Each gust of hot wind that swept through the open window felt like the fiery breath of a dragon, causing him to gasp for relief. Frustrated, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, muttering profanities in the direction of the universe, as he once again turned his attention to the crumpled road map sprawled across his lap. On the radio, Willie Nelson's gravelly voice intonated the soulful final notes of a classic country ballad, only to be abruptly shattered by a loud station break. A moment of buzzing silence ensued, followed by a cacophony of jingles and excitement from a car commercial that blasted through the dashboard, startling Phillip who crumpled his already battered map even further.
"ARE YOU LOOKING FOR THE BEST SELECTION IN TOWN? C'MON DOWN TO HARVEY MIKE'S USED CARS! WE HAVE THE BEST USED CARS IN LAWTON, NO MATTER IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR A SEDAN, A MIDSIZE, OR�""
Phillip clicked off the radio. He looked at his map, tracing various roadways with his finger and glancing around at his surroundings for comparison.
"Where the hell am I?" Phillip muttered. He tried to match the map with the directions he had been given, only to end up even more confused. After a few minutes of frustration, and with a growing headache, he angrily tossed the map onto the floorboard and put the car back in drive.
"To hell with this," he said aloud. "I'm going left." He turned. Another half hour passed, and all he saw were endless fields and mountains that never seemed to get any closer. Then, in the distance, he spotted a sign. As he approached the highway, he was finally able to read it:
**Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge**
“’Bout damn time,” Phillip muttered.
Heat waves shimmered on the road, partially obscuring his vision. A beat-up blue truck passed him in the opposite direction as the sun continued its relentless 12-hour journey across the sky. Phillip kept wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes; he was by no means in decent shape, and his size made him sweat even more profusely. It was because of this he didn't notice the blue truck behind him make a u-turn and fall in behind him from a good distance. Following the path marked on the sign, he noticed that scrubbed trees grew sparsely along the sides of the road. Beyond them lay flatland, where wildlife began to emerge. He saw deer in a low field to his right, with others grazing near a distant river. Once he thought he spotted buffalo, but he wasn't sure. He didn't really care either way; this wasn't a sightseeing tour. He was looking for the visitors' center, which had just come into view around the bend. Phillip turned on his right blinker and drove up the long road, flanked by large stone obelisks bearing the name of the refuge on either side. Halfway up the drive, an elk stepped onto the road and froze. Phillip slammed on the brakes and pressed the horn. The animal stared blankly at the car. Phillip honked again, but the elk continued to gaze at him. It nodded its head up and down, as if agreeing to an unspoken question, and then slowly trotted to the other side of the road.

Phillip flipped it off and continued driving.

�"----------------------
The building that gradually materialized from the hazy horizon was far from remarkable in its architectural design. Its structure bore a striking resemblance to a South African hut, with its defining characteristics starkly outlined against the blinding midday sun. The roof, a vivid shade of emerald green, gracefully sloped down from a sharply peaked apex, forming a welcoming overhang that offered a brief respite from the relentless heat at the entry doors. The exterior walls, painted in an earthy beige, were adorned with uneven geometric patterns that injected a sense of whimsicality into the otherwise simplistic facade, particularly accentuating the window frames and the sturdy columns that anchored the overhang. This peculiar design stirred memories for Phillip, reminiscent of a modern art festival he had attended in San Francisco years prior�"he had hated it then as well.
Phillip parked his car in the lot, the gravel crunching under his tires. He switched off the engine. Digging into his bag, he retrieved the gun, methodically flipping open the chamber with a chilling sense of grim resolve. Each deliberate movement felt weighted, as he reached into another pocket to extract the ammunition�"shiny brass bullets that gleamed ominously in the harsh light. Loading the weapon was almost ritualistic for him, each bullet sliding into place serving to fortify his self-created destiny. Once the chamber clicked shut, he tucked the gun back into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out into the stifling heat. The oppressive warmth enveloped him like a heavy, suffocating blanket, making each breath feel labored and the air thick with humidity. Grateful for the promise of relief, he discovered the main doors slightly ajar and pushed through them into the lobby. Instantly, he was embraced by the artificial chill of the powerful industrial air conditioning. Out of the corner of his eye, a soda machine glinted invitingly, its metallic surface reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead. Fishing out a handful of coins from his pocket, he approached the machine urgently, pressing the buttons with a sense of desperation, and the satisfying clatter of the can tumbling down filled him with anticipation. He eagerly cracked open the can and gulped down the fizzy drink in one long, eager drink, feeling the cold liquid rush down his throat like a balm to the fire of his thirst. A loud belch escaped him unexpectedly, its echo reverberating through the stillness of the lobby, before he crumpled the empty can in his hand and hurled it toward a nearby trash can. The can missed its target, careening off course and rolling across the carpet, spilling leftover soda into it, but Phillip offered it little more than a cursory glance as he continued on his way.
“Oh man,” he muttered, peeling his sweat-soaked shirt away from his neck as a wave of frustration washed over him, “there HAS to be a better way to have someone killed.”

�"-------------------
The visitors' center was deserted. Phillip ignored the "No Smoking" sign and lit a cigarette as he wandered through the various rooms. In one room, he noticed that the walls were adorned with photographs of ducks and other waterfowl. A high ceiling, featuring a slowly turning ceiling fan, buzzed lazily overhead, swinging gently on its supports. In the center of the room were two long black benches placed back-to-back, with light from two small windows reflecting off their polished surfaces. Overall, the room had a surreal atmosphere.
Phillip sat on one of the benches, lit a cigarette, and stared at the photos. He noticed someone had drawn a mustache on one unsuspecting mallard. After a while, the combination of the cool air, sunlight, and a sugar crash from the soda hit him hard. Phillip lay back across the bench, propping his feet up on the armrest. He began to doze off, the cigarette dangling limply from his fingers. Time passed. The buzzing from the spinning fan continued unabated. Outside, the sun began its descent into late afternoon, casting long shadows throughout the room. The cigarette burned down to the filter and then to the inner pads of Phillip's fingers. Suddenly, he awoke, flinging the burning stub away and waving his hand in front of him. He walked over and crushed it out on the carpet with his foot.
He put his scorched fingers in his mouth to soothe the pain.
"You should probably pick that up," a voice spoke from behind, making Phillip jump and his heart race. He turned to see a man sitting on the opposite bench, his legs propped up and one arm resting on the back support.
The man was broad-shouldered with stern features and a shaved head that tapered into a hasty widow's peak. Dressed in jeans and a V-neck t-shirt, Phillip thought he looked a bit overdressed for the heat wave outside, especially with the brown leather coat he was wearing. The man wore dark sunglasses and was staring up at the ceiling.
His voice sounded tired and gravelly. "You could start a fire that way."
Phillip turned fully to face the man. This must be the person he was supposed to meet.
"What does it matter to you?" he asked.
The mystery man sat up and pulled a folded packet of candy from his jacket pocket. He opened it and held it out to Phillip, who declined the offer. The man shrugged, broke off a piece for himself, and then put the packet back in his jacket.
“It matters to me,” he replied, “because I like ducks.” He popped the candy into his mouth.
“What are you talking about�"”
The man cut him off. “I like ducks, and so do a lot of people. Kids from all over the country come here and stand right where you are now, looking at these pictures.”
“So? Why should I care about some kids and some ducks? I'm here for a very specific reason, and it’s not ducks.”
The mystery man leaned toward Phillip and removed his sunglasses, revealing two differently colored eyes: one green and one blue. “You should care,” he explained, “because if I were a parent, I wouldn’t want the memory of my child loving a harmless animal to disappear because some inconsiderate person like you left a smoldering bit of fire on a dry carpet.”
Phillip set his jaw. Nobody talked to him this way. He moved closer to the bag sitting on the bench.
“The point is,” the man continued, “I like ducks. Right now, that’s all that should matter to you. So, please pick that up right now. It’s not a request. You shouldn’t even be smoking here anyway… it’s a filthy habit.”
Phillip wasn’t entirely certain what it was about this man, but a magnetic presence emanated from him that demanded attention. The air around him felt charged, and instinctively, Phillip understood that this was not someone to approach lightly. He bent down to retrieve the discarded cigarette butt from the ground, its remnants still warm, and slipped it into his pocket, a small gesture that only deepened his discomfort. Struggling against his own sense of humiliation, he sought to regain control of the situation.
Standing taller, he squared his shoulders back, lifted his chin, and adjusted his tie with deliberate precision. His posture�"an artful blend of confidence and authority�"was a tactic that had proven successful in intimidating many during his business dealings over the years, and he hoped it would yield the same effect on this enigmatic man seated calmly on the weathered bench.
Clearing his throat, Phillip’s voice emerged, firm and unyielding.
“So, you’re the person I came here to see. It’s about time you showed up.”

________________________________________

_______________________________________

Each word was laced with a subtle tension, echoing the lingering uncertainty in the air as he awaited the man’s response, keenly aware that this encounter could alter the course of his plans.
“Yeah, and it’s about time you woke up,” the man shot back. He stood up, walked around to Phillip’s side of the bench, then sat down again, looking bemusedly at Phillip. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you honestly think that mental intimidation crap will work on me?”
Phillip remained silent, his expression stone-faced.
“Remember that you were the one who wanted this meeting. You needed my services, not the other way around. If you don’t like it, I can leave and let you sort this out yourself.”
Phillip realized the man was right. He sighed deeply, and his shoulders slumped.
“Of course... I apologize. It’s just been a very stressful day. So, tell me how this works. I assume that, for obvious reasons, I can’t know your real name.”
“No, Mr. Marco.”
“Hmm,” Phillip sighed. “I guess you saw my face on the news?”
The man nodded.
“Alright, can I know your name then?”
“Nope.” The man winked, as if in response to a joke Phillip wasn't aware of.
Phillip sighed again, already feeling irritated with this man. “Okay, so what do I call you?”
“Many simply call me Katil.”
“Is that what I should call you?”
The man picked candy out of his teeth with his little finger. “If you want, I really don’t care.”
Ignoring him, Phillip reached into his back pocket and handed Katil a picture of his wife.
“This is her? She’s pretty.”
“She’s a nightmare. She’s the one who ruined me. She’s the reason I’m meeting you here instead of in a penthouse office.”
Katil chuckled. “That’s really not her fault, is it? Maybe if you hadn’t been such a dingle about the whole thing….”
“F**k you,” Phillip snarled.
Katil stood and stepped very close to Phillip. “Watch your language. I don’t like cursing, or people who do. As for your wife, everything that has happened to you is your own fault, and I won’t do the job.” Phillip stood stunned. This was not the response he had expected. His confusion gave way to anger, and he lunged for the bag containing the gun. Katil made no effort to stop him; he simply stood by, watching as Phillip struggled with the gun, which had become caught in the inner lining of the bag and wouldn’t come loose.
“Need some help?” Katil asked sarcastically.
In the end, Phillip gave a strong pull, and the gun ripped free. The bag fell to the floor, and Phillip pointed the revolver directly at Katil’s face, cocking the hammer back.
“You will do it. Do you understand me?! You will!” Phillip's voice trembled with rage. “I have invested too much time and too much money into this for you to just say no!” He reached out and shoved Katil back down onto the bench. Katil sighed, stood back up and brushed off his jacket.
“Don’t do that again,” he said sternly. “And please remember what I said about cursing.”
“Then….why are you even here?” Phillip asked, his fear and confusion evident on his face. “Why? If you knew you weren’t going to do it?!” He raised the gun again at Katil, who calmly removed the foil pouch from his jacket and placed another piece of candy in his mouth.
“Tell me!” Phillip roared.
Katil stared at him, chewing silently.
“Relax,” he finally said. He raised his hands in a calming gesture. “You’re upset; I can tell. I’m great at reading people.”
“I’ve risked too much,” Phillip confessed. “You know who I am and what I want to do... I can’t just let you walk out of here!”
Katil shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s fair.”
The gun trembled slightly in Phillips’ grip as he thrust it forward with barely contained frustration. “Tell me why you’re here!” he demanded.
Katil hesitated, a smirk creeping across his face, then casually dropped his hands to his sides. “Like I said before, you seem a bit stressed,” he observed, completely ignoring the gun pointed at him. “You know what helps me when I’m feeling that way? I picture a Tyrannosaurus Rex… you know, the one with those tiny arms? I can’t help but laugh imagining one trying to put on a hat.” He tucked his elbows in and made an exaggerated attempt to balance an invisible hat on his head.
“What the hell…?” Phillips stammered, utterly baffled.
“…or trying to play the flute…” Katil continued, mimicking the T-Rex with his arms still tucked, furrowing his brows in concentration.
“Shut up!” Phillips barked, a mix of irritation and disbelief in his voice.
“…….or painting a house…” Katil flailed his “tiny” arms in frustration, his face alight with glee.
“Enough!” Phillips yelled, trying hard to regain control of the situation.
“OH!……picking up a quarter…” His expression shifted as he feigned intense focus, eyes bulging with the effort of his imagined struggle.
“Shut up, you lunatic!” Phillips shouted, the tension in the room thickening.
“……or my personal favorite, making a bed. The imagery in that one is quite delightful.” Katil continued, blissfully oblivious to Phillips’ rising fury.
“Just shut up and tell me who you are!” Phillips growled, his patience wearing thin.
“Oh, my apologies,” Katil replied, feigning a dramatic bow. “I was merely trying to lend a hand. I read somewhere that stress can lead to weight gain, hair loss, and general overall crankiness.” Katil paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he regarded Phillips. “Wow….you must be REALLY stressed.”
“NOW!!” Phillip roared.
“Okay….alright, relax. I came here because of the woman you just kidnapped.”
Phillip’s eyes grew large with astonishment.
“Are you serious? How could you possibly know about her?!” He said in disbelief.
“I watch the news, just like everyone else. I also know that you have a group of gargoyles working for you that do some very not nice things,” Katil replied. “ I know that you know where she is. I also know that you hired a very fat man to meet you here so you could have your wife killed. He’s tied up in a gas station a few miles south of here. When he wakes up, I'm sure he’ll just think this was a hilarious misunderstanding. Plus, on my way to meet Tubby the hit man, I saw your goons run that poor woman off the road and drag her away.”
Phillip stammered and the gun wavered. “How did you know about him?”
“Who?”
“The hit man!”
“Oh, him. We met at a mixer a few years ago. I didn’t like the way he sipped his mai tai, so I kept tabs on him.”
“You’re full of s**t.” Phillip told him, rolling his eyes.
“Maybe, but your minion that I captured made a pretty convincing argument of who he was and where he would be.”
Phillip stammered and the gun wavered. “What if I told you she was already dead? Huh? What would you do then?”
“Then I would say that you have made a very serious mistake.”
“Well I guess that makes two of us.” Phillip said coldly, and pulled the trigger.
click*
He pulled the trigger several more times, his eyes growing wider with each dry, non-firing click.
*click*
*click*
*click*
*click*
*click*
Panicking, Phillip opened the chamber and stared inside. It was empty. The surprise came when he heard the chambering of a .45 and felt its’ cold steel barrel against the side of his head. Katil easily took the revolver from him and tucked it in his belt. “You think I didn’t know about the gun you had in your bag? I’ve been following you all day. I pulled the bullets from the gun during your little siesta on the bench earlier.”
A sudden realization struck Phillip. “The… beat up blue truck…th-that was you?”
“Actually it’s more of a dark blue, and it’s not that beat up, just a little…weathered.”

Standing there, his heart pounding, Phillip knew there was a chance he was going to die. The sun outside had set to a dusky haze, casting a murky darkness across the room and the man that stood just in front of him. He decided he would get out of here, one way or another, and he would kill this son-of a b***h before he did. Afterward, he would take that very nice, very beautiful black .45 that Mr. Katil No-name was holding and use it to kill his b***h wife. Nobody crossed Phillip Marco….nobody.
With a speed not expected from a man of Phillip’s size, he darted away from the pistol and rushed Katil, who calmly stepped away and brought the pistol down on Phillips’ head. Phillip fell in a heap onto the floor, holding his bloodied scalp. He only remained for a moment, then arose and rushed Katil a second time, his shirt-tail flapping and his ample stomach billowing out over the top of his belt. Once again Katil stepped aside, throwing out his leg and tripping Phillip. Phillip toppled over one of the benches and slammed head first into the opposite wall. A picture frame rattled, swung and then fell to the floor in a heap of shattered glass. Phillip lay on his back, gasping for air, the world spinning around him. He could feel a sense of foreboding as he fought to keep his consciousness intact. Above him, Katil loomed, straddling his body, the .45 aimed directly at Phillip’s face.
“Ppp-lease….” he whined, “Don’t kill me…I’ll tell you where she is! Please just don’t kill me!”
“Where?” Katil queried.
“Promise not to kill me and I’ll tell you….!” Phillip cried.
“I’ll kill you if you don’t and find her anyway.”
Phillip sobbed harder. Katil fired one shot into the carpet inches away from Phillip’s head.
“Where?!” Katil asked again, more forcefully.
“An old warehouse, just outside of town! She’s alive I swear it! Please don’t kill me!!!!” Phillip answered between sobs, hands raised defensively. Katil stepped back and grinned. “Are you sure?” He asked, his voice returning to joviality.
“Yes…yes, I’m sure!”
Katil holstered his gun back under his jacket. “See, it's not that hard to be a good person. You just helped a young woman in need. I think this has been a good talk,” Katil told him. “It’s been so good, in fact, that I’m gonna tell you a secret..” Katil knelt down and whispered- I’m not a killer.” He then stood and returned his voice to a normal level. “At least, not of people, anyway. That’s why I’m only going to break your kneecap. You will whine and cry, and I will leave. I know you won’t release the woman, she’s become a liability to you and the babysitters club you got over there. However, you will keep her safe, because very soon I will be coming for her, and there will be nothing you can do to stop me. Now, with no further delay...." Katil kicked Phillip in the left kneecap. It snapped with an audible crack and Phillip writhed in excruciating pain. He whined and cried, just as predicted. Blood welled in a puddle from his leg, his head and hair were a sticky, bloody mess. He writhed in pain and his sobs turned into full out wails. His vision blurred and he blacked out.

�"----------------------------

As he slowly regained consciousness, his gaze fell upon the ceiling of a swaying vehicle, the rhythmic hum of the engine vibrating through the floor. Pain radiated through his leg and head, both wrapped tightly in crisp, white bandages that felt foreign against his skin. A flicker of recognition swept over him as he caught sight of the driver’s face reflected in the rearview mirror�"Diego, his loyal right-hand man, with worry etched across his brow.
“Glad you’re awake, boss,” Diego said, his voice steady yet laced with urgency. “We’ve got someone tailing us, been on our tail for a while now. What do you wanna do?”
Phillip lifted his head and peered out the back window, squinting against the fading light. In the blurry distance, he caught a glimpse of the old metallic blue pick-up truck, its paint dull yet somehow nostalgic, glinting softly in the evening sun. The driverspotted Phillip's gaze and waved enthusiastically, a cheerful smile stretching across his face.
Phillip grimaced in response, his lips curling into a sneer that echoed the bitterness simmering within him.
“Kill the son of a b***h.”
Diego picked up the hand radio and began issuing commands to the men at the warehouse. They needed to be prepared.



3.

In a small town in Oklahoma, an abandoned warehouse stands isolated in a remote area, just 20 minutes from town and accessible solely via a service road that leads directly to its front gates. Once the distinguished Clean Wave Laundry Service, the facility thrived during its prime, outfitted with cutting-edge washing equipment. However, the ambitious owner, Tom Larden, oversold his company's capabilities, making extravagant promises of additional services at lower prices. Ultimately, the inevitable happened: Clean Wave shut down, leaving Tom facing bankruptcy and forced to sell his failing enterprise.
Years passed as the warehouse lay dormant until it was acquired at a fraction of its original value. This property is now under the ownership of a man who, legally, is considered dead. Phillip Marco purchased the facility before his fall from grace at Wallace-Stone, with plans to use it for clandestine meetings and to manage his more problematic clientele. In the weeks leading up to Marco's fake death, he transferred the lease to a new owner: Marco Caroni. Under this new identity, Phillip Marco was able to drop his guise of civility and act unencumbered in his new criminal career.


Diego expertly navigated the car through the rusted gates of the Clean-wave warehouse, the metallic groans punctuating the stillness of the air like the warnings of a long-forgotten sentinel. In the backseat, Caroni slumped against the worn leather cushions, a deep furrow etched between his brows as he nursed a relentless headache. His expressions wavered between irritation and discomfort, punctuated by sharp complaints about his aching leg. Two low-ranking henchmen, clad in shadowy attire that seemed to blend with the dim surroundings, stood guard at the entrance, their eyes sweeping over the desolate landscape before they secured the gate with a final, definitive click.
Pulling into one of the secluded truck bays, shrouded in the dappled shadows of an overgrown tree, Diego brought the vehicle to a firm yet gentle halt, the tires crunching softly over gravel and debris. The engine's hum fell silent in an instant, the stark contrast enveloping them in a moment of stillness. Without hesitation, Diego sprinted around to the back, offering a steadying hand to Caroni as he navigated his way out. The narrow staircase they ascended creaked ominously beneath their weight.
Inside Tom Lardens former office, which could barely be called one as it was nothing more than a spacious closet with a desk, an air conditioner buzzed adversarially, battling against the oppressive heat that clung to the air. The unit’s compressor groaned with exhaustion, its prime long since gone, while a wave of stale, hot air erupted from the window box, amplifying the discomfort that permeated the cramped room. Diego switched off the struggling air conditioner, and a brief, welcomed stillness descended, offering a fleeting respite from the heat's relentless grasp. Caroni groaned as he dropped himself into his oversized office chair and spun to face the window. Looking out, he could see the front gates. His men pacing, alert, but so far there was no sign of the blue truck that had been following them. He furrowed his brow and spun back to his desk, where, opening a drawer, he pulled a bottle of peroxide, several bandages, a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass. While Caroni poured himself a drink and swallowed in one gulp as Diego began tending and dressing his head wound. When the peroxide stung Caronis scalp, the boss yelped like an angry puppy. Diego didn’t even notice.
When Diego had finished, Caroni grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured two more shots, downing them consecutively. Grabbing the neck of the bottle, he poured 1 more shot, raised the glass to eye level and studied it for a moment, then set it back down. Caroni opened another drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. It dangled there limply between his lips. He stared blankly at the empty glass on his desk, his surroundings becoming nothing more than a backdrop. Diego sat in the armchair across from him, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife.
"How ya feelin’, boss?" he asked.
Caroni held his head in his hands and groaned.
“I’m fine.” He lied.
Diego stood, and moved to the window again. It was hot as hell without the AC, so he opened the window. As he did, he thought he felt something rush inside. He took no notice and sat back into his chair. He sat wide-legged, and crossed his arms.
“There’s still no sign of your man in the blue truck.” Diego reported.
“How many men do you have?”
Diego put on his reading glasses and retrieved a notebook from his coat, thumbed through the pages. When he found the right one he raised his eyebrows and read as an old man might read the front page of a newspaper. "Sir, at last report we had 4 men on the upper levels, one stationed at each of the 5 entrances, and 3, myself included, walking the main floor. 12 men total. Does that seem like enough to take this guy?" Diego closed up the notebook and replaced it in his jacket along with the glasses.
“I’m not sure. Better Double it. This guy comes within 10 feet of this place, I want him taken alive. Understood?”
Diego nodded his understanding and grinned. “Hurt your pride, did he?”
Caroni sat back in his chair and lifted his injured leg up onto the desk. He winced, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Worse than that. He insulted me. Make sure your men know that nobody kills this guy but me." Caroni said calmly.
"Yeah," Diego replied, “Don’t worry, I’ll make it happen.”
“What about the woman?” Caroni asked.
“She is uncomfortable, but alive.”
"Good, we may still need her."
"What about the kid? Is she necessary too?" he asked sarcastically.
Caroni sat up, squinted his eyes in an attempt to look menacing and glared straight at Diego, his face puffing up like a giant frog. Diego had a hard time not laughing at him. Caroni had a way about him that everyone else found threatening. Diego didn't. He had worked for Mr. Caroni for so long he knew the man would never risk his hand by laying it upon him.
"Yes, she is. Her family is rich, and her dad screwed me out of a great payday. Her family owes us to get her back."
Diego nodded and raised his eyebrows non committedly.
“What?” Caroni said with a sigh.
"Well boss, relax. We got everything covered, but the kid ... .Well, we had our guys watching them for weeks before we nabbed her, and yeah, her parents are dead ... .but it just seems like the rest of her family don’t care that much. We sent out the ransom notice, and still haven’t heard crap back."
Caroni lifted his cigarette from his mouth and put it out on the top of the desk. It hissed and left a black burn scar in the old wood. The desktop was covered in the black burn scars. Caroni stood, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Give it a little longer, the cops are probably advising them not to respond. Anyway, remember that old man who cut me off in traffic last week?”
“The one who committed suicide after we killed him?”
“Yeah, that one. Didn’t he have a cane with a wolf head on it?”
“Yeah, I think so, yeah. I kept it ‘cause I thought it was pretty cool looking.”
“Find it for me. I’m gonna clean up, then I want to see the woman.”





















5.
When Lauren, also known as "the woman," woke up, her first thought was about the cold concrete floor she was lying on. Her second thought was the pounding in her head. Her hands and legs were free, and the gag and hood had been removed. She moved slowly at first, flexing her arms and legs painfully, willing the pins and needles out of them.
Lauren reached out a hand and felt cold metal. As her vision adjusted to the artificial light of the warehouse, she realized she was trapped in a welded steel cage, one that in another time and place might have been used to enclose large dogs or other animals. She stumbled over to the cage door and hooked her fingers through the wire mesh. She shook the door, and the metal rattled.
Her next thought was to try reaching through the mesh to access the door lock, but she cried out in frustration when she discovered that the simple latch typically found on such cages had been replaced with a heavy padlock. Pulling her arm back, she paced anxiously for a moment, running her hands through her now blood-matted and filthy hair. ‘What in the blue hell is this about?!’- she thought, her heart beginning to race and adrenaline rising. This time she screamed out loud- "I don’t even know these people! I was supposed to be on a cruise right now, and those tickets are non-refundable. Guess I’m just out that thirteen hundred dollars. My lips hurt so much, and I DON’T EVEN HAVE ANY FREAKING CHAPSTICK!" This last thought made her angrier than anything else. Ignoring the pain still pinching her feet and legs, she rushed to the door, her eyes blazing with fury. Her muscles tensed, and she delivered a hard, flat-footed kick to the door.“Open up!” she cried, shaking the cage violently. “Open up, damn you!” she yelled again, kicking the door a second time. This time she felt it give slightly and stepped back for another strike at the lock. “Somebody better let me out of here right now, or I’m going to do it myself!”
In retrospect, she realized that announcing her plan might not have been the best course of action. She felt out of control�"like an adrenaline junkie unable to think clearly until the rush subsided. As she raised her foot for the final kick, hoping to break the lock open, a man in a stained white t-shirt rushed out of a room to the left of the cage. The guards' pants were unbuckled, and he seemed torn between pulling up his falling pants and raising his AR-15. Ultimately, he chose to brandish the weapon. His pants slid low around his thighs, revealing dirty green boxers beneath his shirt.
“Back off!” he called to her. He waddled/shuffled over to the cage, nearly dropping the AR he held with one hand while he tried to hike up his pants with the other. Lauren didn't know if it was the absurdity of the situation or the thought that this guy might get lucky and shoot her, even if by accident, but she raised her hands and backed to the rear of the cage.
“First kidnapping?” She asked sarcastically.
The guard scoffed nervously, his hands trembling slightly as he pointed his rifle towards Lauren. “You... you just sit down right there on the floor and... and don’t move!” he stammered, his voice quivering like a leaf in the wind. A defiant grin spread across Lauren’s face, and without hesitation, she raised her middle finger high into the air in front of the guard's face.
“Sit down!” he barked again, his voice rising in pitch, desperation creeping into the corners of his voice.
In response, Lauren now offered him the middle finger of both hands.
“What are you gonna do?” she taunted, her voice dripping with mockery. “Lock me in a cage?”
The guard, visibly rattled, lowered his rifle, his posture wavering as he fumbled with his belt, adjusting it in an attempt to regain some semblance of authority.
“I didn’t even want to be here anyway…” he mumbled under his breath.
Suddenly, a new voice broke through the tension from an unseen corner. “Where would you rather be?” it asked. This new voice was smooth and commanding. Lauren narrowed her eyes, her curiosity piqued as she watched two men step into view.
The first man was the one who had spoken. This man was tall, with sleek dark hair that accentuated his imposing frame. He wore fitted dress slacks and a crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms adorned with faint tattoos. A polished pistol sat holstered under one arm, its presence exuding authority and danger. Beside him stood his antithesis-a short, heavier man whose robust stomach strained against the seams of his suit, the lack of a tie revealing a casual arrogance. A series of bandages adorned the top of his head, suggesting he had recently encountered something far more brutal than mere words. His double chins quivered slightly as he breathed heavily, and he leaned on a silver cane, which he tapped rhythmically against the floor to support his weight. Each step seemed labored, accompanied by a noticeable limp that betrayed his discomfort.
The tall man’s gaze turned disapprovingly towards the guard, whose earlier confidence had completely evaporated. It was evident that the guard’s fear of these two figures outweighed any semblance of authority he hoped to project.
'They must be the ones in charge,' Lauren thought to herself, the realization settling in as the atmosphere thickened with a new uncertainty.
"Well? Where would you rather be?"
"I... I just meant to say that... she was trying to escape!"
Diego smiled and glanced at Caroni, who nodded in response. Diego then placed his arm around the boy and walked him down the hall. Meanwhile, Caroni approached the cage and stood before Lauren.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that. Employee morale can be difficult to manage in my line of work.” A distant plea for mercy echoed through the air, followed by the sharp report of a gunshot. Caroni smiled and triumphantly tapped his cane against the cage. “However, sometimes it is very easy to resolve.”
Lauren's eyes burned with angry tears.
“He didn’t deserve that!” she yelled. “He was just a dumb kid!”
“Maybe,” Caroni replied calmly, “but what’s done is done. I don’t tolerate insubordination. The only reason you’re still alive is that, unfortunately, I need you. I would love nothing more than to display your corpse in the main lobby.”
“Why don’t you come in here and try it?” Lauren said through clenched teeth. Caroni laughed as Diego returned to join him.
“Wow, you’re full of fire, aren’t you?” Caroni mused. “Tell me, fireball, what’s your name?”
“Go to hell,” Lauren replied.
“Well, that’s not very nice. Diego?”
Diego pulled a keyring from his pocket and opened the cage. Lauren immediatly rushed forward and kicked Diego hard in the crotch. He let out an angry grunt and immediately retaliated by punching Lauren square in the face. She fell hard and hit her head on the concrete. Diego then delivered a sharp kick to her ribs before stepping back.
“Now, I’ll ask again. What’s your name?”
Lauren got shakily to her feet and braced herself against the wall of her cage. Her head was pounding, her face hurt, and she felt like she had a broken rib. It hurt to breathe.
“My name,” she said defiantly, “Is Lauren Renee Hawkins. And I promise you that if I get the chance, I will personally shove that cane up your a*s.”
Diego clenched another fist and stepped forward. Caroni lifted his hand in a ‘stop’ gesture and Diego stepped back.
Caroni’s lips curled into a smirk, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and malice. “Ah, Ms. Hawkins,” he repeated, savoring each syllable as if it were a fine wine. “Such a fiery spirit. It’s almost charming, really. But charm won’t save you here.”
Lauren’s heart raced, but she forced herself to stand tall, despite the pain radiating through her body. “You think you can intimidate me with your little games? You’re wrong.”
“Intimidation?” Caroni chuckled, moving closer to the bars of her cage -but still keeping his distance- “No, my dear, this is merely a warm-up. You see, I thrive on resilience. It makes the breaking all the more satisfying.”
“Well, before my death makes you fatter and happier, can you at least tell me why I'm here?”
Caroni chuckled. “I brought you here with a plan�"to get some cash from those idiots at Wallace Stone. They owe me a good chunk of money in back pay. But things have changed, fate, it seems, has other plans. So who’s the guy coming to rescue you? The one driving the blue truck?” His tone was sharp and probing.
Lauren shot him a defiant look.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
Caroni's expression shifted, and a slight tremor crept into his voice. “Didn’t think so,” he replied. There was a flicker of unease in his voice that Lauren couldn’t ignore.
“Not that it matters much,” he added, brushing it off. “He’s not a big deal anyway.”
Lauren let out a dry laugh and wiped away the blood on her cheek with her sleeve.
“Clearly not. This guy has you so rattled you can't even move. I hope he rips you both apart.” She told them. Caroni and Diego exchanged a worried glance before Caroni turned to leave.
“Don’t hold your breath,” Diego said as he closed the cage. He secured the padlock, winked at her, and then followed his boss out of the room.

____________________________________________________

When they finally left, Lauren sank down onto the hard concrete, overwhelmed by sobs. The ache inside her was profound, a pain that felt entirely new and unimaginable. Her whole body hurt. Yet, amid the heaviness of her sorrow, a tiny glimmer of hope flickered within her. Could it be true�"was someone actually coming to rescue her? Was that fat b*****d telling the truth? If so, why her? Why now when despair felt so all-consuming?
Lost in these swirling thoughts, Lauren was suddenly pulled back to the present by the gentle voice of a small girl, shining through the darkness that had surrounded her.
“Is it true? Is there really someone coming to help us?” the voice asked. Lauren looked around. Through her throbbing headache and blurry vision (oh god, I have a concussion), she saw a young girl in the next cage. The girl’s cage was considerably darker, and she sat in the deepest corner of that darkness.
“Hi,” Lauren said. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Yeah, I’ve been here since yesterday. I thought if I stayed silent and in the dark, they might forget about me.”
“That’s a good thought,” Lauren told her. “But no, if someone is coming for us, I don’t know anything about it.” She heard the girl sigh hopelessly.
“I liked the way you stood up to them,” the girl said. “I don’t think I could ever be that brave. I didn’t even put up a fight when they brought me here.”
Lauren stood up and wiped the blood from her face with her sleeve. “Why are you here? What are you, 14? Did they… do anything to you?” Lauren asked.
“I’m 15, and no, nobody touched me like that,” the girl replied, stepping into the light. Thin and filthy, her long blonde hair was dirty and matted. Her clothes were ripped and stained. Her face showed signs of abuse, with cuts and welts decorating her cheeks and temples. “I don’t really know why I’m here, other than something about my dad owing money to them. I guess they think they can use me to get money from my other family members, but they’re wrong. I have no other family. My parents were the only family I had left, and now, well, they….” The girl choked on the last word.
“This guy killed them?” Lauren finished. The girl nodded, staring at the ground with tears in her eyes. Lauren reached through the mesh and took the girl’s hand. “We are going to get out of here. I promise.”
“Really?” the girl asked, looking up at her.
“Yes. My name is Lauren. What’s yours?”
The girl took a shaky breath and licked the tears from her lips. “G-Grace. Grace Hartmann. Pleased to meet you… That’s what my mom said was the polite thing to say when you meet someone new.”
Lauren held the girl’s hand and nodded. “Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of you.” She smiled.
Grace smiled back.

Reviews

[Davidgeo]

Goin hog wild with the prose I see. I read until Phillip flipped it off and continued driving... not because I didn't like what I was reading, I just don't have that kind of time all in one place. It's better to release this kind of writing in shorter chapters. Even if you put it all out at the same time, break it up. People are pretty short on attention span... you have to almost trick them into reading more than they want to sometimes.