in a tomb, sealed from his true glory, and only his whispers crawled across the land. One day, Nemes swore, Lord Legion would rise again and spread wings in the night. One day the cruel stars of Requiem would extinguish, and their worshippers would be those crawling. Then he, Nemes, would be lord over them. He—who had emptied their chamber pots, served their wine, and swept their floors—would make them bow.
He walked through the forest, robed in shadow, snarling.
In the darkness, the memories rose again. He saw his grandfather, a bent old man, sweeping the halls of Requiem's kings, then returning home to his bed of straw. He saw his father, a meek sickly man, toil to wash, to mend, to clean, to finally die of the cough. And he saw himself, and that memory stung worst of all. He saw a lanky boy, the child of a long family of servants, a boy raised to sweep floors and wash outhouses and pick fleas from dogs, a boy who dreamed of the power and beauty of those above him.
As he poured wine at feasts, how he had dreamed of sitting at the high table with Princess Mori, with Lord Bayrin and Lady Lyana, with the beautiful and mighty! At the Nights of Seven, how he had begged to join the nobles in their gardens, to sing with them, to watch the stars… and yet he would always enter the gardens last, to clean the mess those above him had left. He remembered one night, a night of a black moon, when he dared approach the Lady Lyana, dared ask her to a ball. How her eyes had pitied him! He never forgot that look of pity; it still burned him. He could still feel her hand on his shoulder. He could still hear her soft voice rejecting him, explaining that Prince Orin had already invited her, and how sweet and lovely Nemes was, and how many girls would someday adore him.
Walking through the forest now, nearly a decade later, rage still flared inside Nemes. With a growl, he punched a tree so hard his knuckles tore and his blood sprayed. He snarled and watched the blood drip, imagining tearing Lyana's flesh open too, seeing her blood, ripping out her heart like she had done to his.
"You will regret your words," he swore in the forest as he swore most nights, as he had been swearing for ten years. "You will scream for me to forgive you. And I will not, Lyana. I will not. Not until you are fully mine—your body, your organs, your very soul." His fists trembled. "You will be mine."
He reached into his cloak and grabbed his serpent amulet, the sigil of Lord Legion. He let his blood cover the talisman. Lord Legion loved blood, he knew; Nemes was glad to give some of his.
"With your power," he vowed, "they will all bow before you. I swear it, my lord. I will make them bow."
The lord's shadows swirled around him with fury, and Nemes kept walking until he reached the camp. Most slept on the ground, bundled in blankets. Some had built huts of branches and leaves. Nemes walked between them, silent and dark. Some of Requiem's survivors were still awake, huddled together and whispering; they could not see through his cloak of shadow. Nemes moved between them, a ghost. As a servant in Requiem's palace, he had always been as an invisible man; Lord Legion let him have the true power, no longer a mere mockery.
And once you are freed, Lord Legion, your true might will bless me. They will cower before us.
The shadows danced around him, a raiment of demons. He climbed the mountainside until he reached the cave where King Elethor and Queen Lyana now ruled. A guard stood there, a young woman with golden hair, a spear and shield in her hands. Nemes walked past her; she saw nothing. He entered the cave, walked down a tunnel, and entered the chamber of his beloved.
Lyana lay there upon a bed of fur, naked in candlelight, so pure, so pale, so fragile. Her skin like marble glimmered orange in the candlelight. Tiny scars like cobwebs covered her back; others had cut her before, but Nemes would cut her deeper. Her hair burned red and wild. Elethor lay beside her, rolled toward her, and touched her cheek.
Nemes stood in the corner, silent and shadowy, and watched the two make love. His lips peeled back, baring his