It had been dark for so long, he couldn’t quite remember what light looked like.

Lost, these past years, between realities.

He’d held the stone in his hand on that platform overlooking the desolate plains of the windy planet Fracture. All he had to do was clutch it, absorb its power, and he would throw off the chains that had stayed him from omnipotence.

But one little psionic nudge had knocked the stone loose.

One. Little. Nudge. Cost him everything.

A faint glow, alien green, manifested in a dismal fog. It wasn’t much, but it certainly was more than he had seen in a very long time.

“Who’s there?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

Silence for a few seconds, leading him to think that his expectations would be met. Then, though, he heard a man’s voice: “I am not alone?” The figure began to take shape and form in front of him: A man, gaunt-faced with silver hair and a widow’s peak, dressed in regal-looking robes.

“Not anymore, it would seem.”

The strange apparition tilted his head, a curious smile on his face. “I am Zolor Zahir, crown regent to the throne of Fastheld.”

“Oh,” his new companion replied. “Never heard of you. Never heard of Fastheld.”

“And who are you?” the self-proclaimed regent asked.

“Grim,” he said. “Majordomo to Lord Fagin of Tomin Kora.”

That brought a wry smile to Zolor’s face. “Funny. I have heard of you.” He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward to whisper, as if harboring a secret from the shadows surrounding them. “We have work to do.”