Somewhere far, far below—in a metaphysical sense, that is—in a room fashioned from fire and lava, a man sat on a grandiose throne, idly brushing his endless flame-red hair and gazing into a mirror. Then he gave a slight sigh of appreciation. “It’s such a shame those two are alive,” he murmured. “I could do with a set of enforcers like them. They’re ever so good at torturing people, and the young one is coming along so nicely lately.”
He set aside his brush and pushed the mirror off to one side, then said, “Attend me.”
Moments later a dark-haired man rushed into the room and threw himself down in front of the throne. “Master,” he breathed.
“Sevvie, dearest, how delightful to see you again. It’s time for your training, darling.”
The dark-haired figure began to tremble violently. “As you will it, master, it shall be so.”
“Now, say the magic words, darling,” the man prompted.
“I am your most humble servant, master, and gratefully accept my training, for I know I am weak and require your domination for eternity. Please, master, I beg you to make me scream in agony so that you might delight in my suffering.”
“Such a good boy, Sevvie. Let’s get started, then, shall we?”