EPISODE 25: Sleight of Hand
Rome, a holy city. The literal home of the Catholic Church. The Vatican at it’s heart. Vibrancy of faith shining all over the sprawling metropolis. But like sun on a hill, shadows paint the other side.
In a place full of rare antiquity, there was one piece being pined over by collectors of the rare, and the macabre. An authenticated copy of the Book of Amar. As rare as rare could be. There were still rumblings about the power of such a thing. And what one could do with it. Set to be auctioned to the highest bidder in secret.
The proceedings were by invitation only. Shrouded in secrecy. Shifting locations to throw law enforcement off. Blackmarket dealers. Men and women who knew how to acquire the impossible. Dabblers of the occult. Worshippers of evil. Criminal elements...
The final venue was chosen with care. Beneath the streets. Away from the light. In the ancient catacombs of Rome. A place of the dead. A place of burial. Despite the illegal and prohibited nature of the impeding auction, a preview was provided. A showing of the tome behind thick glass, to prove it’s authenticity. Of course protected by heavily armed guards...
The Book of Amar - © 2025 Headless Horseman Productions, LLC
But the book would never make it to the seller’s block. As interested buyers crowded around to get a better view of the fabled volume -- there was a tremble in the air.
Immense power radiated. Filling the subterranean room. Eyes turned as...Orem Black, entered. Joseph Frost at his side. The Knights of the Black Serpent in his shadow.
OREM: I’m here to lay claim to that book. I am it’s master, in whichever form it takes. Lord over the magic and rites within...
But as his words echoed hollow, Orem’s brow furrowed. The looks of terror on the faces of the men and women before him were unnatural...something was off...Their expressions remaining unchanged. Eyes unblinking. The figures before him weren’t real. A fabrication, dissolving into thin air. The book behind the glass, gone. Never really there.
VEERA: Welcome, Orem. Joseph...thank you for the telegram.
Orem’s eyes cut to Joseph, cold as steel. He understood, he’d been betrayed. Led into a trap...a masterpiece of illusion, conjured by Aolani.
Buried behind the facade, an ambush. With Veera revealed, Broderick Zayne, Gérard Roux, and the Light brigade would strike from the darkness, cutting down the Knights of the Black Serpent.
The doorway slammed shut behind them, Herakles, with brute force amplified with help from Aolani, collapsed the stone. There was no escape.
Veera and Orem squared off. Once bound by friendship. But existing longer as sworn enemies. Orem believing he was stronger, unleashed a barrage of magic. Bolts of black flame, jagged lances of shadow. The cavern trembled with every strike.
Orem employs his dark powers - © 2025 Headless Horseman Productions, LLC
But Veera stood firm. Power born within him, sharpened by a lifetime of discipline and practice, what the Order of Wormwood provided him. Each spell Orem hurled, was met, absorbed, answered. Veera’s counterstrikes blazing brighter, heavier, the air splitting beneath the force.
The duel would build, light against shadow, an epic clash shaking the very bones of the catacombs...and the streets of Rome above. Then, a break, by design. Zayne, bending the flow of time itself, learned from Heng Shao, blurred past Orem’s defenses. In a flash he was at Orem’s back, driving the holy relic, the Rhongomyniad, into his flesh.
Orem staggered, snarled, the attack couldn’t kill him, but it stunned him. And in that instant, Aolani tore open a rift, a gateway to a place called Oblivion — Orem would thrash, summoning every ounce of his dark powers. But Veera’s will bound him. And the more Orem struggled, the tighter the tether would become.
Veera channeled every fiber of his being, every trial, every sacrifice, and with a final surge, cast Orem Black into the furthest reaches of limbo.
Veera fighting for the side of the Light - © 2025 Headless Horseman Productions, LLC
The catacombs fell silent. The Light triumphant. Banishing Orem from this world, to a place he could no longer influence the Processions.
Orem, trapped in Oblivion. A realm collapsing in on itself. Its atmosphere crushing. Unyielding. His magic would only be powerful enough to scratch, to chip, to claw against an endless tide, barely making a dent...Like the equivalent of a prisoner tunneling through miles of dirt with only a toothpick. A tomb meant for eternity...And there, alone in the dark, he’d vow his revenge.
OREM: Veera...Joseph...LET ME OUT OF HERE!
Orem cast to Oblivion - © 2025 Headless Horseman Productions, LLC
When the dust settled, Joseph Frost was nowhere to be found. Not among the fallen Knights, nor beside the portal where Orem was cast away. He’d slipped into the shadows, clutching the hollow promise of power he thought would be his. He’d continue on. Aging, in decline, but not dying. Still inexplicably tied to something in the world.
In a retirement community in Florida, where men in wheelchairs stared at nothing, and nurses barely remembered his name, Joseph with trembling hand, would spark a flicker from his fingertip, no larger than a candle’s wick, burning...before sputtering out.
Joseph Frost at the Sea Breeze retirement home, 1958 - © 2025 Headless Horseman Productions, LLC
The other residents would clap weakly, mistaking it for a parlor trick. To them, he was a novelty. To Joseph, it was a reminder of power, immortality, dominion, the might of Orem himself. And yet, all he had to show for it, was a spark, dying before it could ever burn.
For the Soldiers of the Light, there was finally a measure of rest. They had broken the Dark’s path to the Processions. Yet not all was right in their world.
For Veera the victory had a hollow ring, as he had lost contact with Banerjee for some time. No longer able to see or feel his Uncle in his mind's eye. Veera feared he was lost forever to the Abyss. He mourned...but he would not let his name die. In Banerjee’s honor, he vowed to re-form the Order of Wormwood. To strengthen the numbers once again, to be a safe place for magic to thrive, and to stand watch through the coming millennium, serving as sentries against the agents of evil.
But the Dark was not vanquished. It lingered, festering, only losing one earthly cog, Orem Black. There were others in the shadows, growing ever stronger. Plotting and twisting Fate to enact the other Processions any way they could. Knowing victory could only be met by forging ahead, and that Orem was only lost somewhere in existence, not gone.
The year, 1980...At a honky-tonk in Cheyenne, Wyoming, a dark stranger would stroll in, taking a seat at the bar. Different from the guys in town, he was polished, slicked hair, tailored jacket, his dark eyes like a secret. Everything about him was alluring and untamed. The kind of man that would draw attention without asking.
The dark stranger - © 2025 Headless Horseman Productions, LLC
A group of women laughing at a table nearby took notice. He’d meet their gazes, his lip curling into a smile. They wouldn’t be able to look away.
It was the demon Kasson, walking the earth once again. Reborn as a incubus. His plans, ambitious. And on that night, a drink, a smile...planting seeds, that on the approaching horizon...would become a dynasty.
The Fight for Souls would continue on, but the Fight for Blood would be next.
TO BE CONTINUED…