Part XVII: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul
Chapter 5: The Chosen
Timeline: AO323
Humanity’s world is a dark place – I should know because I helped make it that way. This next leg of Hacktor’s journey is yet another example in a long line of how depraved you people are….
As the caravan that brought Hacktor and Helca entered the winding caverns that led to Iztak, the air within the mountains seemed to change. A chill crept in, clinging to their skin, not from the cold of the stone but from something deeper—something that lived in the shadows of the city.
The path descended into darkness, illuminated only by faintly glowing veins of blackwood sconces embedded in the rock. The light flickered like the dying breath of some ancient, unknowable force, leading them into the heart of the Drokka’s religious capital. It was a place where faith and power had fused into a grotesque monument to the Naves clan’s dominion over the spiritual lives of the Drokka people. It was the city where Hacktor had spent his most formative years – and had countless scars on his soul to testify to it.
As the rode beneath the grand entrance of Iztak, the city opened before them like a vast, forbidden dream. Enormous stone columns, carved with intricate spirals of ancient prayers and depictions of their gods, rose from the depths of the earth. They supported a ceiling that was so high it disappeared into the blackness, a dome of stone too immense for the mind to grasp. Flickering flames from torches and fire-bowls reflected off the polished black stone that lined the streets and walls, giving the entire city an otherworldly glow, like a pit of stars buried deep within the earth.
The Temple of Iztak, a vast structure at the city’s center, dominated everything. It was made from the darkest blackstone, jagged and towering, with spires that seemed to pierce the ceiling of the cavern. The sound of chanting echoed from within, a low, ominous hum that vibrated through the streets, filling the hearts of all who entered with both awe and dread. It was said that the Great Spirit spoke here, from the depths of the Well of Wyzdom, to those chosen by fate—among them, Mirkir the Wyze, High Priest of the Naves, and Hacktor himself.
The streets of the city were lined with statues of ancient Wyze Ones, their faces twisted in expressions of stern anger, their eyes hollow and eternal, forever staring at the paths below. Drokka pilgrims from every kingdom continually moved like shadows along the stone pathways, their heads bowed in reverence, or perhaps in fear of what lay above them—eyes that saw everything, yet showed mercy to none.
In this city, the Naves ruled as if they were the gods themselves. The secular power of the Rukstinz, Busz, and other powerful clans might control the kingdom’s wealth and armies, but it was here, in Iztak, that the true power resided. For the Naves held sway over the minds and souls of the Drokka people, feeding their faith with half-truths and miracles that were, in reality, little more than illusions of control. [Just like I’d taught them too centuries ago]. For Iztak was a living contradiction—the glory of its architecture, the splendor of its holy sites, all hiding the rot at its core. It was a place where faith had been perverted, twisted into a weapon wielded by the Naves to maintain their power. The people believed themselves protected by the gods, yet the true gods had abandoned Iztak long ago, leaving only shadows behind.
Hacktor and Helca both knew the truth. They had grown up with the shadow of this place dominating their early years. Hacktor, discovered to be a royal Balkery, had been forced to come here as a boy – ripped away from Hecla and his family and ‘taken’ by Mirkir as the high priest’s ‘Beloved.’ He’d served at The Altar countless time. The faith had become a part of him – it defined him and made him who he was today. Dark memories flooded back now as the king now rode through the streets. The grandeur of Iztak was undeniable, yet the weight of its evil pressed down on him with each step.
He remembered the abuse—the priests in their flowing robes, mouths dripping with sermons of salvation while their hands reached into the shadows for the innocent. Hacktor had been no more than a tool himself, but he had seen the truth, even then. Behind the hymns and the prayers, behind the offerings and the sacred rituals, there lay something rotten.
Mirkir – The Wyze One – was the most corrupted of all, his power twisted by greed and lust. He lived in luxury within the temple, surrounded by slaves—most of them young boys like Hacktor, taken from their families and hidden away beneath the city. Most of the other priests were no better – the higher up the ranks they were, the more evil they became – living off the fat of the people’s donations and awash in flesh (the only difference was the variety they preferred).
Helca, her carriage rolling along beside Hacktor now, knew, or guessed, much of these dark secrets. Although Hacktor hadn’t told her ‘everything’ that he’d suffered, she’d heard enough to hate Mirkir and his clerics. Over the years, the queen had also heard the whispered rumors in the dark corners of the court, rumors of the hidden networks of ‘the unfortunates’ whose screams were drowned by the temple bells. These were the men, women, boys, and girls – from every race and corner of the continent – trafficked throughout the eight kingdoms and shipped beyond their borders to wealthy elites who prized this ‘merchandise.’ Monty himself had admitted as much to Hecla when the queen had plied him for information about the evil – the Coinmaster revealing certain truths in an effort to get in to Hecla’s ‘good graces.’ As a mother, the thought of such abuse horrified Hecla – and she vowed one day to destroy Mirkir and his minions for it. Yet today was not that day and so she rode in grim silence – gritting her teeth to get through the horrible ordeal that awaited her.
As they finally neared the temple, Hacktor’s eyes traced the massive doors carved with the symbols of the faith. Once, he had feared this place. Now, he hated it. Behind those doors, Mirkir lived, pulling the strings of the faithful like puppets. The priests believed themselves immune from the secular, safe within the sacred halls where no king could touch them – and so long as they did their part to control the people’s support of the king, the agreement was upheld.
While the rest of the caravan went to secure lodging and food in the city proper, the king and queen mounted the steps of the temple to meet with The Wyze One – even as the weight of Iztak bore down on them. Hacktor’s heart hardened as they reached the temple’s doors. Helca glanced at him, her face pale but set with determination. “I am with you.” She held her husband’s hand as together, they stepped into the temple – even as the weight of Iztak’s evil pressed against them like a thick, suffocating fog, for here, in the city where the gods walked, only monsters remained and they welcomed the royals with open arms.
The nondescript were The Wyze One chose to meet with the king and queen was cold, its stone walls echoing with a silence that felt more oppressive than the loudest battle. Hacktor sat facing his one-time mentor, his hands gripping the armrests, knuckles white. The weight of moment pressed against him, adding to the heaviness in his chest.
Hecla sat nearby, her delicate fingers trembling as they clutched the edge of her robe. She had not moved since Mirkir the Wyze had entered with their son Alf. The queen’s eyes, wide and hollow, locked onto the small figure standing at Mirkir’s side.
Alf.
Their son.
Now eleven, but so much smaller than Hacktor remembered. His once-bright eyes were dulled, as if the life had been drained from them during the last six years spent in Iztak. Alf wore the same traditional robes of an acolyte that Hacktor had once worn here – and beneath those clothes, Hacktor knew there were his son had bruises scars, and worse – just like Hacktor had back them.
The king clenched his jaw – anger boiled inside him, but it was a restrained fury, tightly bound by chains of obligation and necessity, because he well remembered that the owness for Alf’s captivity was squarely on him. I gave him up. I allowed it. There is no denying it. Yet what choice did I have? Hacktor knew that without the blessing of the Naves his hold on the throne would crumble, for Drokka religion was the cornerstone of the realm, and his nemesis Mirkir held that cornerstone in tightly his withered hands. Without the people’s faith, there would be no army. No war to make him famous. Not even a kingdom to rule. And so I sold my son to a monster in exchange for power. I had a choice – and I hate myself for it!
He glanced at Hecla. She hates me for it too. Her face was a mask of grief, tears threatening to spill but never quite falling. She had begged him, years ago, to stop Mirkir. To refuse the priest’s demand to take Alf as an acolyte. But Hacktor had known the truth: defying Mirkir meant defying the gods. And defying the gods meant losing everything.
Now, as they both looked upon their son, they saw the price of their decision – the pain.
Old Mirkir, hovered beside Alf, his long dark robes trailing on the stone floor; he seemed to revel in the moment. His eyes gleamed with a sickening pleasure, watching Hacktor and Hecla squirm in their silence. He knew his power over them, and he savored it.
“Your son,” Mirkir said smoothly, his voice like oil on water, “has served the gods well these past six years. His devotion is…unwavering. Almost as good as yours, Hacktor. Rest assured, the gods have been most pleased.” And he stroked the boys hair.
Hecla silenced a gasp, while Hacktor tried to hide his disgust. His eyes flicked to Alf. The boy’s head was down, his shoulders hunched. He had once been so full of energy, so full of life. But now he was… hollow. Hacktor well knew why and he felt a surge of guilt so intense it almost took his breath away.
Hecla couldn’t contain herself any longer. Her voice, usually so strong, was barely a whisper. “W-what have you done to him?”
Mirkir’s smile widened, though he maintained a veneer of politeness. “Only what the gods required. He has become their vessel, their chosen servant. He has been… shaped, as all acolytes are. And I – well I have merely led him along that path – as the gods have required of me.” And here he smiled the sinister smile of a lecher. “Ask Hacktor – surely he remembers.”
Hecla’s hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a sob. The weight of her grief crashed down around her like a storm. She had known—on some level—what would happen to Alf when Mirkir took him. But seeing the reality of it was a different kind of pain, a pain so deep it rooted her to the spot. For his part, Hacktor rose from his chair, his movements slow, deliberate. His muscles tensed beneath his tunic, and his fists clenched at his sides. He towered over Mirkir, yet the High Priest didn’t flinch. They both knew he could break the old man in half with a single blow. And yet, they both knew he would not – could not.
Mirkir’s voice was thus steady, calm, as he looked up at the king. “We both know, Kon-Herr, that it is the gods who bestow power. And it is through their will that you rule.”
Hacktor’s teeth ground together. He wanted to scream, to rage at Mirkir, to destroy that vile abuser and demand his son back—his real son, not this broken shell standing before him. But I can’t! Mirkir is right and he knows it. Without the Naves and their control over the people, my reign would be over. I am the one with the least amount of power in this entire room. I am the pawn, the fool!
Sensing his victory, Mirkir threw the king a bone. “Fear not, royals, your son is not lost,” The evil cleric’s voice softened, though the gleam in his eye betrayed his true intent. “Rejoice with Alf and I – for he serves a higher purpose now. “
“Bring him back to us,” Hecla whispered, her voice cracking with desperation, her eyes locked on Alf. “Please… bring him back.”
Mirkir’s smile was thin, a predator’s smile. “My queen, he is always with you – in spirit. But his body no longer belongs to you, for it belongs to the gods.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. Hecla’s face crumpled, and she turned away, unable to look at her son any longer. The grief was too much, too sharp. Hacktor remained standing, his hands shaking with barely controlled fury, but he knew there was nothing he could do.
Mirkir, ever the master of timing, stepped closer to Hacktor. “If you wish for solace, Kon-Herr, there are… paths available to you. The Well of Wyzdom has been known to offer clarity in troubled times.”
Hacktor’s eyes narrowed. The Well of Wyzdom— that ancient place of power, deep within the mountains where he’d met me with to learn his destiny. Part of Hacktor’s reason for visiting Iztak was to consult the gods – to ask for confirmation that his destiny was still greatness and to ask why it was taking so long. Yet Hacktor also knew that Mirkir’s suggestion was a calculated move, a minor peace offering in exchange for Hacktor’s continued obedience. A way to appease the king’s rage without actually conceding anything of value – for it was the king’s right to visit the well and both of them knew it.
“Yes, I will visit The Well,” Hacktor played along, his voice rough.
Mirkir inclined his head, ever the image of respectful submission, though his eyes betrayed the triumph lurking beneath. He had won. Again.
“Good,” Mirkir said smoothly. “The gods’ wisdom is always worth seeking.”
The priest then turned to Alf, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Alf flinched at the touch but said nothing, his eyes fixed on the floor. Hacktor’s heart broke anew at the sight of his son’s silent suffering, but he remained still. Powerless.
As Mirkir led Alf from the room, Hecla let out a low, broken sob. Hacktor stood frozen, his fists still clenched, his eyes locked on the empty space where his son had been.
The cost of his crown had never felt so high.
And in the shadows, Mirkir the Wyze reveled in his power. He had taken Hacktor’s son, his pride, and his peace of mind. And yet, Hacktor remained bound to him, a king in chains, with Mirkir holding the key.
The throne was his—but the power belonged to Mirkir.
The air was thick with Mists of Time as Hacktor Derkillez knelt in the ancient Well of Wyzdom, hidden deep within the dark recesses of Iztak. The Kroniklz attested that The Well held the knowledge of the gods, a sacred place where visions were granted to those who sought them. That much was true, but Hacktor knew something else – The Well was also a place of manipulation by those same gods.
I knew that he knew what awaited him – and that simply gave me even more power over him.
His broad shoulders tensed as he knelt at the edge of the stones that dropped away into unknown depths. The Well was ancient, its edges worn smooth by time, yet it remained an abyss of darkness. The air around it seemed to hum with a low, foreboding energy. Hacktor’s hands, calloused from battle and the weight of his crown, hovered near the stones of the rim, but he did not yet peer into its depths.
Instead, he hesitated. The shadow of Mirkir’s suggestion still lingered in his mind. He had come here to seek answers, clarity, anything that could help him pull his fractured kingdom back from the brink, to finally win the war that had become his curse. But deep down, Hacktor knew this was no neutral ground. The Well of Wyzdom had always been a double-edged sword. And whoever or whatever controlled it held more sway over his future than he cared to admit.
He stared into the yawning blackness below, and the silence was deafening.
Until it wasn’t.
“Ah, Hacktor…” My whisper echoed from the depths, curling through the mist like smoke, soft and sinister. “Still seeking answers, are we?”
Hacktor stiffened, his eyes narrowing as my voice slithered around him. He recognized the form I’d chosen immediately—Shedu Mazai, the Drokka’s God of Death, and the secret deity behind Hacktor rise to power. I knew that he’d secretly hoped that another god – perhaps any OTHER god than me – might visit him at The Well. But sadly for the Kon-Herr such was not his fate – his destiny was to be MY pawn and my fellow godlings knew better than to interfere with my plans. And so Hacktor got me.
Perhaps he was now smart enough to suspect there was more to my version of Shedu Mazai that I’d ever shown him – something far more insidious – for I’d always known he never believed I was a simple guardian of wisdom for him, but then again, even if he did suspect such, what could he do about it? Nothing.
“We meet again…my lord.” Hacktor growled, his voice low, filled with a mix of frustration and wariness. To hide his nervousness, the began to babble. “Tell me…great god… what’s happening with…. Garrick of the Golden Hand?”
I chuckled, the sound like dry leaves rustling in a breeze. “Garrick?” I played along. “Oh, he’s doing just fine. Moving along nicely, in fact. Even got himself married again – although I don’t think it lasted very long. But did you really come here for fairy tales, Hacktor?”
The Ghastwielder clenched his fists, his frustration mounting…and his fear. I could sense his emotions and his thoughts. Garrick was his enemy on paper, but Hacktor well knew that the king of the Derkka wasn’t the reason the Drokka had failed in their mission to destroy Garrick or his goblins. And so I called him out on it, “Perhaps you…” my voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, its tone dripping with dark promise. “fear that…Victory is… within reach?”
I felt the words slither into Hacktor’s ears, wrapping themselves around his already fraying nerves. Victory. It was the one thing we both knew he needed, yet the one thing that seemed to be slipping further away with each passing day. His forces were weary, his people restless. And though Mirkir had promised the gods’ favor, I could sense there was a growing doubt that gnawed at Hacktor’s resolve.
“Victory feels farther away than ever,” Hacktor admitted, his voice tight with restrained anger. “And this… this trip to Chaldea. What do you know of it?”
There was a pause, a pregnant silence from the Well, as though I was considering how much to reveal. The suspense was just too good to waste. I drew it out as long as I could, but eventually I spoke anew, my voice softer this time, but no less dangerous.
“The scribe Grak has information.” There was a hint of mischief in my tone, as though I was dangling something just out of Hacktor’s reach. “But you already knew that.”
Hacktor gritted his teeth. Of course, he knew. Grak said he possessed knowledge that could turn the tide of war, but still he resisted. “Could it really be that simple?” He asked.
“Go, Kon-Herr,” My voice whispered, growing more commanding, more insistent. “He who fails to learn history, is doomed to repeat it. I suggest you hear what the scribe has to say.”
Hacktor’s scowl deepened. Every step was a challenge on this journey and he still had the unknown of what Grak wanted to see him about. But alas for him, that was all I was willing to give him today.
Before the king left Iztak, he forced himself to endure one more meeting with The Wyze One. This time Hecla wasn’t present. Nor was Alf. Just Hacktor and Mirkir. In the cleric’s study. This wasn’t a meeting about family or friends or evils past or future. Instead it was about Faith – and the king needed help with his.
Hacktor stood rigid, his broad shoulders tense beneath the weight of his traveling cloak – for as soon as this meeting was over he planned to join the caravan which was already packed and ready to re-enter the Byways and continue their journey towards Chaldea.
The dim light from the flickering torches cast shadows across the king’s face, deepening the lines of age and battle. His black beard, still finely oiled and braided, now bore more grey than it had the last time he stood here. His hands, calloused from years of war, rested lightly on the hilt of the Ghast, that magical axe that had brought him so much glory—and so much burden.
Mirkir the Wyze sat in a chair facing him, hunched and aged, but his eyes gleaming with the fire of conviction. The priest’s frame had withered further with age, but his presence was still intimidating, like a predator lying in wait. Hacktor’s memories of this place were poisoned by the painful lessons Mirkir had once taught him, but none of that mattered now. There were greater things at stake.
“Why have the gods abandoned me, Mirkir?” Hacktor’s voice cut through the silence, low but filled with frustration and the anxiety that he hadn’t dared to share with me at The Well. Hacktor didn’t look at the priest, his gaze instead fixed on the ancient runes etched into the stone floor beneath his feet. “Why, after all I’ve done in their name, have they left me to wander in the dark?”
Mirkir’s bony fingers, decorated with rings of black iron, tapped idly on the arm of his seat. He watched Hacktor carefully, weighing his words before speaking. “The gods have not abandoned you, Kon-Herr. You know this. Rhokki’s will is clear. The Derkka must be destroyed. You were chosen for this task, and every victory you’ve achieved is proof of their favor.”
Hacktor’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. “Then why does it feel like I am standing still? The Derkka still plague our lands, their numbers grow with each season, and no matter how many battles I win, the war drags on. And the Myz are a nemesis that none of the gods have trained us for. Where is Rhokki’s hand in this? Where is the divine intervention I was promised?”
[Although this conversation was about Rhokki, the king dared not reveal his true backer – Shedu Mazai – and no matter what Mirkir may have suspected over the years, the priest never knew that Hacktor was my pawn].
Mirkir rose slowly, he walked towards the fire – his robes dragging along the floor, giving the illusion of a serpent slithering. After poking the flames, the priest then stepped closer to Hacktor, his voice quiet but filled with authority. “Faith, Hacktor. Faith is the only proof we need. The gods do not act in the way we expect. Their designs are vast, incomprehensible to mortal minds. What you see as delay, as inaction, is merely the unfolding of their greater plan.”
“Faith?” Hacktor scoffed. “I’ve slaughtered entire armies in the name of faith. I’ve laid waste to cities, shattered fortresses, broken men—everything for Rhokki. Don’t speak to me of faith when I’ve given everything to this mission, only to be left wanting.”
Mirkir’s gaze never wavered. He had heard Hacktor’s anger before, felt the raw power of the man’s will, but the priest was unshaken. “Your victories are part of Rhokki’s plan, Hacktor. The Derkka’s destruction is inevitable because the gods have willed it so. You are the sword of Rhokki, but even a sword must be tempered, shaped, before it can cut through the hardest steel.”
Hacktor’s hands tightened around the hilt of the Ghast. “I am already tempered. The blood of my enemies has soaked this blade. What more do they want of me?”
“Sacrifice,” Mirkir said simply, his voice cold and distant. “True sacrifice. The gods demand nothing less than your soul, your entire being. Have you given that yet? Have you sacrificed everything that stands in the way of your destiny?”
Hacktor stared at him, the flickering torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. “I have nothing left to give.”
Mirkir shook his head, his voice softening slightly, as if speaking to the boy he had once trained—cruelly, harshly, but trained nonetheless. “You still have doubt, Hacktor. You still question the gods’ plan. That is what holds you back. Until you surrender to their will completely, until you trust that even the silence of the gods is part of their design, you will always feel abandoned.”
Hacktor’s chest heaved, his mind churning with the weight of Mirkir’s words. He hated the old priest, hated the way his reasoning always came back to faith, to a belief that couldn’t be proven. But deep down, Hacktor knew Mirkir’s was right – for there was no other explanation that could suffice. Hacktor’s victories, his path—they had clearly been guided by something greater. There had to be a reason why he was chosen. There had to be.
“And if I don’t find the strength to carry on?” Hacktor’s voice was low, almost a growl. “If I falter, if I fail—what then?”
Mirkir’s lips curled into a thin smile, a smile Hacktor recognized from years past, when the priest had spoken of sacrifices far greater than blood. “You won’t fail, Kon-Herr. Because you believe. You are a royal Balkery! You were born to fulfill Rhokki’s will, and that belief is the most powerful weapon you wield. Even more powerful than the Ghast.”
Hacktor remained silent, his eyes narrowing as he considered Mirkir’s words. He wanted to believe—he needed to believe. But something gnawed at him, something darker, more insidious. The silence of all the other gods besides me, the endless struggle he’d never expected to have to endure, the terrible evils that had taken his children —it felt as though he was fighting against an unseen force, something more evil than he could have imagined. But what?
Hacktor turned away, he had heard enough. The answers he sought weren’t here, in this cold, stone chamber. Not with Mirkir. “The spring wars are coming,” he said, his voice hard again, regaining the strength that had been momentarily lost. “And I’ll need more than faith to win them.”
Mirkir remained still, watching Hacktor with the same expression of distant certainty. “You’ll win because you must, Hacktor. The gods have chosen you, and Rhokki’s will is unbreakable.”
Hacktor paused at the doorway, his back to Mirkir. “And if I do fail?”
Mirkir’s voice echoed softly behind him. “Then we all fail. And the gods will find another.”
Hacktor clenched his fists, pushing down the surge of frustration. I will not fail! I can not fail. The gods are guiding me even now. I will see this through, no matter the cost.
As he left the temple and rejoined the caravan, a shadow loomed over the king—one that no one else could see, one that Hacktor himself could not yet comprehend. The gods, for all their silence, had not abandoned him.
I was watching.
For all his strength, his will, his devotion, Hacktor was still mine. His singular purpose, his willingness to sacrifice everything for his destiny—it made him a powerful piece on the board, but a winning pawn. His faith, his belief, it would all drive him to his end.
An end I had already planned.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 