Morthisal strode to the back area of the studio. The space opened up around him—cramped yet functional. Exposed pipes ran along the ceiling. Thick black cables snaked across the concrete floor. Dusty lighting equipment hung from metal frames. Faded posters of forgotten productions lined the walls. A musty smell permeated the air, mixed with the scent of cheap coffee and stale donuts.

  His black, dark lord robes flowed around him as he walked. The fabric swished against his legs.

  Near the back entrance stood Yvette. She wore slim-fitting jeans that probably cost more than a month's rent for this entire building. Her white cashmere sweater draped perfectly across her shoulders. A thin gold chain with a small pendant rested at her throat. Her ankle boots—expensive leather by the look of them—gleamed despite the dim lighting. She carried a small burgundy handbag with gold hardware that caught little light in the space.

  Two men in dark suits flanked her. Each wore a coiled wire from their collar to a small earpiece. Their posture was rigid and alert. Their faces betrayed no emotion.

  Yvette turned and murmured something to the men. They nodded and stepped back, maintaining a respectful distance while keeping her in sight.

  He approached Yvette. "How in the world did you find this location?" he asked. "Not that I'm not delighted to see you."

  She grinned, her teeth flashed white against her red lipstick. "You might not know this, but I'm a pretty powerful person. You told me you were at a stage near the waterfront. There aren't many locations like this." She tilted her head. "Why didn't you call me?"

  Morthisal found himself at a loss for words. "I... I didn't know what to make of your offer," he sputtered. "About not making you regret giving me the contact card."

  She laughed, and the sound echoed in the large space. "Maybe I'm regretting it now." Her gaze roamed over the studio, taking in every detail. "Are you going to show me around?"

  "I would be delighted to. There is coffee. However, it is not good and tastes more like ash than a proper drink."

  She chuckled. "How do you know what ash tastes like?"

  Morthisal offered a sly smile. "I had a troubling childhood," he admitted, then waved a hand dismissively. "Ignore me. My past means nothing here."

  "That's not true, Vince," she said as she turned to him. "Your past is what molded you."

  My hundreds of years of ruling with an iron fist molded me.

  "Perhaps you are right. Was your upbringing fraught with peril?"

  "Fraught with peril? You really do take this role seriously. Okay. Ever read 'Matilda'? That was basically me, minus the telekinesis. Small-town library, big dreams. My parents ran a diner and worked sixteen-hour days. I'd sit in a booth after school, coding on a laptop I bought with two years of saved allowance. They thought I was wasting my time until my senior project at UW caught Microsoft's attention. My mother loved telling everyone how she had always believed in me. I believed in the hundred million they threw my way. Smart investments took that to the next level." Yvette paused. "Not that I hold any animosity toward my mother. She never knew what to make of me when I became a teenager."

  "That is remarkable," Morthisal said.

  She shot him a quizzical look, and he supposed he knew why. In this world, those with immense wealth are treated like celebrities. He had read a good bit about Yvette and knew she had made a sizable amount of money relatively young.

  "How did your mother and father react once you made the deal with Microsoft? They must have been quite proud."

  "Mom was happy. My father passed away pretty young. The silent killer got him."

  Morthisal came to a stop and spun. "Assassins?"

  Yvette's eyes shot open. "What?" Then she laughed. "Oh. No. I forgot you're in character. He died of heart failure. It was sudden."

  Morthisal nodded. "I am sorry to hear that."

  "Thanks."

  As they walked around the stage area, Yvette remarked, "The robe kinda suits you."

  Morthisal fell back on yet another Earth euphemism he had heard. "You have no idea."

  They set out again. Morthisal led Yvette through the cramped studio, his borrowed robe swishing against the dusty floor. The space smelled of stale coffee and makeup. Exposed wires hung from the ceiling, along with huge lighting fixtures that were currently dark.

  "This is hair and makeup," he explained, gesturing toward a row of mirrors framed with harsh bulbs. Makeup brushes cluttered the counters. Half-empty bottles of various foundations stood in disorganized rows. Off to one side, a number of wigs sat on styrofoam heads.

  Yvette trailed her manicured fingers across a makeup chair. "What an interesting setup."

  Three crew members huddled near the coffee machine froze mid-conversation. Their mouths hung open as they stared at Yvette. One man spilled coffee down his shirt without noticing.

  Morthisal straightened his posture. "Pay them no mind. The peasants lack basic manners."

  "Peasants?" Yvette laughed. "You really stay in character, don't you?"

  Three figures approached from across the studio before Morthisal could respond to his faux pas. Marty Klein led the pack, his bald head shiny under the bright LED lights. Betty Mead followed beside him, clutching a clipboard to her chest. Honor April completed the trio.

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  Somehow, their mouths curved into identical stretched smiles that revealed far too many teeth.

  "Ms. Sterling!" Marty rushed forward, hand extended. "What an unexpected honor! Welcome to our humble studio! It is quite surprising to have you here."

  Betty pushed past him. "We're absolutely thrilled you've taken an interest in our little production!"

  Honor circled around, blocking any potential escape route. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? A glass of champagne? A chair?"

  Yvette waved a dismissive hand. "Please continue as if I were not here. I've always been curious about filmmaking, and when I discovered Vincent had secured a role, I wanted to see the process firsthand."

  Marty puffed out his chest. "Oh, but Vincent isn't just in a small role. He's become quite central to our production."

  "Absolutely pivotal," Betty added.

  "His performance last week left us speechless," Honor chimed in. "Such raw talent."

  "His acting chops might propel this movie beyond our wildest expectations," Marty concluded, placing a hand on Morthisal's shoulder.

  Betty snapped her fingers. "Oh! Before I forget." She dug into her clipboard and pulled out a white envelope. "This is for you, Vincent."

  Morthisal accepted the envelope. The flap hung loose, so he peeled it back and peeked inside. A handwritten check from Klein Productions for two thousand dollars rested within.

  "Is there a mistake?" he asked, his voice low.

  "No mistake," Marty assured him. "You've earned every penny."

  The three of them turned their attention back to Yvette.

  Morthisal understood why they were acting in this manner and had overpaid him. His connection to Yvette Sterling had transformed him from a food delivery person to a valued talent. The rules of this world became clearer by the day.

  Morthisal smiled smugly as he folded the envelope and slipped it into his pants pocket under the robe. "Thank you for the payment. Most generous."

  Yvette pointed at Morthisal. "When will I see some acting out of this one?"

  Marty spun toward Morthisal. "How do you feel about the next scene? Did you review your lines? Run them with anyone? Maybe Ms. Sterling here?"

  Morthisal fixed his gaze on Marty. "That drivel? I will be performing as I did last week." He leaned forward until their faces nearly touched. "I will make the lines better."

  Yvette blinked several times.

  Betty leaned toward Yvette and whispered, "He's so method."

  Yvette smiled. "I noticed."

  Morthisal stood tall as the three directors climbed onto their high-backed chairs. A fourth chair appeared beside them, carried by a harried assistant for Yvette. She settled into it casually, crossed her legs, and leaned forward with interest.

  Today, the stage felt different. Morthisal picked up the staff and noticed improvements. Someone had added carvings along its length. A dark crystal perched at the top, secured with leather straps and metal wire. The weight balanced better in his hand.

  A crew member moved around the perimeter, flipping switches. Large fans roared to life. Air rushed past Morthisal; his robe snapped and billowed around his legs.

  A cameraman positioned his equipment. The lens pointed directly at him, black and unblinking.

  "Lean forward!" Marty shouted from his chair. "Make it look like you're fighting against hurricane-force winds!"

  Morthisal noted the change. Last week, Betty had directed a few segments. Honor had handled other scenes. Now, Marty commanded everything, his voice sharp with authority.

  The script pages Morthisal had skimmed revealed this scene, which occurred later in the dark lord's career. The fictional version of Morthisal had grown more powerful and now faced an army intent on his destruction.

  A small figure shuffled onto the stage. The actor stood barely four feet tall, covered in green makeup with prosthetic ears that jutted outward. The costume consisted of mismatched leather pieces, studded with crude metal bits. A lopsided helmet sat atop his head. A prop sword hung from his belt.

  "This is Grimclaw, your goblin lieutenant," Marty called out.

  "Hello," Morthisal said.

  "Great to meet you and all. Before you ask, I'm a little person. Not a kid."

  "I wasn't going to ask, but I appreciate your candor," Morthisal raised his voice to be heard over the roaring fans.

  "Name's Hank. I know you because everyone's been discussing the new dark lord actor. I'm looking forward to working with you."

  Before Morthisal could say anything else, a man appeared with a clapper board, called out a scene and number, and clacked it shut. A boom mic was lowered just over his head.

  "Action!" Marty yelled.

  Morthisal planted his feet. He raised the staff above his head.

  "The armies of light gather at our borders," he growled. "Their pathetic weapons will shatter against our might!"

  Hank, in the guise of Grimclaw, cowered appropriately. "Master, they number in the thousands!"

  "Numbers mean nothing!" Morthisal slammed the staff against the floor. "I command forces beyond their comprehension!"

  He stretched his free hand toward the ceiling. The robe billowed around him. He channeled a thread of energy—just enough to create a subtle darkening of the air around his fingertips. How he did this was a mystery. Perhaps his powers were growing.

  "Rise, my fallen warriors! Break free from your earthen prisons!"

  He uttered a harsh, guttural call to the dead. Words from Mythralon he had used countless times to raise legions of undead soldiers from their graves.

  Morthisal turned and looked at the goblin. "The ground trembles with their approach," he continued. "Can you feel it, Grimclaw? The march of the damned!"

  The goblin actor stumbled backward, his reaction genuine. "Y-yes, master!"

  Morthisal poured a little power into his performance.

  "I am Morthisal the Unyielding! Destroyer of kingdoms! Bringer of eternal night!"

  He raised both arms. The staff glowed faintly with unnatural light. The crystal at its tip pulsed.

  "Let them come with their swords and their spells. Let them face true power!"

  Mothisal did not look at the directors or Yvette. His performance was all-consuming. One did not issue such spells without pure concentration. Deviating by even one syllable could lead to disaster. The years he had spent forming the spells came back to him naturally.

  "Cut!" Marty yelled.

  The fans powered down. The lights came back up. Morthisal lowered his arms.

  Marty's brow rose, and he slowly shook his head. Betty and Honor leaned in to whisper to him.

  The director jumped from his chair and rushed to the camera. He rewound the footage and watched it on the small screen. He scratched his head.

  "Move on to the next scene," he yelled, then turned to Morthisal. "That was magic, Vince. Absolute magic. I've never seen anything like it. Christopher Lee, as Saruman, could have learned a thing or two from you, and that man acted for decades. That was just astonishing."

  Morthisal looked over at Yvette. Her mouth hung open. She quickly composed herself, but something else flickered across her face. It was fascination mingled with hunger.

  Morthisal offered her a tight smile. She returned the gesture and mouthed one word: amazing.