They called him Traitor. Often he was the Dark Traitor. In his presence is was Lord Traitor, or else. There were plenty of folk stories as to where his name came from, and there was plenty of research into what his original name might have been. After all, when such a being has been in power since the time of the great-grandparents of the oldest residents in a region, it attracts the attention of scholars, heroes, and rebels alike. Especially when such a being rules with an iron fist, and brooks no challenges to that rule.

The fact that this being, this Lord Traitor, wore his name with pride, accepting no other titles, surely said something about the title’s origins. The commoners all spoke around their mugs of ale that the Dark Lord had dark abilities that allowed him to always identify any traitor in his presence. Those who thought of rebelling against his rule feared the stories saying that any group forming against him would somehow, mystically, have a traitor planted in their midst. Other stories whispered that he had the ability to cause comrades to turn on one other, even brother upon brother.

The more learned individuals had more rational theories. Some spoke of a group of allies that once turned on him, forcing him to betray them. Apparently he felt so justified by his actions, or so affected by those of his friends, that he adopted the name as a reminder. Of course, the Lord Traitor had proven time and again that he had immense powers, enough to rival armies. So the whisperings of commoners were not entirely ignored.

The tyrannical Lord Traitor had his supply of sycophants, but so too did he have his fill of detractors. Certainly, the majority of these did little more than mumble into their cups, perhaps being so bold as to complain to their friends or spouses, but not to their neighbors. After all, best not to speak too loudly, lest a traitor overhear. And why attempt to act on your complaints, when any rebellion was sure to be betrayed?

However, every few years there were some who were brave enough, knowledgeable enough, and trusting enough, to attempt to act against the Dark Lord. More than a century before, a prophecy was rumored, which outlined a manner in which he might be destroyed. Some twenty years after that, it was found, identified to be in the Lord Traitor’s own chambers. After a dozen attempts to get someone into the room, it was finally accomplished, and turned out to be, not a prophecy, but instructions. Lord Traitor was identified as being a Lich, a being made to be immortal, as long as his soul remained undestroyed. The passage, known as the Sach ta Olum, was copied by a brave pair of operatives and brought to the care of a trusted order of priests. That is, until one of the two thieves betrayed the other, turning on him and killing his partner and their priestly contact. No one knows why he turned on his compatriots or in fact what happened to him, for he vanished that very night and was never heard from again.

Solomon stood in the doorway of the secret room, staring at the raised dais in the center. Around him, mystically lit torches bathed the room in brilliant light, but no heat. Instead the cold seeped from the walls, making him feel the weight of earth surrounding the underground chamber. The raised platform was made of a black marble, as described in the copy of the Sach ta Olum laid out on a lectern behind it. The pages were old, being the very transcriptions made all those years before, stolen at such a great cost. Standing at the lectern was a priest in navy robes, seemingly lost in either meditation or prayer. In truth, his presence here was to protect the contents of the dais from any scrying of a divinatory or arcane nature.

The round dais was perhaps a foot tall off the floor, the width of a prone man, just shy of six feet. On the dais stood three containers, each carved of a single massive piece of onyx and standing more than a foot tall. They were called Soul Jars, and were canopic jars, phylacteries of the Traitor Lord. Carefully etched into the surface of each was a pictographic word, giving the jar a number. The recovery of these jars began soon after the discovery of the knowledge of their existence. It took more than half a century to collect all three Soul Jars mentioned in the Sach ta Olum, and that is where the true frustration started.

The search for the Soul Jars, as well as the protection and study of the phylacteries, seemed to prove many of the rumors about the Traitor Lord, for its path was littered with the dead bodies and destroyed friendships of scores of betrayals, many at the hands of the most trusted of individuals. One of the jars had even been stolen back by agents of the Traitor Lord, taking nearly a decade to recover.

Solomon walked forward, approaching the dais. He had only made it perhaps a third of the distance when the hammered metal bracelet he wore began to glow. A similar bracelet on the priest lit up as well, and he stopped his muttering to look up at Solomon.

“Greetings, Manaj,” Solomon muttered in frustration. “I loath this process. I swear that I am not aligned with the Dark Lord, whose name we do not speak in this space.”

“I hate your ass, and I am bore of this existence,” growled the priest, Manaj. Then they both laughed at the situation.

“I see the magic of the bracelets still works,” chuckled Solomon.

The bracelets, made of cold hammered metal alloy and interlaced with magic during their creation, emitted a field when two bracelets met which forced truth within their sphere. And not just the inability to speak lies, but also to withhold secrets. This had led to everything from mild embarrassments for some, to humiliating revelations from others. Manaj was one who had lost much when certain predilections unbecoming a priest had been outed under his first influence under the bracelets’ power. As Solomon, the leader of the current movement, was the one to recruit him, he still harbored resentment of his best friend. But embarrassing as they might be, the bracelets kept them safe from the invasive influence of the Lord Traitor.

Once he reached the dais, Solomon reached out a hand and stroked the smooth finish of one of the Soul Jars. He could feel an energy to them. Nothing that gave of a physical vibration. More like it resonated with something inside him, perhaps even his own life force. True to the creature from whom they came, the Soul Jars felt evil. His fingers found the engraved pictograph, relic of a language not spoken in several centuries, already out of style when these engravings were made. Solomon did not speak the language. By the Gods, no one but the most obscure scholarly priests knew how to translate it.

“Tereth,” it said. “Two” in that ancient tongue. And this formed the crux of their greatest frustration. Once more, Solomon wished by all the Gods that the bracelets worked on paper. Three Soul Jars, the Sach ta Olum mentioned. It spoke clearly of the process needed to create a Lich was for the individual to split his soul, and to use that immaterial energy to fill three such jars. It was very specific. And yet before him stood three marked Soul Jars, marked “Ote,” one, “Tereth,” two, and “Seppe”… meaning “four”.

Obviously it was a distraction. Many were the times that rebels in the past had attempted the ritual outlined to destroy the Soul Jars, and with them, the Lord Traitor. All had failed, taking with them the lives of those involved in the failed attempts. Solomon’s own uncle, the last leader, had spent his adult life gathering enough divine capital to confirm without doubt that:

Not only were there no more Soul Jars,

Not only that the Soul Jars they possessed were genuine and linked to the Lord Traitor,

But also that the jars they possessed were labeled correctly.

A life’s work, all questions answered. Only to find out it was useless, because it seemed that they didn’t know the proper questions. It was a cosmic joke. A cruel jest turned against the land. It was a riddle worthy of the cruelest Devil.

“I did not give my declaration,” said Manaj.

“You did not need to, my friend,” countered Solomon. “Had you intended to betray us, the magic would have forced the confession from you.”

The priest grunted a reluctant acknowledgment before resuming breathing his chant under his breath. Solomon went over to the wall and leaned a shoulder against it, watching the door in casual anticipation. As the minutes passed, Manaj’s barely audible mutterings made him feel as if he were outside in a gentle breeze. He nearly drifted off into a doze to the gentle sounds of the monotonous prayer.

He was jerked back to attention some time later by the sound of footsteps on the stairs leading down to the chamber. He was unsure whether it had been mere minutes, or whether he had genuinely dozed off. Subconscious habit had Solomon checking his sword was loose in its scabbard as he came to full attention. Being quick to note that he was hearing more than one set of footsteps, Solomon was unsurprised to see three individuals enter the room.

“Well, we did it,” said the first man to enter the room, a small man, diminutive both in height and build. “We got the ruttin’ thing, and without losin’ nobody.”

“That is good news,” said Solomon. “But first, let me hear you say the words.”

“Flippin’ ‘ell,” the man groaned. “Fine. I swear I have no allegiance with the Dark Lord. You ruttin’ happy?”

“Ecstatic,” groused the woman behind him. She had several inches height on the first man, but a similar build and outfit. “I have little love or respect for any of you, least of all my effin’ husband here. But I also swear to have no plans to aid Lord Trait-”

“The Dark Lord,” interrupted Manaj loudly from across the room. “We have no details on his powers, and wish to give him no unnecessary attention.”

She swore in a foreign tongue before continuing. “Fine, you ruttin’ canker sore. I swear I have no allegiance to the,” she raised her voice into a yell, staring daggers at Manaj, “Dark Lord!”

“Thank you, you inconsiderate shrew,” responded Manaj with a smile.

At last the final newcomer spoke up. He was dressed in similar priestly robes to Manaj, if perhaps a bit more detailed in the embroidered edges. “Everyone, calm yourselves. We must act as allies, if not friends. Deacon Manaj, please.”

“I believe we are as friendly as these bracelets allow in the moment, Declan,” grinned Solomon.

With introductions out of the way, Solomon held out his hand to the first man. “So, success you declare. May I see them, Rusk?”

“Did you believe I would allow my cheating husband to hold onto something so important?” asked the woman as she reached into her tunic and pulled out a handful of fresh parchments, handing them to the leader.

“It was only three harlots, ya daft wench!”

“Three!” she screamed, smacking the smaller Rusk on the back of the head. “Not a week ago you were able to swear to only two, and promised the Holy Father here that you were done with your whoring.”

“Please, Lysandra,” interrupted Solomon before Rusk could reply. “We need to inspect these, and see what we have acquired.”

He handed the papers to the new priest, Father Declan, who took then and walked around the dais to join Manaj at the lectern. So as to not mix the sets of papers, the junior priest had already begun carefully stacking the papers of the Sach ta Olum into a stack, setting them on the edge of the black marble. Together, the two priests began translating the new, confirmed copy of the Sach ta Olum, while the the two thieves stood in the corner arguing and making threats, although none of them were quite as violent as they all knew they would be if not under the zone of guaranteed honesty.

It had been more than a hundred years since the original Sach ta Olum in Lord Traitor’s sanctum had been read by any of them, and it was decided that at this point, the only chance they had was to go back to the original source, and confirm it was a true and full transcription. So much treason and duplicity surrounded the Lich, and all other avenues of discovery had been exhausted, this seemed the only path remaining. The translation took more than an hour, during which time the couple’s feud had ended, the two spouses now making out nearly as violently in the hall at the foot of the stairs. Solomon, for his part, stayed vigilant, surprisingly patient.

“Aha,” declared the senior priest eventually. “It seems that we have a new line of discussion in this new copy.”

He looked up, smiling, at Solomon. For his part, the leader showed a wide smile and and an almost childlike look of anticipation on his face. Solomon moved quickly across the room to join the priests. Summoned by the new discussion, Lysandra came into the room to see what had been discovered.

“Here,” said Manaj, pointing to a particular grouping of pictographs in the newly acquired document. “These constitute a separate line of instructions. As you can see, they are similar to these here.” He pointed to another set just before the ones first pointed out. “It is possible that the ones who first copied these either mistook them for duplicates, or in their haste, lost their place on the page as they transcribed.”

“Sadly, it does happen,” nodded Declan sagely, “even to the best of scribes.” Manaj nodded his agreement.

“Well don’t keep us in suspense, brothers!” exclaimed Solomon.

“Deacon Manaj,” said Declan, “please share our findings.”

Lysandra came around and pushed her way into the group of men, ensuring she could see their discovery as well. Solomon and Declan made room for her squeeze between the two priests as Manaj began speaking.

“These here,” he said, pointing to the already known pictographs, “ explain about the three Soul Jars, and how they must be brought together on the dais in order to complete the ritual to destroy the portions of soul within.”

“Yes, we have all read that portion,” said Solomon. “The new portion, please, brother.

Manaj sighed, grumbling, “For being the patient leader, you have no patience.” Then before anyone could try to object to his outburst, he pressed on. “But these new lines explain that all the parts of the soul must be brought together on the dais for the ritual to work.”

“Close,” said Declan, “ but not the same.”

“So basically,” said Solomon slowly, as he worked out what this might be implying, “the Dark Lord’s soul has been broken and the parts used to fill these three jars. Then these three three jars are to be brought together, thus bringing all parts together, correct?” He looked around at the others. “So what are we missing?”

“Ain’t it obvious?” asked Lysandra, looking back and forth at the others around her. The other three looked to her, anticipating her insight. She sighed in frustration and said, “It says his soul was split, right? And it says the broken soul was used to fill them Devil jars, right?” she looked back and forth, then shook her head. “Men are so stupid. What if there was more soul than the three jars could hold? Wouldn’t the rest remain in his physical body?”

Both of the priests gasped in joint recognition at the new insight. “Of course,” exclaimed Solomon. He looked to Lysandra in admiration, and then paused as he saw the look on Manaj’s face. Certainly he had a look of surprise on his face, but it did not hold wonder or triumph as he might have expected. It was more akin to shock. Then he noticed a trickle of blood form in the corner of his mouth, before both he and Declan began a slow fall to their knees.

Solomon stumbled back, his mind reeling at the impossibility of what was happening before him. He scrambled to draw his sword, but couldn’t understand why his arms wouldn’t respond. It felt like his arms had no strength. He attempted to look down, but found his neck blocked by the steel handle of a dagger impeding his chin from lowering. There could not be a blade through his throat, could there? And why was did he feel a dull thump on his chest. Finally able to move a hand, he reached up to find a second dagger embedded in chest. The soldier’s knowledge within him recognized that it was a heart strike. By this point, he could not even identify whether he was still on his feet, except that the room was suddenly much taller.

“How?” he tried to ask, although he now had no voice.

“You foolish men,” said a voice from somewhere far away. A woman’s voice? Maybe? Solomon could hear his own blood rushing in his ears. But the voice continued, barely able to be heard. “The Lord Traitor’s power is not to inject random traitors into a group. Rather, anyone who speaks my name opens themselves to be consumed by my essence. The foolish woman, Lysandra ceased to exist weeks ago. Months, actually.”

Solomon fought through the haze and despair, foolishly attempting to think of a way to pass on this knowledge. But the Lord Traitor, speaking through Lysandra’s voice, continued his gloating. “Yes, you would need me to step on this dais to join my Soul Jars in order for the ritual to work. But I want you to understand how close you came. After all, the containers are all labeled correctly. After all, my name is, and always has been nothing but a distraction.

“Lord Traitor! A foolish name for a foolish people. It is not ‘Traitor, but rather, Trejta.”

Solomon realized the truth as the last thing he would hear and tried to laugh, though it came out as nothing more than a bubbling of blood. Trejta, in the old tongue, “three”.