Role

Chapter 11

By now, dear reader, you must understand that I am not a man given to
emotional outburst. Reason is a cornerstone of success. I have believed
this all of my lives. It was well reasoned to seek undeath, for it is a
power to set other powers to trembling. It was well reasoned to seek the
Empire in both cases, for what the Empire offers is a worthy ambition.
Control. Dominion. Power. And most of all: Salvation.

So the first wound to my pride was one I did not allow myself to dwell on.
I was unproven then, after all. A young black servant, and the Empire was
in dire straights and under siege on all sides. Perhaps my Dread Lord's
funds were simply running low, or perhaps he believed I would not be worth
an investment. Understandable. I did not begrudge paying for my own
promotion to black magician.

The second wound to my pride was one that festered, though. A long and
tortuous wait where the Dread Lord stewed, and where I had earned promotion
thrice over; and then he twisted that knife by telling me, despite my
triumphs in the sects name, despite my efforts, I would pay for my
promotion to warlock as well.

This I did begrudge him, and it was reasoned. I knew he had the funds,
after all. I knew I was worthy, and I knew I would pay it anyway.

So yes, dear reader; the second wound to my pride is one I did hold against
the Dread Lord. Yet again, a small slight, in the grand scheme.

The third wound of course is his choice for Dread Lord after his ascension.
Does he think me a fool? I know that he never had any intention of raising
me up, and his little contest was an attempt to compell my beautiful
collection from my personage. In truth, dear reader, I am unsure which
wounds my pride more; the assumption that I am that devoid of insight or
the Dreadlord selection proper. I rather think it might be the former, and
such pains me, for that is not reasoned.

Indignity stacked upon indignity, and it does not end here, for the tableau
I have described dictates that something more is inevitable.

The Emperor desires my collection, and he has failed to obtain it through
what passes for subtlety where he is concerned.

So soon he will command me overtly, or make me anathema when he believes a
chance is at hand.

There was a time, dear reader, when I would have yielded them to him. As a
young black servant ready to serve my Empire and sect, and play the game of
politics until the throne was mine. When I would kneel before the titanium
altar and pray to serve. When my pride was not a web of fractured glass
unwilling to suffer another casual stroke.

Now? If this Emperor commanded me in such a manner? This uncultured
embarrassment to the word cunning?

Well, dear reader. Every man has his limits.

I think that I may have found mine.

And thus, I do declare:

I will destroy you, Kareloth Sandborn. From within the Empire if you let me.

And as an Anathema if you make me.