“So it was, indeed, the Scourge,” Lord Randson fumed.

He was- pacing in his room, opening and clenching his fists in anger. He wanted to strangle the wizard. It didn’t matter if the duke said his actions spared the city from more damage — the Scourge burnt down his trove!

He lost the wealth and ledgers that gave him influence in the fires — fortunately, the names on those ledgers have yet to find out his predicament.

He had a bit of time. Enough time to drag the Scourge in front of the council and deal with him. He would make sure there was no avenue for escape.

Even the duke’s backing would not sway the council. Some of them were already itching to eliminate the wizard — now they had their excuse.

“Are the men ready?” he asked the attendant beside him.

“Yes, milord. Fifteen mounted knights and another thirty on foot.”

He smiled, a bit bitterly. The Scourge will pay his dues — but his years of hard work were gone, lost in the rubble.

“Have the men ride and capture the Scourge at the first light of dawn,” he barked. “Tell them to bring him to me alive — but make sure to accidentally cut off a limb or two during the struggle.

The attendant seemed to hesitate before bowing. “As you say, milord.”

Lord Randson wanted to ride with his men to this Corner Shop™ of the Scourge. He wanted to see him struggle as his men overwhelmed him with swords and lances. He wanted to hear his pleas for mercy and screams of pain. The Scourge’s happy days in his Corner Shop™ was at an end.

He frowned, a bit puzzled. The shop was situated in the middle of nowhere — how could it be a corner?

He shook his head. It didn’t matter anyway.

Some of the footmen had instructions to take everything of value from the shop — including the butler. Getting his hands on the recipe of the Scourge’s healing drops could make him a bit of money — not that it would equal what he already lost.

His men would burn down the shop the same way his trove was burned.

Lord Randson smiled.

He would rid the Scourge of his wealth, his home, and his butler.

Once he drags him in front of the council he was sure to rid him of his last semblance of dignity and finally his life.

***

Sebas entered the tavern. The place seemed sober — which was expected. Yesterday’s fire was fresh in everyone’s minds. The people here drank to forget their troubles, not to celebrate their survival.

Walking to the bar revealed a familiar face — the half-elf Dallarath. He remembered seeing the adventurer helping with the evacuations and he wondered why the rest of his party wasn’t there.

“Sebas,” Dallarath called without even turning. “I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this.”

“Sir Dallarath.” Sebas sat on a stool beside him. “You helped more than a few people during the fire.”

The butler saw a ring on the half-elf finger with a stylized eye. It probably gave him the ability to see in all directions — much like his master’s chiropteran spell.

“Yes, yes,” Dallarath spouted. “You were running about — and a flaming bat was chasing you.”

The barkeep seemed taken aback by the conversation, but he still managed to serve the butler a mug of ale.

“That was my master. He had to contain the rampaging hellfire with his own.”

The half-elf frowned, seemingly trying to piece together his statement.

“The bat and my master’s deep blue flames held the fire in check,” Sebas explained. “The fire would have spread further if it wasn’t done.”

“I see.”

The butler could still see a sliver of doubt in Dallarath’s eyes — and he understood why. Half — no, most — of the city was probably blaming his master.

He often wondered why his master, the Blackstaff’s son, easily accepted playing the role of villain.

Then again, he probably reveled in it.

He had the vestments, the aura, and the monstrous mount — the trappings of what most would consider an evil mage. He thanked heavens his master stopped carrying the scythe — only to see him tinkering with it in his laboratory.

If the Blackstaff saw his son today and learned of his reputation —

Sebas sighed. Lord Amos would probably approve of it and laugh his way home.

“Dallarath!”

A booming voice alerted the butler to the presence of another familiar face. He turned to see the dwarf Siege, giving him a nod as he neared.

“Oh, the shopkeeper is here too,” Siege paused. “I’m ready to get forging shopkeeper! Prepare a place in your shop for dwarven-forged weapons!”

“Keep your voice down,” Dallarath rebuked the boisterous dwarf, seeing the sharp stares of those around him. “There was a fire yesterday — were you too drunk to notice?”

“Ach, fires are common in dwarven strongholds,” the dwarf seemed to reminisce. “Yesterday’s bright flames and smoke reminded me of me home.”

“Shut the hell up!”

“Gentleman, I will be off,” Sebas remarked. He was unwilling to get drawn into the argument — but more importantly, a cloaked figure was heading to the door.

The butler downed his mug of ale, leaving a few coppers on the counter. He turned to the dwarf as he was leaving.

“Come to the shop the day in two days — any later and my master might be busy dealing with… politics.”

Sebas headed towards the door. He was shadowing one of the cultists his master pointed out. Unlike the rest of them, this one hid inside the city.

He was probably looking for information and rumors regarding the attack and its aftermath. Sebas knew his conversation with the half-elf would be heard, so he crafted his words to catch his attention.

The cultist turned into an alley. He was probably leading him into some sort of trap. Sebas raised an eyebrow — thinking the whole situation was a bit predictable.

He wasn’t supremely confident he could handle the cultist on his own — especially since he was aware and prepared for an attack. He also wanted to avoid fighting as much as possible — he just never liked fighting.

The cultist stopped in the middle of the alley.

“So it’s the Scourge’s butler,” he sneered. “What were you trying to accomplish in following me?

“I was just —“

“Pythias!”

Serpent’s Embrace * Conjuration * Force

Effect: Summons snake-like bands of force that bind the target. The spell’s bindings can be overwhelmed by physical strength or a successful resistance check.

Sebas found himself bound by hissing bands of force. The bands constricted his arms and legs — but they also kept him upright. The butler couldn’t help thinking that it was convenient he didn’t fall to the ground.

It was easy to break through his bindings. His muscles, bones, and internal organs were flooded with unholy amounts of mana during his ritual. It made him stronger and hardier than the usual human — like a xianxia cultivator but without the arrogance.

He shook his head. The arrogance was there — as well as the disregard for human life. However, he chose to be better. Like his master, he would not be a slave to his urges.

“Resigned to your fate?” the cultist asked. He frowned at the lack of confusion, fear, or any emotion for that matter on the butler’s face.

“Are you resigned to yours?” Sebas asked back.

“You!”

The cultist swung his fist at the bound butler — a sharp crack followed his blow as it landed.

“Aaargh!” he yelped as he clutched his broken hand.

Sebas smirked.

“You think this is funny,” the cultist raged. He grabbed a knife from the folds of his robe and approached the smiling butler. “Let’s see how tough you are. You made a mistake trying to face me alone.”

“But I’m not alone.”

The ground seemed to swell between the butler and the cultist, revealing the monstrous form of a giant snail.

Shelby recently learned to phase through the ground like it was water — eliminating the need for her to burrow underground. It was convenient for staying hidden, but Shelby still preferred burrowing — something about feeling tickled while she was phasing.

“I was never your opponent, sir cultist,” Sebas mocked. “It was the snail.”

The cultist could only watch in horror as the monstrous snail plowed into him, striking him with its five flail-like appendages.

The butler cringed at the violence and muffled screams — hopefully, they didn’t create much ruckus.

“Did you kill it?” Sebas stared at the downed cultist. The magical bonds that restricted him were gone the moment Shelby struck.

Shelby seemed to shake her flails in response.

“Take it to the master. He wants to collect them all in one place before dealing with them.

***

Khavn thought the attack went well.

He was sitting in his room reading reports of the incident in Bountiful. He noted the response and sentiments of the populace and smiled.

Sure, the fires didn’t spread to the extent they planned — but they managed to tie the incident to the Scourge.

The idiot even flew in on a giant flaming bat! More than enough people saw him burning buildings and homes. The so-called “Scourge” was done for in Bountiful.

The city’s nobles would want his head served on a platter — he even knew at least one noble was already making preparations to mobilize his personal troops to deal with the wizard.

“Ehem,” an unfamiliar figure placed a cup of tea in front of him.

Who is this person? He dismissed the thought — he was probably one of the apprentices under him. His mind seemed a bit cloudy, probably from the stress and excitement of yesterday’s attack.

“The head will be pleased,” the figure remarked.

“Joric perhaps,” Khavn sneered as he waved a hand dismissively. “It would take the wizard’s head to satisfy Malice.”

The apprentice just stood there to his dismay. This one needed to learn a dismissal when he saw it.

“Close the door behind you,” he ordered in a slightly more forceful manner.

The apprentice closed the door, bolting it in place.

“I meant from the outside!” Khavn roared in frustration. Why did he get stuck with dimwits?

“It doesn’t matter,” the figure said as it took a seat opposite him. “So what’s with this ...Scourge?”

Khavn sighed. He felt drained and tired. Too tired to deal with the pesky apprentice.

“Malice wanted him dead,” he answered. “Something about him keeping the city on its guard — but I think Malice felt the wizard was making us, the Serpents of Prophecy, look bad.”

“This Malice is the big strong guy with a beard?”

“No, that was one of his earlier bodies,” Khavn held back a giggle. “Now he’s just a fat ugly slob.”

“I see,” the figure seemed to grow hazier. “Going back, how was the Scourge making the Serpe — us look bad?

“Eh?” Khavn was starting to get confused at the figure’s seemingly lack of knowledge on the goings on in their circle — he was most likely a fresh recruit.

“The Scourge is a joke,” he sneered. “Walking around with his aura of death, riding atop his giant snail holding a scythe, concocting healing drops that debased the adventurers who used them — who does those things? What is he if not a joke?”

“He could be a bit angry,” said the figure in front of him.

“What do you mean by that?”

Another bout of dizziness struck the already confused cultist — but this time a glimmer of clarity stuck in his mind.

“Wait, you —“

“It doesn’t matter,” said the figure. “Nothing matters now.”