Bane received a dream from his father that night. The Black Lord appeared in a blaze of dark power, radiating pleasure and triumph. The swirling background of bright orange streaked with yellow indicated his good mood. Bane basked in the wash of pleasure, making the most of its rare bestowment.
“You have done well, my son. Two wards broken; a great achievement.”
“Thank you, Father. I shall not fail you.”
“No, you will not.” His father spoke with unnerving certainty. “But I am displeased that the healer still lives. Kill her, Bane.”
“She is my plaything, Father. I enjoy tormenting her.”
“I do not care. I want her dead.” The dream darkened, and red streaks appeared, with a hint of raging sea.
“What harm can she do?” Bane enquired. “She is a pathetic, weak thing. Can I not have my little pleasures?”
“I ordered you to kill her, so do it!”
The Black Lord’s bellow spiked Bane’s head with pain as a huge wave of darkness loomed over him, and he jerked awake. He sat up, gasped and shivered. This was the first time he had argued with his father, or defied him. Why had he done that? The healer meant nothing to him. He could snap her neck as easily as breaking a twig.
Perhaps he was merely asserting himself. He would kill her when he was good and ready, not before. He looked down at the girl asleep on the floor, his keen night vision seeing her clearly. Why did his father so desperately want her dead? What could she possibly do to threaten him? He did enjoy making her suffer, and soon he would kill her. Soon, he promised the Black Lord silently; soon she would die, when he, Bane, felt like it.