The swirling darkness of the abyss could not conceal the thick chains that bound the left wrist and both ankles of a tall, lean man, whose head was slumped wearily against his chest. The chains were crafted from obsidian materials. Black ice was mixed with dark fire, iron with ebony wood, stone with storm wind, the deepest shade of earth holding it together. Only the darkest of the elements was fit for these fetters.

The man had angular, attractive features and black hair that contrasted sharply with his pale skin, which looked like it had never even glimpsed the sun. His hair was tousled, dense, and wild. The chains suspended him over the void of blackness, unable to move naught but his right arm.

This arm was clutched against his chest. Marks encircled his right wrist from where the chain had grasped him before he had broken it only decades before. The broken chain dangled near his right shoulder, the end splintered. Every so often, it would waver in the darkness, a slight shudder.

Raising his head, the man opened his eyes. They were ebony, with a thin ring of silver encircling the divide between his pupil and his iris. Tendrils of silver shot out from the ring and into his iris, giving him a striking look. Even the whites of his eyes had a silvery sheen. His tunics were black, and he had a silver belt with an empty, also silver, sheath, decorated with archaic runes that spoke of an evil time. The sword had been lost for far too long.

But times were changing. A hand near to his had touched his sword, held it, wielded it once more. The maliciousness had turned him, transformed him. And the same with his successors. Hieron, World-Divider, was coming forth.

He couldn't see far; darkness obscured his vision. But he still had a sense of the happenings in the galaxy, of the world beyond his prison. And his sword had been found again after a long sleep.

But something had happened. He couldn't touch the new wielder. He held himself distant from the deadly clutches of the sword, refusing to succumb to its wishes, its desires. His wishes, his desires. And though he strived, the new wielder still would not open his mind to the sword. Indeed, he seemed to view it with a dislike, so different from the last wielder that he was stumped. How could he send his evil will into the galaxy when his one, clear chance was being blocked?

This was the fourth wielder since the sword had been found. All Ontars had wielded it since, and he would not stoop to a lower will. Only Ontars had the strength to hold the sword's mind in theirs without vile consequences. He had found that out the hard way, a long time ago.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the silvery lines that flitted across his eyelids in his line of vision, a relief from the constant darkness. The lines crossed and tangled, unwound and danced again, repeating endlessly until he opened his eyes and sighed. Once more he opened his mind to the sword, but the wielder hadn't drawn it for over a week. He couldn't touch him, and he had lost the ability to speak in the minds of others after nature had been strengthened against him.

His mind reverted to his only other lifeline: a line from an ancient prophecy. One will fall to the rival spirit. He allowed himself some satisfaction, baring his teeth in what some might refer to as an attempt, after millennia of pain and isolation, to smile, but what most others would call a grimace.

One way or another, he would be free. The previous wielders could never be free of his influence, and the young one would learn to respect the power he grasped. Yes, he would. Or die cowering.