The Arsonist

The Black Tower's sudden appearance sent a sharp sense of alarm through Herpo the Foul. Though the struggling Nelson was right before him, he still pulled back and retreated, rapidly distancing himself on the storm winds that churned beneath the dark clouds.

But he was still one step too slow.

Cold sweat soaked Herpo the Foul's clothes. Just as he was about to withdraw to what he believed was a safe distance, a cruel heat wave surging from behind tore through his skin in an instant. He howled, the pain boring deep into his bones until he nearly lost control of his body. After using the last shred of reason he had to fire a spell behind him, his body was hurled upward by the spell's recoil, spinning as it flew back to the place he had just fled.

Bang!

Herpo the Foul crashed heavily onto the hard, flat ground that was all that remained after the explosion had stripped it down to bedrock. He lay motionless, only twitching now and then. The robes on his back had caught fire, and after the flames died out, they revealed a back of ulcerated skin and charred flesh.

"Fiendfyre."

Only then did the hoarse male voice that rang across the plain reach his ears. The canyon had already been leveled by the explosion, making that drifting voice as thin as a ghost's. Herpo the Foul struggled to raise his head and saw a pair of gleaming leather shoes step out from the open door of the Black Tower.

The man beneath the tower was tall and slender. The hem of his long black trench coat nearly dragged on the ground, making it look more like an opulent robe. He carried a battered Black Box. On his face was a pair of round-framed