The Message

The tavern balcony overlooked the cramped, rain-slicked streets below, where flickering lanterns cast long, wavering shadows. Sitting at a worn wooden table, a half-consumed tankard at his elbow, playing the role of just another weary traveler. His true focus, however, was the unmarked cellar door across the way—a quiet, unassuming entrance that perhaps led to something far worse beneath the city. The cult had grown bolder, and tonight, he was here to watch. To wait.
 
Then, a flutter of wings.
 
A sharp, sulfuric scent filled the air as a small, leathery shape landed on the railing before him. The imp grinned, its needle-like teeth gleaming in the low light. “A message,” it rasped, extending a tightly rolled parchment sealed in iron-red wax. It waited just long enough for Lim Dul to take it before vanishing in a puff of acrid smoke. The smoke smelled of brimstone.
 
Unfolding the letter, his gauntleted fingers traced the words as he read. Seen. Noticed. Judged...
 
To Lim Dul, Oathbound in Chains of Iron and Fire,
 
You have been seen.
 
Not by the Ever-Watching Lord of Dis—not yet. But I see you. And I know what you have done.
 
There are lines we do not cross, choices we do not make, and yet your hand has wavered in places it should have been steady. The weight of your oaths bends, but does not yet break. But tell me—how long before someone with true authority begins to notice?
 
There are those who whisper treason. That your path strays. That you take liberties that are not yours to take. You stand now at a precipice, where one step is glory and the other is ruin.
 
Dispater does not suffer liabilities. If he knew what I know, if he saw what I see… well, you would not be reading this letter.
 
Fortunately for you, I am not so quick to discard what may yet have use. You have potential. I have seen it, felt it. I know what you could become—what you should become.
 
And so, I offer you truth and purpose.
 
The will you cling to, that sliver of independence you still clutch—it is the only thing standing between you and ascension. I offer you a choice: relinquish it, cast aside the illusion of self, and become something greater. You need not serve. You need not bow. You need only become. The burdens of doubt, of choice, of will—such things are beneath you. I extend an invitation to ascend beyond these shackles, to shed the last vestiges of your frail mortality and become what you were always meant to be. There is a place at the Master’s side for those who prove their devotion, a place where pain is no longer suffered, but given. But to walk this path, you must give the final offering. You must relinquish the thing that makes you weak. The thing that makes you hesitate.
 
Your will.
 
The Master does not yet know of this matter, but my silence is not given freely. Accept my offer, and I will guide your transformation, make you into something worthy of His gaze—worthy of true power. You will become more than knight, more than mortal, more than self. Your flesh will be reforged in the crucible of the Iron City, and your soul will be bound in chains of adamantine. No longer a servant, but a weapon. No longer a soldier, but a force. Refuse, and I may find myself compelled to share my knowledge with those above me. Know this: the Master does not suffer strays. And in the end, all things return to Dis
 
 
Make your choice, Painkiller. Before it is made for you.
 
Signed,
Zirixas the Iron Tongue
Legate of the Iron Lord, Adjutant of the Ninth Gate, Keeper of the Unforgiven
 
...The weight of the message pressed against his mind heavier than his own armor. Someone—someone in Dis—had been watching. And worse, they were offering him a choice.
 
His gaze flicked back to the cult’s entrance. Just another job. Another mission. But was he here as a hunter… or as a condemned man buying time before his chains tightened?
 
Lim Dul reflects upon the note sipping his ale. I have crossed no lines, I have been ever faithful to the Lord of Dis. My agreement has yet been completed as contracted with the Lord Himself. Lim Duls ire begins to raise; I will suffer no judgment from someone who barters and deals under the guise of shadow judgment.
 
Lim Dul pricks his finger and begins writing
 
Zirixas, be forthcoming with my shortcomings or be gone. I will not tally with a servant of the Lord under the guise of hidden judgments and barter. I made a deal with the Lord of Dis, not you. I am fulfilling my end, TO THE LETTER. The Lord has not called for me directly in project, until then, I will continue to perform tasks, gain experience, until the day I can slay the one who says he is my father, as agreed upon in my contract with the Lord of Dis. That was the agreement, and I have stuck to my end of the bargain.
 
Unless you can present something tangible I can answer to, I will not bargain., and I do not bargain on shadows.
 
Lim Dul, ever faithful servant to the Lord of Dis.
 
Lim Dul looks around, over his shoulder and signs the back of the parchment. In a puff of smoke, it disappears. The smell of brimstone in the air. Lim Dul inhales the scent. He sighs with pleasure and smiles at the aroma. It smells like..... home.