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When he finally reached his destination, there was still plenty of time remaining. He decided to do a sweep around the small fort, more out of boredom than necessity. There was no reason to think that this location was in any way compromised--which was why he liked it so much--but it never hurt to be thorough.

Plus, it made for a nice trip down memory lane.

This was where that insufferable nest of parasites had once ruled, after all. Out of every nest to have been established over the Ages, that one had to have been his most hated.

And Ettol was only too pleased to have played a part in its destruction.

Sure, Rakko ended up with all the credit--or the blame, as the man had chosen to play it off--but Ettol had been living here for decades, sowing the seeds of its eventual demise.

It was a shame that the whole city had to go along with it, but that was probably for the best, too. Those parasites were crafty. If he and Rakko had been any less thorough, then the nest likely would have survived and recovered.

And the revenge would have been absolutely horrific. The parasites did not suffer attacks against them lightly. Not in those days, anyway. They always took disproportionate retribution against their enemies.

Even a few of his own incarnations had been ended by them. Which was to say nothing of the collateral damage done around him.

Ah. That spot over there. The Grand Tower of Karnith had once stood there, yes?

Ettol smiled to himself as he summoned an illusory vision of it into reality. A tall, pale thing, covered in protruding balconies and hanging banners. And his smile only widened as he summoned the image of it on fire and crumbling under the moonlight.

Beautiful.

The long-standing dungeon of Arnel the Terror. How many heads of state visited that place without ever realizing the monstrous acts being committed within it?

And how many did realize?

Arnel was sick beyond words. The man had taken immense pleasure in his secrets--but even more in surprising people with them. The inner circle that he fostered for himself was unlike any other that Ettol had witnessed before.

But in retrospect, perhaps it had been a good experience for him in those relatively early days. It gave him his first real glimpse at the depths to which these mortals could sink when they were granted too much power.

It was certainly a lesson he’d never forgotten.

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It was a dangerous game, this. Ettol knew that only too well. Jonah, for all his obnoxious rhetoric, had not been wrong about that.

The Beast of Ardora would almost certainly break loose again, one day. Comfortable as this current arrangement might have been, Ettol couldn’t expect it to last forever. He had to plan for the eventuality of Koh’s release.

But the wolf’s programming was so strong. So deeply ingrained. Ettol hoped that he might be able to overwrite it fully, but even now, in a vessel this powerful, he was not yet strong enough. Maybe he never would be.

Could he eventually amass enough strength to rewrite or otherwise undo the brainwashing of the nameless one? The so-called Void?

Their supposed progenitor?

In eons past, Ettol would have said no. It was hopeless. Their “father” was simply too powerful.

But they’d wounded him, hadn’t they? Lastingly so. All the evidence seemed to point to that explanation.

Ettol’s mind often wandered back to when, exactly, it might have happened. He must not have been present for it, himself. Surely, such an encounter would have been exceptionally vivid in his memory.

So who had done it?

Hada? Or perhaps Avar? Ettol had asked them, of course, but neither had been particularly forthcoming. One might imagine that anyone would be eager to talk about such an accomplishment, but those two were their own brands of exceptional, weren’t they? Hada hated talking period--especially to Ettol. And Avar would probably feel some type of absurd shame.

Out of all of them, Avar revered the nameless one the most as their “father.”

Ettol, though, could never do that. Not genuinely, at least.

He had spent too long bending to the will of others. Making nice. Pretending to be something he wasn’t.

In his heart, he could not allow himself to revere anyone over himself. His kin could only ever be his equals. Less than that, perhaps, but not more.

No. Never that.

For the longest time, he’d thought that all the others shared that view. He’d thought that was why they had such trouble getting along. But gradually, he’d come to realize that, no, they weren’t like him in that regard.

His mindset was, in so many ways, actually quite singular. They were not all some cherished communion of like-minded souls, as he’d once believed.

But that was fine. They were his kin. They were entitled to their flaws. Just as he was entitled to his.

Next page tomorrow

Thanks for reading, everybody.