The desert city of Sairananhal had never seen a day so bloody as the morning Zekarich chose the Light and thus took up his sword against his father Xanaiat, Lord of the Darklands. Xanaiat had tried to reach Zekarich with every method at hand, though even the cold-hearted black dragons could not reach his traitorous son. So Xanaiat sent them away, choosing at last to go into the world of men himself to take back Zekarich’s soul.

Zekarich stood upon the city wall, his broad, tall frame a dark silhouette against the stormy sky. He watched as dark clouds covered the city of Sairananhal, the rough northern seas, and the southern desert. Xanaiat had manifested upon the human plane, a black tornado rising from the sea. Zekarich looked at the men beside him, warriors so small in comparison to the giant black body he wore.

“He’s here,” Zekarich said.

“We are ready to meet him,” a squat, well-armored soldier replied, his dark skin glistening with sweat. Without another word, Zekarich leapt from the wall to the courtyard below. His human companions scurried to the stairs and down, past the archers and ballista teams, until they joined the swarming army in the courtyard.

Zekarich’s army shuddered as the gates of Sarainanhal opened before them. Xanaiat’s power overtook the weak-souled men holding back the gates, and they fell in behind their new master. Xanaiat had chosen a physical vessel so similar to the one Zekarich’s soul wore, that the old man looked to be the young man’s human father. Now Zekarich could see the red fire in his father’s eyes rushing toward him through the sand blasted air. Behind the old giant, the Sairananhal’s Outer Guard followed, charging. Zekarich’s own army had been turned against him. He heard the roar of his father’s curse echo in his mind as the army collided in upon itself. As Xanaiat marched the long wide road, he absorbed Zekarich’s soldiers into his dark aura.

Zekarich stood strong, ready to defend, a thousand soldiers at his heel. Zekarich’s fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his enormous curved sword, his relic of this desert kingdom he had so long commanded. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments and felt the presence of the great silver dragon beyond the dunes. His throat ushered forth the fiercest of cries as his eyes came open. Xanaiat splashed upon Zekarich and his army in a great wave of fury, his barbed black sword a whirlwind. Zekarich met Xanaiat’s black blade in a shower of sparks. The duel between dark father and betraying son ignited the men around them. Soon the sons of Sairananhal took up their arms against one another, brother killing brother, father battling child.

Xanaiat had overestimated his power, for Zekarich was a terror before him. Their blades flashed like a maelstrom, curved silver and barbed black dancing, clashing, stabbing until Xanaiat caught Zekarich’s sword with his own. Xanaiat twisted his arms, tightening the grip of sword on sword, and pulled his son’s face close to his own.

“What do you do?” Xanaiat sneered.

“I choose the Light,” Zekarich replied, torquing his sword free. He leapt in the air, spinning, sword ready to strike. Xanaiat moved, Zekarich’s sword clipped his heel. The old man grunted.

“The Light will not save you from me,” Xanaiat spat, flames dashing from his eyes. “Nor from my sword.”

He spun like lightning, slicing through the air towards Zekarich’s neck. In time, the boy ducked, thrusting his blade towards the old man’s chest. His sword glanced the armor, nicked Xanaiat’s cheek, and Zekarich stumbled to his knees.

Xanaiat laughed, a sound like thunder under the black clouds. He kicked a heavy boot into Zekarich’s face, knocking his failed offspring to the ground. Zekarich’s eyes filled with fear, his confidence of right decision fleeing with every breath. Xanaiat thrust his foot upon Zekarich’s chest, watching his son try to push it off. Instantly it became like an iron rod piercing through the boy into the ground. Vainly, Zekarich swung his sword.

Xanaiat peered into his son’s eyes, watching the cowardice grow, the realization of weakness and lack of true power expressing on his face.

“You choose the Light, my boy?” he growled, drops of flame drooling from his cracked lips. Zekarich squirmed, feeling defeat. He looked around him, the soldiers had stopped fighting. They surrounded them, arms raised, weapons ready. Xanaiat’s black heart had infected them all. He looked at his father.

“Yes,” Zekarich spoke, with all the volume he could muster. “I choose the Light.”

“Then go to the Light.” And Xanaiat thrust his sword into Zekarich’s heart. Zekarich’s eyes went wide with pain, then fear, and finally hope as they looked to the skies. A grim smile crossed his face as his eyes turned back to Xanaiat.

Xanaiat’s face twisted as their eyes shared the eternity they had known together as father and son. Zekarich’s smile grew wider, a light began to show in his eyes. Xanaiat cursed him again and wrenched the life from Zekarich’s human body on the barbs of his black sword.

Instanty, the winds rose and dark clouds blocked the sun. Zekarich’s eyes went blank, and Xanaiat closed his eyes to gather in his son’s soul. An otherworldly screech covered the land, disrupted his revery. He looked around, saw his army scattering like scared children. Xanaiat looked to the wind and saw the silver dragon rushing in low. He raised his barbed sword to strike, and felt his body fall into paralysis, unable to move a muscle. He shouted through the mindspace at the dragon. The silver’s mind was protected, and so it sent Xanaiat’s shout back to him in an endless, rising echo.

Helpless as he had not been in many epochs of time, Xanaiat stood frozen, watching this great silver winged beast touch the ground beside his son’s dead body. His eyes beyond time saw Zekarich’s soul still there, clinging to the vessel of flesh, as if it could protect him. The dragon glared at Xanaiat, its white eyes too bright to behold. Xanaiat could not blink away the light, and so drew up the flame in his own eyes. That too was washed away in the brightness.

Gently, the dragon took up Zekarich’s body in his talons, and returned to the air. Only as the silver dragon disappeared beyond the southern dunes did Xanaiat regain his mobility. His sword arm fell, slashing through the air. He screamed, a vicious sound intended to evoke the spawn of hell. A swarm of black dragons rose from the sea. They flew over the city, steaming water falling from their wings, and followed the path the silver had flown. Xanaiat glared at the soldiers surrounding him, worshipping him, under his spell. He knew what would happen, he knew the prophecies. Better, he knew the matrix of energetic flux, the story of the universe created by every action. He was aware of the inevitable destiny manifested should a particular and powerful moment sway too far from the balance point. With Zekarich’s soul safe in the Light, the balance would be lost.

“Who is your general?” Xanaiat hissed.

“You just killed him,” a headless voice said from somewhere in the masses.

“And who shall take his place at this army’s head?”

“You?” the voice asked.

“Yes, it’s my army now.” Xanaiat roared. “I will guide you, but I have other work to do. Which man shall step forth to lead this army of mine?” The army was silent, every soldier feeling both utter devotion and absolute fear toward this ancient warrior before them. The flames of his eyes scoured the crowd.

“I will.” The voice said at last.

Xanaiat watched the army shuffle as the voice stepped forward. It belonged to an average man, his eyes open, his skin ruddy from the sun.

“I will lead this army,” the soldier said. He knelt before Xanaiat, “my lord.”

“Good,” Xanaiat said, touching the soldier’s head with a gauntlet bearing hand. He dropped his hand, thinking. “I need a child.” He leaned his head down toward his new general, who met his gaze.

“Tell me, general,” he said, “where might I find a woman?”