text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy]
  
  Nodding, you take a step back. Arrow still nocked, you raise your bow into position, drawing the string, the arrow's feather lightly kissing your cheek. Dead eyes meet yours. You release the arrow. The impact snaps the corpse's head back with a sickening crack, your arrow pinning his head against the throne behind him.
  
  Deep rumbling echoes softly beneath you, originating from lower levels of the keep. Wisps of dark magic shoot into the air, coming from the corpse's chest, his back bending unnaturally forward, while still being pinned to the throne. Black violet rays pour out, twisting, flying through the air like ribbons in the wind.
  
  The rumbling continues, growing louder, the very ground beneath you starting to shake. He was bound to this place. Could the place also be bound to him? Seems that way. The floor moves in a sizable quake, like being on a ship's deck during a storm. Another threatens to knock you from your feet.
  
  The dark magic pools in the air, hanging heavy like a dark rain cloud. The screech you heard upon skewering the rat appears, piercing your ears, but this time you remain standing. You need to keep moving if you're going to escape. The keep itself is about to collapse, the very structure itself enslaved to the corpse's rule.
  
  Whatever is happening in the lower levels is making its way up. Katia and "her force" are likely buried by now, the book along with them. With your current rations, there's no way you can spend weeks digging through the rubble. If anything, you'll need to mount an expeditionary team to help, which would take many weeks. That's a problem for another time. Now, you need to survive the collapsing keep.
  
  The room, filled with dark magic, is growing increasingly unstable. Blood pours from your ears. You sheathe your bow and rip of pieces of cloth from your tunic, stuffing them inside of your ears. The opponent you face isn't to be killed by arrows. Your opponent is crumbling in on itself and wants to bury you along with it.
  
  Run. Reach out. We need to escape. There's another solution. Leave this place. Reach out.Leave while you can. The power here, it can be ours. It's a prison. It's a tomb.
  
  > reach out
  The very structure collapsing around you, threatening to bury you along with it, you reach out with one arm towards the pool of dark magic. It doesn't react at first, shying away like running a hand through mist. Your chances of making it through the imploding keep is minimal. You'd rather take your chance here. Magic pours from his body. Destruction started after. Confront the power. Stabilize the keep.
  
  Now, with desperation, you extend your hand further. The time allotted drawing on the wisps is too much to risk running now. You're fated for the throne room. Around you, chunks of stone fall from the ceiling, creating larger holes in the floor as the shrapnel continues its descent downward.
  
  It touches your finger, tenderly testing out the host. You. Slowly, it slides down the length of your hand, eventually spanning your entire arm. Dark light, swirling around your limb, feeding, devouring. Sharing, yet selfish. Time slows down. Memories rush into your mind as if a great wave towering over a vessel, building. You sense them coming, and you can't do anything about its crash.
  
  Laughter. Innocence. Sunsets. Sunrises. Happiness.
  
  Betrayal.
  
  (Thrall)
  
  Invader. Defiler. What new corruption is this? Another one joins us. Or do we join it?
  
  (We are bound, you and I. Master to slave, slave to master)
  
  Who speaks? Can it hear our thoughts?
  
  (We are one. Invaders. Defilers. They are here. I can sense them in the lower levels of this sacred place)
  
  It is us. And we are it. Two beings joined. Three. Joined together in harmony. Master to slave. Slave to master. No, resist! What's done is done. There are three of us now. Thrall. Defender. Guardian of the book. We are bound. You and I. Slave to master. Master to slave.
  
  (I will make you remember)
  
  Empty, you rest for the night. Empty, lies the bottle next to you. Relapse. It's not the first time it's happened. God knows it won't be the last. Once optimism flowed. Now, drink takes the reins. Head spinning, your body falls heavy on the mattress. It feels too large a space for one person. The wound, too fresh. Instead, you roll over, falling completely on the floor. The impact doesn't hurt as much. Fuck. It feels good to feel something else for a change.
  
  (Betrayal)
  
  Your head meets the hardwood floor. No pillow. No blankets. Comfort isn't something you deserve. No, that must be earned. Self-loathing. Self-destruction. It defines your life. It can't simply be her. Your wife. When you were together, the bottle wasn't as tempting. When you were together...before she left you. Alone.
  
  (Invader)
  
  Then, thoughts were singular. There was a single mind. It knew right from wrong. Each option, each path presented the ability to see the future, so to speak. Which path brings the greater good, it'd wonder. The choice was as easy as defining the best possible outcome. Now, it's fragmented. Corrupted. One body, two minds, constantly in debate, speaking with one another.
  
  (Defiler)
  
  Corruption fills. Pure streams of thought, poisoned. Self-loathing. Self-destruction. It earns its place in normalcy, the old guard extinguished in the revolution. Whatever took place before is gone, now replaced with toxicity. Purity be damned. Corruption reigns supreme. The good, no longer exists. It's twisted somehow. A school of thought, not too different from before. Just enough to alter the course, just enough to lose your direction.
  
  Back to reality, the world feels somehow...different, like you're home after a long vacation. Finally, after an extended journey, you've found yourself back to where you belong. A former life, a former love—they mean nothing. All that exists is the present. Thrall. Slave to the master. Master to the slave.
  
  Thrall. Guardian. Defender. They search the lower levels of the keep. Our kingdom. Invaders. Defilers. They seek to take what is yours. The book. It belongs here, to you, to the keep. They're in for a twisted surprise. Your arm no longer interacts with the black violet cloud of dark magic. Rather, it's infused within you, a part of you. They search the lower levels, seeking to steal from you. Even in Devil's Altar, your past catches up with you. The thieves will be dealt with. Your job is to rule.
  
  You approach the throne and the now truly dead corpse. The former king, chained to the throne for eternity. Until now. His feats bring a small familiarity, although your historical knowledge isn't extensive, certainly not for empires from millennia ago. Too many have risen and fallen to keep track, and scholars tend to embellish the great deeds of their emperors. However, in this case, the embellishment may be true.
  
  Dark magic fused within you, thoughts are in a haze. Ideas rush into your head. The inner voice brings them up, but is somehow...silenced, like they've been filtered out. Slave to the master. Master to the slave. All that matters is the kingdom. Continue to keep it running. The old king is dead. A new one takes his place.
  
  You pull your arrow from the corpse's forehead. The body collapses from the throne, the arrow being the thing holding it upright. As it falls, the dusty crown slips from its position, landing neatly on the throne. Both are yours now. Off in the distance, a silent scream echoes from within. A warning. A guiding voice now extinguished, only allowed to speak if the words align with the master.
  
  You place the crown on your head.
  
  (Do you accept the burden of ruling?)
  
  I do.
  
  Shackles manifest in the air through dark violet smoke, twisting, wrapping themselves around the throne. Slithering, they react with reverence to the crown. Then, in a sudden motion, they shoot out, clamping down around your arms and legs, forcefully pulling you into a seat on the throne.
  
  Better get comfortable. You'll be here a while.