The Arrow stood before molten fire, the shimmering heatwaves glistening off his sweat-slicked skin. There was no emotion on his face, but in his eyes there was hate hotter than any mortal flame lit by the Fates, for he did not care at all for the lives of Elves and Men.

A crag in the rock behind, the darkness, spoke. “The time of the Dragon is near.”

The Arrow scowled. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the hilt of his sword, newly forged in the fires the flamed far beneath the Flatlands.

“I loose you upon the world, Arrow. To slay all who challenge the darkness with black magic or light. You are weapon. You are power. You are the end of lives.”

The Arrow drew his sword and held it up for the flames of the Innerlands to see. There was no one else there but him. Yet, he gave tribute to the darkness that dwelled so near Earthfire.

The ground began to shake. Dust and stone began to fall from the Innerland’s ceiling. He turned to look into the darkness that had given him life. Next to it, the rock shifted and changed. A staircase appeared, hewn out of the rockface, leading up for miles, twisting and turning, ending in an iron gate that opened on to the world above, the Flatlands.

“Go,” the darkness said. “Go now and let the land of Elves and Men meet their Fates.”

The Arrow went to the stairs.

He began to climb.