Role

Chapter 11

Upon the beach of Loc Grynmear, Ixen watched the smoke rising into the sky
in the distance.

It was summer, and the gardens had been dry. A tipped lantern had been all
it had taken, and with it a labour of love was no more.

He wished he could have witnessed the aftermath. Seen the barren soil,
devoid of encroaching weeds. Stood in the silence as fires sputtered and
died. Known the peace promised through annihilation that was that dire
truth put to paper in the texts anathema: and yet with an even greater
promise too. A promise brought to him not by the purposeless rampage of
Zurcon, but by the whispered tales of another.

The promise that something new would rise from the ashes. That the world
would be reborn from that consuming flame. That things could change.

Yes. He wished he could have stood there after the ash had settled, and
given prayer to Ocaiye even as his first dark pact had formed with
Trallmonnan. Had whispered his words of faith even as the cloying stench of
his crimes had risen to cloak him in its dread miasma.

But he was not yet ready. There were those among the Order that for all
their empty words and doomed ways of peace would raise their hands against
him if pushed, and he was not yet their equal.

Not yet.

Ixen glanced down at the still waters of the lake. The monster was there,
brighter than ever before. Spilled blood upon tranquility, a fire to
illuminate the path to eutopia.

No. He was not ready yet.

"I will be," vowed the damned.

For the first time, Ixen smiled at the monster.

And the monster smiled back.

We will not speak of the dark roads that Ixen walked down in those
following years. Of the unspeakable sacrifices performed upon those unable
to contend with a fire giant's natural strength in the pacting of his dark
benefactors. . We will not speak of the terrible promises made to the
demonic forces in exchange for the power to do what must be done, and the
terrible self-inflicted wounds carved upon his soul in the quest of a
madman's dream. At least, not yet.

But many years later, a young giant of a hundred years entered Galadon
under the cover of twilight. His face was masked with iron, and from behind
it shone two eyes of molten gold.

To a house falling into decay he went, and this too was good; for to find
purpose in the rotting of the foundations was a worthy thing. A place
fitting to begin the craft.

So a dark knight was made.