Dawn of Shadows: The Waystone Saga: Book Two

By H. Shane Alford

War has come...
The Bright World grows dark. The end of the Third Age has begun. Powerful forces are moving, making ready for the battles that loom over the horizon. For some, death awaits. For others, hope may yet endure. Fates and destinies are entwining as dreams and lives are torn apart. Everything is changing.

When shadows fall and worlds collide, the Dark World ascends, eclipsing fair Narianna. As light fades, demons claw at the Tapestry. and set the Threads of Creation to flame. It is a black fire that burns.

The Child of Light appeared as foretold, fulfilling the ancient prophecies. She brought with her the promise of salvation. She was the herald of tomorrow and affirmed that the long night would end.

But the darkness knew its enemy well. It did not sleep. It did not tarry. Armies marched and dragons flew and nightmares spread across the lands.

The heroes of the Bright World awakened to these drums of damnation, but did they awaken soon enough?

Indeed, there would be a dawn, but would it bring light or would it only be a Dawn of Shadows

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. Shane Alford
• Release date: Apr 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9780989073035

H. Shane Alford

Born in 1967 in the quaint, southern town of Social Circle, Georgia, Shane Alford spent his childhood embarking on one imaginary adventure after another. A graduate of LaGrange College, he holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Religion. Currently, Shane resides with his wife, Cheri, and their two children: Brendan and Kara, in Columbia, South Carolina. He has two daughters, Chelsea and Alexandra, from a previous marriage. https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18590712.H_Shane_Alford

Book preview

Chapter 1: Alliances

The hot winds of summer blew up from the southern plains and filled the boughs of the Silverwood, tossing the crowns of the great trees and stirring the creatures within their branches. Across the fields that crisscrossed the grasslands to the west and south of the ancient forest, farmers and herdsmen greeted the seasonal breeze as a long overdue friend. Mid-summer had already passed, but their crops were far from full and vibrant and their cattle, sheep, and goats were weak and sickly.

For over a month the lands of the South Delving had laid beneath a shroud of death waiting for the purifying and life-giving rays of the sun. But Xorconum’s light had not reached them. The earth was suffocated by an evil mist. The unnatural miasma had clung to the world and choked it. The flow of life had stopped. Early crops withered and succumbed to the blight and many animals had died. So, too, did the people that depended upon them. Virulence overtook even the strong and plague spread quickly claiming those that famine passed by. Death stalked the lands and called at every door sparing neither the wealthy nor the poor, though the latter paid the greater toll.

Few among the inhabitants of the duchy understood what had befallen them. Life had always been a struggle. To most, that its difficulty was compounded by the unholy fog was a clear sign of divine disfavor. A curse had fallen upon their lands. Why they suffered was a question often considered but seldom asked. It was simply the way of things. Death came quickly and often. It had washed over the land and left evidence of its passing in every hamlet, town and borough. To the common folk, reconciled to their simple part in the world, its tide was inexorable and beyond their ability to alter. Hope faded even as prayers grew more fervent and desperate. The people of Truesilver begged for their suffering to end.

At last, their prayers were answered.

The winds returned and drove the lingering effluvia from the dales and groves. Thunderstorms rode across the fields and hills and washed away the pestilence. Gradually the vitality of the land was restored. The sun reemerged from behind the misty veil and burned out the sickness and cleansed the world. The flow of time began again as the summer season awoke from its gloomy, gray lethargy. The people rejoiced as the specter of death retreated back into the shadows. Its victims were mourned even as the living thanked the gods of the Palescia for their own deliverance. And, once again, few gave it deeper consideration. Powers beyond them ordered the universe. The people where simply grateful to be alive and for their lives to return to the well-practiced routines they called normal.

For some, however, the dire happenings that ravaged the month of Ansreap did not go unscrutinized. There was a growing darkness in the world. The first tremors of what was to come reverberated through the killing fog and warned of greater dangers. Understanding the portents and the omens was no simple matter. Every whisper that fell from heaven mingled with the haunting echo of silence that rose from the depths of the underworld. What the gods foretold from the high places, the Silent One, Mithcran, god of the shadows, entwined with mystery and concealed in a cloud of deception. Few could unravel the hidden secrets. Few could see through the obfuscating mists. But there were some.

Unfortunately, even the clarity these observers brought was subject to the prejudices and predilections of their listeners. Even when truths were spoken plainly, those that heard the words ofttimes twisted them to their own purposes or perceived only those meanings that fit within their subjective views. Politics had a way of manipulating even the most adept revelations.

How many fools are there in the world? Draven growled.

Shetra’s steps as she strode from the grand audience hall of Castle Truesilver did not falter. She maintained her pace, quick and purposeful. His question followed in her wake but went unanswered. Despite her ability to see what others could not, she had no response to his query. For almost three weeks she had waited to speak before the assembled nobles that gathered in the regal fortress. Some had arrived reluctantly from across the realm, complying with their duchess’ summons. At the time, the cause for their meeting concerned the mists that wrapped their lands in death. By the time all were gathered, that danger, it seemed, had passed and they were eager to return to their own halls and their own business.

When the Seer was at last granted her hearing before the Turanian nobles, the men listened, but the air of impatience and indifference in the audience hall was stifling. Her dire words were not welcome. She was not treated discourteously. In fact, for an Asgev priestess, her reception by the vassals of the Aylnar city-states was quite cordial. They just did not wish to hear what she had to say. The mists were gone and, apparently, the curse upon the duchy had lifted along with them. Alarming talk of barbarian prophesies and warring giants in the southern mountains of Valdrinor were topics little entertained by the realm’s current rulers. Some among them were bold enough to blame the Asgevar for what had befallen the lands. While that view was not applauded, it was not argued either, lending tacit approval. If some deep, dark menace had been awakened from the shadows of the past by the barbarian’s witchcraft then they were the reason for the black days. It was even noted, quite callously, that those that had died at the hands of the evil were predominately Asgevar or were those that had intermarried with them. Just desserts earned, then. It was a barbarians’ curse and not a malady to overly concern the Turanians.

At the end of the brief discourse, Shetra received a patronizing assurance that the nobles were prepared to meet any new threat that might arise. All prudent measures would, of course, be taken, they promised.

Draven walked beside her, an angry, frustrated scowl etched upon his face as he continued to rail against the outcome of the meeting. He was Turanian, but he shared none of his brethren’s arrogant, dismissive attitudes. He had seen what darkness lurked in the mists. It had almost killed him and those for whom he cared. The danger was intractably real in his heart and mind. More so than his disillusionment, though, he was embarrassed and disappointed. He had expected much more of the lordly council before which they had stood. He had expected leadership.

How can they be so blind? he was asking as he and the priestess exited the grand hall and entered an adjoining antechamber. The knights that escorted them paid no attention to his ranting as they went.

Believing nightmares are real is something few undertake willingly, Draven, Shetra said plainly as they walked. It is far easier to accept that such demons haunt only their sleep.

But these men are charged with defending this land, not ignoring the dangers that it faces. How can they reject the warnings we bring?

Shetra paused, turning to her flustered companion. Her blue eyes regarded him with sympathy.

Draven sighed. He knew the reason: It was not the message but the messenger that they had rejected. Though her bearing was no less regal than their own, Shetra was Asgevar – a barbarian – and though he, a prince of Alli-Turan, stood firmly at her side, her claims were suspect at best and treacherous at worst. Simply, they did not trust her. Her people were their enemies and the animosity that existed between them ran deep, deeper than their outward show of civility. Draven understood that hatred. It scarred him. He had been reared in it. The blatancy of it pierced the sheen of cordiality that had filled the audience hall. He knew very well why her words had been turned aside and swept away. His eyes fell from hers, ashamed.

Come, Shetra offered gently with a smile.

A short distance further and the two companions stopped before the heavily bound outer doors of the fortress. They did not tarry long as the keepers opened the way. Draven was forced to admit something another of his comrades had said earlier. It had not been meant as an ill-wish, but it had proven to be disturbingly prescient. They’ll hear only what they want, Gylaedrik Redgar had said just prior to his departure for Baern’s Hall, now almost a month ago. The marshal knew the minds of these men, Draven assented. He had endured their political arena many times before and expected nothing to come of the Aesyranna’s audience. Unfortunately, it seemed, he had been proven right.

Gylaedrik had left for the Asgevar steading at Baernkol just as Draven and Shetra set out for Castle Truesilver. He had a promise to keep, a promise to Eirynna, Queen of Svargrymheim. The marshal never believed that the Turanians would rally under him, but the Asgevar just might. A new Einholdt, a gathering of lairds, would be called and an army to aid the Valigrym against the Morarmadin and the Argrym hordes that surged through the icy mountains would arise. The clans would not sit idle.

Draven had held out more hope for his own kinsmen…until now. He could not persuade them. Alas, his father’s shadow reached even here. All those before whom he spoke knew well his father’s reputation. Being the son of a bloodthirsty warmonger had not helped his arguments for war. Suggesting an alliance with the Asgevar only weakened his case. No doubt word of his own alliance with the barbarians would reach his father in due course. It would not be received well, Draven knew. Hatred was not a strong enough word to describe Duke Relgan Mord’s feelings towards the Reaversfolk, as the northern clans were called. Draven dismissed the certain rebuke that would come. Let his father curse him if he so wished.

Beyond the castle gates, a gravelly road, the Turanril, stretched along the coast of the Mar’Chelvyn Sea. To the north it wound towards the Astraelon River and the duchy of Thundersword. Farther still, it passed through the free city of Elista, the unofficial capital of Alli-Turan. Where the road ended, Draven’s own homelands began. There lie the places of many of his dark remembrances. West from Truesilver’s castle, the road followed the rocky shores to a great trade city that shared the name of the frigid sea. The Asgevar called it Mar’Chelvyn, though the Aylnar dubbed it simply as Midport. A few towns sprang up along the road’s length. The nearest was Valistad, their destination.

A mounted warrior waited just outside the barbican with their horses. From Draven’s expression, the man knew immediately that the meeting had not gone well. Shetra’s expression was more subdued but offered no more optimistic an appraisal.

That well, Threlbradus snorted, handing Draven the reins to his mount.

A remarkable display, Draven grumbled, …of stupidity.

Maybe you should have brought Tom Xander along, the Roadwarden half joked. He’s quite a persuasive little fellow, from what I’ve seen.

Draven sighed. The Freelyt did have a way of insinuating himself into the middle of conversations and bringing to light points overlooked or avoided by others. He doubted, though, that even the halfling’s infectious charisma would have convinced the dour lords of the need to act. Proposing war plans to face rampaging giants seemed more than a little beyond Tom’s pale, not that it would have mattered. Draven, in spite of his acknowledged military credentials, was given no quarter to pose such measures either. To the council, if the giants killed each other off in the frozen peaks of Valdrinor, then so be it – and all the better for the duchy. Sending the Valigrym an army would be folly. It was more prudent to guard the borders and contain the conflict beyond it.

What of Lady Truesilver? Threlbradus asked. By all accounts, she is wise and just. Did she at least hear the sincerity in your words?

The duchess said little either for or against our cause, Draven scoffed as they rode. The land-barons and mayors did most of the chattering. One of them even dared to demand an increase in tribute from the Asgevar clans: reparations for their financial losses.

There are more merchants than warriors amongst the nobles these days, m’lord, Threlbradus sighed, his own aggravation apparent. He, too, was Turanian and, like most Turanians, was proud and independently-minded. Acquiescing to meddlesome Aylnar overseers stirred his ire.

It had been over a hundred years since the unofficial end of the Arnghildrok, the Barbarian Wars. The peace that followed was slowly transforming Alli-Turan. What had been disciplined, military fiefdoms had become subservient, mercantile colonies. The duchies remained vassal-states ruled by hereditary lines of succession, but the influence of the progenitor principalities of the Inland Sea never ceased to grow. To the Aylnar, the people of the Cities of the Sea, this territory was conquered solely to provide them with resources to feed their lavish lives. Vast plantations were established by the city-states specifically to farm Alli-Turan’s bounty. In their imperialistic view, the Turanians were no better than mercenaries and serfs. Their assumed autonomy was merely tolerated. But, to the Turanians, their independence was a hard-won right. They had conquered these lands and shed their blood to secure them. The umbilical relationship between the two cultures was such that both needed the other. That, too, was changing and, as it did, the mercantile exploitation of the colonies bred dissent. The time was fast approaching when the old alliances between the Inland Sea and Alli-Turan would be remade. Both sides realized this and moved to set the stage for that transition, each party to its own favor, of course.

A curious relationship existed between the colliding cultures, at once mired in disdain and at the same time filled with interdependence. The Aylnar flaunted their superiority and the Turanians mocked them for it while simultaneously striving to reinvent their culture for themselves. In the midst of it all were the indigenous inhabitants of the lands – the Asgevar and the Ylestans.

The Asgevar were a conquered people. Their ancient lands, Einhervaldheim, were claimed by the invaders, the Skrel, the foreigners, as the Aylnar and Turanians were derisively called. For generations the clans had dwelled here, living off the rich abundance of the forests and plains. In the beginning, the Aylnar had arrived upon their shores peacefully. Soon, however, as sacred places were trespassed upon and age-old customs were violated, conflicts arose. The response from the Inland Sea was devastating. Great armies flooded into Einhervaldheim to defend the just claims of the cities and to protect the colonies against the barbarians. Bolstered by tremendous wealth and hard, thick steel, knights rode across the Asgevar lands. They proved too mighty for the scattered, disorganized clans. Only in the far north, beyond the frozen forest of Fellenrev, did the barbarians remain defiant. The lands to which they held, though, were barren and isolated, a place of few resources, an icy, tundra-crossed region deadly to most. The Reaversfolk, the Kyrgevar clans, were deemed inconsequential and dismissed by all save their most hated foe: Duke Relgan Mord.

To insure their continued dominance and to maintain control over the conquered Asgev territories, the duchies were established. Great castles were built and the land bowed. Victory, though, was short-lived. Once again, the Turanians were under siege. This time, however, the weapons were neither sword nor ax. A war of wills was underway. Ideologies clashed as the proud nature of the Turanians faced off against their progenitors, the Aylnar. From what Draven could see, his people were loosing…badly.

For their part, the Ylestans faired better. Claims of territory were of little interest to the Nomadic horsemen. They followed the herds of the vast plains. Thus far, the Midlands had proven big enough for both them and the Skrel. In time, that might change. Until it did, the Ylestans were content to ride, carefree and proud.

It was already dusk when the trio of riders reached the outer farmsteads surrounding Valistad. A timber palisade walled in the town. Built upon the ruins of a much older Asgev settlement, legends told that the Shining Folk, the elves, once had a temple there as well. Such faerie tales were like the purported scattered remnants of the mythic, elven race that remained throughout Alli-Turan; they were ephemeral. Time had erased most of what was truly known of them. Still, stories persisted of the Second Age of Narianna and the beautiful kingdoms of the Aeyl-Alurishi. But, sadly, these were fading, too.

More enduring than legends were the monuments the elves left upon the land for these had the power to foster their own tales. Great among these was the Valstone. Towering atop a four-hundred foot high hill, the monolith stood an additional fifty feet above it and looked out over the surrounding countryside. The immense tor marked the verges of the Silverwood Forest and recalled a time when giants walked the lands. Songs sung around the Asgev campfires hinted at the magical power of the great, granite stone. It was said that ancient spirits could be seen encircling the hill on moonlit nights. Whether it was a doorway into Twilight, the realm of the dead, or simply a silent sentinel harkening back to a nearly forgotten age was a matter left to speculation and sagacious debate. What was undeniable to all was its awe-inspiring enormity and inescapable mystery.

Valistad was an oddity among Turanian settlements. It was inhabited by the Asgevar as well, though the septs generally resided in the surrounding forests rather than within the refined, walled town. The barbarians remained because of the tor. It was a sacred place to them. The strange proximity of the two disparate peoples created for an even stranger mix of cultures. Somehow, peace was maintained.

The place to which Draven, Shetra, and Threlbradus traveled was not within the town proper, but rather, lay in a secluded grove near the Valstone. It was there that the steading hall of Malkar Thon stood. A venerable laird, Thon kept watch over the megalith and his people, protecting both for near fifty years. The approach of horses roused the small enclave and curious faces appeared through the doors and windows of the thatch-roofed, stone-walled houses of the Asgevar. Visitors were uncommon, but the trio that arrived this night had already been received as welcomed guests in the weeks before.

A small group of men emerged to greet the returning travelers. Like most Asgevar, they were tall, strong figures with a mixture of fair and coppery complexions. Long beards and hair were common and most wore simple broadcloth and leather clothes. A few bore tattoos signifying their esteem as warriors amongst the clans.

Well have you traveled, Daughter of the Aesyr? asked Argus Rhol, a broad-shouldered, blonde-haired young titan and Malkar’s son. We had expected your return at an earlier hour.

The journey was swift enough, Shetra explained. It was the departure that was delayed.

Ah, Argus mused, then the great council gave long consideration to your words.

No, Draven snorted, they did not. We were the last to address them today. Apparently, other matters were more pressing than imminent invasion.

Argus chuckled at Draven’s surly demeanor and replied, We have endured invaders before. We will do so again.

Draven bristled but made no further comment. His emotions were still too near the surface. It seemed that there were many that knew his own people better than he did. Things had been so much simpler at The Gauntlet, he thought. He had served there for many years, longer than his commission had required. But that had been his choice and, admittedly, was in no small part to avoid going home. Still, along the battlements of the twin fortresses, men – regardless of their backgrounds or race – faced death with an understanding of their joined destinies. Together, against their enemies, they lived or they died. Here, in the civilized lands that the southern keeps defended, men that shared the same sky were content to watch each other die without consideration for how their fates were linked. The lords of the duchy cared for little beyond what profit was to be gained by a campaign. Sacrificing others, like the Asgevar, was acceptable to them. Argus knew it and, not too long ago, Draven had accepted it as well. He understood the bile the man concealed behind his disarming laughter. He saw it in his eyes.

Of course, the lands of Lirr-Arden could never be mistaken as a realm of unabashed fraternity. Draven bore no such nostalgic delusions. The fiery, black deserts were drenched in blood. Everything was deadly, including the air. But such a constant state of warfare burned through the façades of men and forged their souls together in unexpected ways. Survival in the face of ever-present danger reconstituted them and built alliances where none could have been before. Perhaps it would take dragon’s fire to purge the evil in the hearts of his kinsmen and enlighten their minds. Draven hoped not. He had seen the devastation such a crucible wrought.

Not everything that stepped from the black sands filled him with dread though. The desert had its roses as well.

Ahlandra leaned upon the doorpost to Malkar’s longhouse and watched as Draven dismounted. The exchange with Argus was brief but telling and, though she did not hear what was said, she read clearly the outcome of the meeting. Dejection and anger cut dark lines into the Turanian knight’s countenance that were visible even in the lantern light. She chose not to belabor the obvious with questions that could wait. Once he was clear of the assembled men, she walked to him and stood before him, her arms crossed defiantly.

Draven looked down into her blue eyes but could not hold her piercing gaze. He wanted to explain. He wanted her to know that he had done all that he could to win the day, to set in motion those things that would need to happen to save these lands.

Ahlandra watched his inner struggle. She knew he blamed himself for the outcome of the audience; things obviously had not gone well. She could see the undue burden he carried and that he tried so ineptly to hide.

Is it true? she challenged bluntly, bypassing the shield his grim scowl threw up.

What? he stammered, caught off-guard by her ambiguous yet piercing question. His mind raced. Yes, he had failed. Yes, the lords had dismissed them out of hand. His tongue flooded with answers, but he could not give them voice. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself to give his account of what had transpired.

Ahlandra stepped very close to him. A rainbow of colors flashed across her irises and locked his eyes to hers, freezing his words.

I think it is, she said, feigning disbelief and wonder as she studied his downcast features, circling him like a hunting falcon.

His gaze followed her as she moved, mesmerized and disarmed, resigning himself to the rebuff he expected, he deserved.

Ahlandra gave no quarter. Her lips struck quickly, before his could form words. She kissed him and breached his array of faltering defenses in an instant. Reflexively, he engulfed her in his arms.

Is it true? she asked again as he gasped for the breath she had stolen from his apology. A playful grin replaced her mock frown.

In an instant, the frustrating events of the day vanished from Draven’s thoughts. His flood of answers evaporated. A single thought fueled by a single emotion overtook him as he stared into her beautiful eyes. Yes, he said gladly. It is true. She hadn’t come to him for an explanation or to pass judgment. She had come to him for a very simple reason. Draven’s world realigned as he held her. I love you, he said.

Ahlandra nodded and laid her head against his chest. It is true, she whispered.

Across the way, Shetra smiled.

* * *

Alright, cat, it’s agreed! rumbled Tran Hammerhand. If’n yer bound fer hellfire to have yer whiskers singed, I’ll not be stoppin’ ye, though it’s a fool’s quest!

Rasha Khan folded his arms in satisfaction and accepted the Thromnyr’s chiding. The dwarf had cause to be agitated. The mission the Rhakashi scout proposed was dangerous, probably suicidal. Tran’s rebuff was fired, not by derision, but by recognition of this fact. The argument between the two iron wills had lasted for over an hour, exhausting everyone within the war council chamber of Dol-Kabar’s central tower. There had been many such meetings over the past few weeks. There were many things to discuss and many plans to be made.

An army of darkness had assailed the battlements of the ancient castle ruin only a month ago. Armadar, the unholy see of the evil priesthood of the god of shadows, Mithcran, had unleashed a new Shadowlord upon the world. Under his banner, thousands of Morok, the Black Orc of Morgaradar, had marched against the table mountain, reenacting a scene from the Black Campaign of Ra’Zak, their legendary conquering general. In this engagement, however, a new element was employed: Drakkar, dragon-men spawned in the fires of Ardra, had descended upon the fortress. Their presence presaged even darker tidings. Unholy alliances were being forged by the dark powers of the Morarmadin. The battlefield was being made ready for even more terrible forces to arise. The Shadowfall was indeed drawing near. Time was running out for the champions of the Bright World.

But Dol-Kabar did not fall.

Guided by visions, a young priest, an Ayleshi noble, had foreseen where the light of hope could endure. His wisdom, though challenged by those more venerable among his great people, was nonetheless heard. When the Shadowlord’s army struck, Andelfar’s homeland was lost but his people were saved by his prescience. Everhome fell in flames and won a hollow victory for Armadar’s general, Demora Verrek, the Dragonmaster, the Lord of Ravens. The Ayleshi were not there to burn. Their king, Ethelbert, had led them to safety, to a sanctuary for life amidst the blazing, black desert sands, to the oasis of Dernathon. The gnomes escaped and preserved the secrets they guarded.

The Shadowlord’s army marched on, bound for the Great Western Ocean, the Eidros Maerishar, and the Granite Coast. But not all Verrek’s army went that way. A large force remained along a northern front, poised against the defenders of the Valley of Arrokyr and the Midlands beyond them.

The Gauntlet, a pair of keeps built overlooking the broad draw of land, stood defiantly against the evil forces of Lirr-Arden. Built long ago by men and dwarves, the defensive bulwarks guarded the rich northern territories from the invading armies of the southern lands including, most specifically, those in service to the powers of Armadar. Though Dol-Kabar was not apart of these defensive fortifications – it had been built long ago by nomadic chieftains as a refuge for their people – the Shadowlord viewed it as an intolerable island of defiance to his goals. With Everhome ravaged and destroyed, his attention turned upon the three strongholds.

First, Verrek’s wrath was unleashed upon the inselberg. Decades before, Ra’Zak had taken the mountain fortress through a long siege and left it in ruin. The Morok general had toppled the castle with ground assault tactics. He employed circumvallation, great stone ramps, and siege towers to achieve his victory. The Shadowlord had no patience for such a drawn out affair. He fell upon the castle from the sky. Drakkar knights carried his fires to Dol-Kabar upon draconic wings.

A pair of sleek airships escaped just before his winged minions attacked. Verrek deployed part of his flying force in pursuit. The bulk of his army he set upon the castle. Walls Ra’Zak’s army had taken months to breach, Verrek’s army simply flew over. Thousands of men had died in their failed attempt to defend the fortress from the Black Orcs during the Black Campaign. When the Shadowlord’s dragon-men rained down upon it, though, only a single gnome stood against them. But, to Verrek’s doom, the gods were with the Ayleshi priest. The castle became a deathtrap for his army.

Calling upon Xorconum’s light, Andelfar ignited the fortress and rocked the mountaintop with explosions that blasted the Morok and their Drakkar allies from its summit.

The dragon-men that chased after the fleeing warships fared no better. A shroud of ash fell across the southern sky. The curtain was drawn. Behind it, the Shadowlord and his minions faced the vengeance of the Ayleshi. King Ethelbert and his airship armada, raised from the sands around Dernathon, waited. Through the veil of ash, Verrek and his Drakkar flew. Death met them on the other side and The Wallows became littered with their corpses, cast from the firmament by the gnomes’ warships.

In the smoky aftermath, the Shadowlord and part of his great army were thrown down, but Armadar’s power was only diminished. The victory at the battle of Dol-Kabar bought the world time, but it did not end the threat. There were darker shadows yet to be revealed from within Morthalin’s blackness.

It was in anticipation of these that the war council met.

We know that the Dyrdrak Shards are watched carefully by the Morok, Rho, the fortress’ commanding general, said. Our scout ships have sighted large bands of them amongst the rocks. There are still Drakkar about as well; though, thus far, they have not reorganized nor dared to challenge us.

We keep our ships above the open desert, Captain Khenna added. Anything that moves against us can be spotted long before it reaches us.

What of the Grym? Andelfar asked. Has there been any word of their movements?

Not as of late, Reylthesfyre conceded. Our spies’ last report warned of increased activity around Argres Baradar. From what they saw, the giants were fortifying their defenses within the valleys, closing off passes and establishing a wide perimeter. They don’t mean to be bothered.

With the rail they’ve cut ‘neath the mountains an’ the ships they’ve put upon ArXor, thars no tellin’ where they’ll show, Tran grumbled. Damned Grym could pop up out of the ground anywhere.

There’s one place they will for certain, Thurandar added grimly, Alli-Turan.

Aye, Tran said. Usin’ the skalar worms, they’ll bore holes all the way to the Fellenrev.

Perhaps not, Sharaster, a venerable and wise priest of Neolran, said. The creatures require the fire of Ardra to survive. Without its intense heat, they grow weak and die.

Hmpf, Tran snorted saying, if’n they scorch the world, there’ll be plenty of flames fer ‘em. The Argrym’ll like that. Black’s thar fav’rit color.

So, tell us more of this plan of yours, Andelfar requested of Rasha.

The Rhakashi warrior nodded and drew the assembled lords’ attention back to his gambit and said, In truth, the plan is not mine though I agree with it. Against the might of Armadar, we need to strike quickly, while they are still reeling and not yet regrouped. There is only so much that an army can do without its leaders.

Ye know it be a snake pit, Tran grumbled. Even if’n ye kill the big ones, the littl’ns’ll still bite ye.

I know, Rasha answered respectfully. But I also know that the longer we can create chaos amongst their leaders and the more we keep them off-balance, the better our chances are to buy Ahlandra and Draven time to find the Loom. Once they have it, we will be able to direct our forces to the Shadowgates before they erupt. Everything we have faced up ‘til now has only been tainted by Morthalin’s touch. When the Shadowfall comes, the true demons will emerge. Stopping the corruption of the Circlestones is the only hope we have. Killing the Lord High Priest gains us that time.

Then who shall go with you? Andelfar asked.

Rasha’s lion eyes studied the countenances of those gathered before answering, I and the elf-prince alone shall go.

Just the two of ye? Tran muttered. Do ye ferget where it is yer going, cat? Armadar is not going to welcome ye with open arms.

I know, Rasha replied calmly, I’ve been there before.

Where is Arasil? Thurandar asked, noting the elven lord’s absence.

"Aboard the Aylsyrna seeing to the Lirr-Lashani girl that he rescued near Everhome, King Ethelbert answered as he strode into the war council unannounced along with a pair of Ayleshi ministers. I apologize for my late arrival. The swift winds above the desert brought me as quickly as they could."

We are pleased by your safe return, Andelfar replied with a bow echoed by the assembled lords. How fare our people about the oasis?

Restless, Ethelbert admitted with a guarded smile. Thankfully, planning is underway to retake Everhome which focuses their attention. Our scouts are already gathering the reconnaissance we will need. The Morok that remain in the Warrenholds are few, it seems. Most of the Shadowlord’s army has continued to the west.

Bound for the Granite Coast and the Inland Sea, Thurandar remarked.

So it seems, Ethelbert replied gravely.

Commander Truesilver has sent word to Skullborough warning of the advancing Argrym as well as the Morok, Thurandar said, but we have not received an acknowledgement back. By fast horse, we should have heard something by now.

That does not bode well, Ethelbert answered. What have the Thant to add?

Little more, Tran grunted. The mantis-men ar’ keepin’ thar eyes to the Black Hills an’ the Roaring March. Anythin’ that moves out from there shan’t go unseen.

My people keep watch along the Valdrinor as well, added Cylran, Warmaster of Tharkald. Our horsemen tell of fires amidst the peaks of the range. Smoke rises above the mountains. The Argrym forces are at work and Morok lurk throughout the foothills.

We are several moves behind our enemies, Sharaster commented. The northern lands must awaken to the danger soon.

We will give them as much time as we can, Andelfar responded. I have faith in the Suresta.

Many around the table nodded in agreement. All hope rode upon her. It was an unbelievable weight. They prayed she could bear it.

So, just you an’ the elf, huh? Tran huffed sarcastically.

Unless you want to come along, Rasha replied, suspecting that something besides disapproval lie behind the dwarf’s persistent rebuffs.

Fine, snapped the Arngard, if’n ye insist. I’ll do what I can to keep yer hide intact.

Rasha nodded knowingly.

* * *

The whole damn Under-City is crawlin’ with ‘em, snarled a voice in the shadows beneath the pier, waking the sleeping hermit from his nest of garbage and debris. Everywheres ya go, their red cloaks ar’ flappin’. More Dragonguard in the Darkhold than rats these days. ‘Twould been better that the damned duke lived fer all the grief his death is causin’ us.

Cabral peeked out through the mesh of old fishnets that concealed his hole in the rocks. A crab scurried away from the smell of him. The hermit eyed the crustacean for a moment but decided not to chase after the creature. He could catch another one later to eat. At the moment, two men were skulking by beneath the wharf very near his hiding place and experience had taught him that such scalawags were to be avoided. This skittering morsel, at least, was given a reprieve.

How long ‘fore we’re done with all this? the lankier of the two rogues asked.

A week more, me thinks, his portly companion responded dryly. Can’t be that many more nobles in the world to come an’ pay ‘im respects. They’ll be droppin’ the duke’s stinkin’ carcass in a hole in the City of the Dead soon ‘nough. Then decent fellas likes ourselves can get back to business as usual. E’er since that crazy wiz’rd sent his high magnificence to da Twilight, there’s been nothin’ but trouble. Can’t even walk the boards up top no more. Ifs they thinks yar improper, they runs ya off whether they’s caughts ya clippin’ a purse string or not. It’s just not fair. Garnet’s full up with rich merchants an’ lords froms every corner o’da Sea an’ yet a dishonest man can’t make a decent livin’.

Right ya ar’, Thyrgin, his companion grumbled his accord. Yar belts in two notches already.

Har, har, Thyrgin sneered, take yar sport, ya gaff-pole. Least I’s gots a belt an’ a belly fer it. That riggin’ cord around yar waist’s more like a noose. I’d be mindin’ it, if’n I was you. My gut’ll hold my belt down but yar rope’s libel to slide up yar skinny mast an’ strangle ya some day.

Well, won’t be a sight you’ll be seein’, I’ll wager, his comrade snapped back. Ya promised the new guildmaster ten pieces by week’s end an’ to my count ya only got four.

Keep yar milky eyes off me silver, Waddle, or ya’ll not be seein’ week’s end, Thyrgin warned. I’m not fearin’ Kean or his hounds.

Yeah, so ya say, Thyrgin, but I hears tell this Kean’s a mean one. He’s not like that last guildmaster with the braided locks. That fella was full o’flash an’ liked makin’ a show. This Kean, well they say he’s from Silverport, but I’s guessin’ somewheres down south instead. He’s got a look to ‘im ya just don’t find about the Sea. An’ he’s no flash. Likes cuttin’ folks an’ bleedin’ ‘em slow. I’s heard tell he drinks their blood, too. ‘Course… Waddle paused deliberately, framing his next comment cagily.

Thyrgin cast him a surly glare. ’Course, what? he growled impatiently.

Well, seein’ how yar always drinkin’ that grog-piss o’ yar’s, chances are he’ll just kill ya straight off. Prob’ly wouldn’t risk the tasting o’ yar veins, the tall scoundrel snorted.

Mind yar tongue, ya fishbone, or salty brine’s all ya’ll be sippin’.

Yeah, yeah, so ya say, Thyrgin, Waddle taunted. Ya’ll have to get yar dagger from under that fold of fat yar wearin’ to do me any ill an’ there’s no chance of that!

Just keep walkin’ an’ shut yar porthole. There’s ‘nough flies around here already without you coughin’ up some more.

Cabral listened until the two rogues had walked beyond a colonnade of thick, barnacle-covered pier posts and their conversation became a grumble of terse sounds amidst the rumble of the surf. Shadowy types often used the forest of piers under the wharfs as a means of moving about the Under-City unseen. As long as they left him alone, he did not much care what their business was about.

Once he was certain the men were gone, the hermit scratched his tangled, gray beard, disrupting the fleas and lice that dwelled there, then sallied forth to conduct his regular, evening jaunt along the gravelly beach. Each day washed in new treasures for the veteran comber to find. He was not the only scavenger around so opportunities were not to be wasted. Of course, little that floated ashore was worth fighting over, so he took what came his way and did not bother with what did not.

Shuffling along the shore, Cabral made use of the slivers of firelight that filtered through the thick boards of the walkways above. Most of the Under-City rested on heavy, timber pilings. Massive buildings like those owned by the merchant lords of the city that ringed the harbor were set atop stacked stones. Only deep within the sea caves did more humble, common structures take root in the granite rock. Many of the Upper-City’s storm drains and sewer outfalls were there as well, but there was not much room to crawl around, so the hermit avoided those cramped places and did his foraging along the shore. His old bones did not mind the walking to get there, but the crawling was hard on his knees. Anyway, whatever the city discarded would eventually flow into the channels that crisscrossed beneath the wharfs and come to him in time. Everything washed into the Bay of Topaz in the end. Cabral was patient enough to wait.

A short way along the beach and he spotted a lumpy silhouette tossed against the side of a jetty. The rocky rampart was part of the Trident, the ancient causeway that divided the Under-City into its respective districts: The Darkholds, The Menagerie, and the Ducal Spar. No refuse channels ran nearby so Cabral guessed that the sea had likely cast some jetsam his way. Storms were not uncommon during the hot, summer months and unwary ships sometimes were dashed against the jagged coastline. Their cargo occasionally washed ashore.

As the hermit crept closer, the tangled netting and ropes that sprouted from the mass confirmed his suspicions. Some hapless vessel had paid its final tribute to Eidros, the god of the seas.

Cabral poked around the debris hoping some fish had gotten snared along the way. A silvery glint caught his eye in the dim light. Was it the delectable shimmer of a scaly treat? Gingerly, he tugged at the slimy ropes and managed to claw a hole through the black seaweed. His grimy hand worked deeper and deeper down into the pile, his fingers feeling for the familiar touch of scales and fins. His tongue circled his lips, bathing his dangling whiskers in anticipation. Something hard fell into his grasp. Unfortunately, it did not feel like breakfast. Cabral sighed and withdrew his hand along with the object. Carefully, he held the item up into a ray of torchlight coming through the boardwalk planks above and studied his find. It was indeed silvery, maybe even platinum. It was a ring – and it was still upon a bloated finger. A symbol adorned its face: the red dragon insigne of House Kaladan, the ruling family of Garnet.

Cabral removed the severed digit from the ring and examined the waterlogged member. The hermit had found his share of dead bodies upon the shores in his long lifetime and had a macabre expertise when it came to such. Gray and pasty, the finger had been in the brink for a while, at least a week perhaps. That it had survived without being eaten by some sea creature was surprising. The body to which it had been attached was nowhere about. Cabral doubted its former owner would need it back, but something told him that keeping the bauble would only bring him trouble. Then again, trying to sell it was sure to. Such rings represented power, loyalty, and responsibility – things that did not concern the humble hermit.

There were many dark intrigues encircling Castle Kaladan at the moment. Cabral had no desire to be involved with any of them. Though a recluse, he was not deaf. Garnet was alive with rumors and overflowed with speculations about the city’s fate. Two great merchant houses had gone to war as of late. One, House Avignatri, had been destroyed entirely. The city’s duke, Arturus, had died in the upheaval as well, and his young son, Prince Adrian, was soon to wear his father’s troubled crown. There were many things amiss in the world. Cabral would have preferred that they left him be.

He considered slinging the ring back out to sea, but Eidros had sent it to him, and he did not want to insult the god. Like all the treasures that came his way, Cabral resigned himself to it and tucked it away. Trouble was sure to come; it was only a matter of when. Until then, more important matters were at hand. He still had to get some breakfast.

Another scurrying crab caught his eye.

* * *

Shadowy demons bristled with anticipation and jostled about like a murder of crows atop the statues that ringed the Pit of Malchydar. Against the inky blackness their forms were all but invisible. Their cackles, though, echoed through the darkness and added a sinister ambience to the evil setting. The fire within the pit hissed and growled back at them like a living thing.

In many ways, it was. It hungered to consume the world around it and to undo the power of the Threads of Creation. Its flames were not born of the Bright World but burned from beyond the Etherstorm, from Morthalin, Narianna’s dark nemesis. Its corruption was fed by the realm of shadows. To enter the conflagration was to invite destruction and to embrace oblivion. Quintessence – the divine spark of life – could not endure the infinite blackness for long. The same was equally true of beings fashioned of darkness. In Narianna’s light, they withered and were destroyed. Only cloaked by sorcery or concealed from Xorconum’s judgment could the shadows persist. But such means required great magic and few possessed such mastery.

The man that walked amongst the demons and entered the pit commanded such authority. The Pool of Sorrows that surrounded the island upon which the black fire burned called to him seductively, enticing him to enter the flames as he crossed over the single bridge leading to the Pit. But the Archmage was not foolish enough to tempt the darkness, regardless of the power it promised. His master, Malchydar, had crossed that threshold and entered the fires long ago. His fate was unknown. Ranslizar was not eager to learn what had befallen him. Whether Malchydar had crossed over into the Dark World was a mystery. He might just as easily have been devoured by the Deathdemons that stalked the Twilight, the spectral purgatory wherein souls awaited ascension or damnation. As for the black fire, Ranslizar did not question the extent of its power; it spanned between worlds. It was a Shadowgate, a portal through which Morthalin’s evil violated Narianna. And, for now, it was the only one that still burned.

But that was changing.

Soon the shadow of Morthalin would eclipse its sister-world and deny her Xorconum’s protective light once again. When the Shadowfall came, new Shadowgates could be created as demonic fires burned through the knots in the Tapestry. All that was required was corruption and that was something that those that vied to control the Shadowgates like Ranslizar understood well.

Scattered across Narianna, there were places – holy sites, nodes of power – where the Threads of Creation entwined and held the world together. They were sacred, woven by the goddess Auril at the beginning of time. Ley lines swirled about them and, stretching along their shimmering lengths, joined such sites together. Some lines touched many places; others reached out to only one other. Ancient elemental magics guarded the portals where they converged. Through them, slipping along the ley lines, it was possible to travel across the face of the world in an instant. The key to each nexus was a magical jewel, a Waystone, attuned to the unique harmonies and magics that protected the site. In some lands, great megaliths were raised and trilithons ringed such places. These were called Circlestones. In other lands, wondrous shrines and temples were built around them. Here, in this black pit deep below Barad Mal, the Archmage’s tower located within the dark city of Baraden, statues of devils marked the portal and kept watch over it.

Whereas all others pulsed with Narianna’s living light, this gateway was filled with death and darkness. Ironically, it, too, had once shared a place within the Auril’s Weave; but the Archmage Malchydar had defiled its purity. Through his black arts, he had joined the node with Morthalin and infused its Waystone with sinister power. Now, in addition to those places within the Bright World that it still touched, it also reached into the shadows and linked with the Dark World. Wicked, unimaginable power flowed through its black flames and filled the man that stepped before it with desire for its puissance.

Ranslizar stared into the raging, nether-fire and listened to the demons that whispered secrets from beyond its cowl. Through the flames, riding them, his perceptions extended across the world to the places they touched. He searched for new, dark revelations and pursued his quest for power. But not all places were within his grasp. In the lands of Ardra, beyond the mountains to the north of his tower, the Threads were too tattered to be of use to him. Chaos reigned there. He could not see. That intrigued him all the more.

Long ago, a great dragon destroyed that once idyllic realm and cast down the glorious cities that soared there. Elyarsa Altairus, the home of the Iridescians, the greatest of the Shining Folk, was destroyed, consumed by fire. Dyerbazog, as the monster was later called, unleashed his wrath upon the elves and, in his madness, shredded the very Threads of Creation. Magics woven over millennia were lost. The destruction the beast wrought tore a gapping hole in the Tapestry and left the lines that flowed through those lands ripped asunder. Auril’s threads were ravaged, tossed upon hellish winds.

Ranslizar coveted the power that lingered in Ardra. A thousand years later, it sent tremors through the earth and set the sky ablaze. It also fired his imagination.

This day, however, his search was in a different direction entirely. Something quite extraordinary and inexplicable had garnered his attention over the past few weeks. His focus had been drawn to the lands of Alli-Turan by ominous stirrings within the Threads that entwined there. Like the strands of a spider’s web, the filaments had shivered and warned that a new Shadowgate was forming. An ancient evil was reawakening from the shadows of the past and was preparing to enter the Bright World. Ranslizar had gone to welcome it, to control it, but what he discovered when he got there surprised him.

Within a forest called the Greymere, in a region the Turanian inhabitants referred to as the South Delving, a powerful entity, a warlord named Darkyr, had roused. His evil spirit had been cast from this world and hurled into Twilight at the beginning of the Third Age, nearly a thousand years before. Imprisoned by the forbearers of the barbarians that still lived within those lands, the death-knight had been thought lost; but, so great was his evil, he had not surrender even to the lords of the dead. His cruel soul waited within the Etherstorm beyond their grasp and, though the maelstrom tore at his essence, he refused to be banished. It was he, Ranslizar learned, that had come again.

During his time within the Bright World before his imprisonment, Darkyr had served another sorcerer, the Arch-lich, Asteranoth, a terrible creature neither living nor dead, and a rival to the power of Barad Mal. Darkyr lead his armies against the elven court of ancient Eidrinor. He called upon his master’s black arts and, for a time, these sustained his power. In the end, however, the long, dark night he imposed was lifted. The lands arose from shadow and the death-knight fell…but not forever.

With the approach of each Shadowfall, many things long forgotten stir in the darkness. The death-knight’s strength returned and he made ready to break free from his prison, to shatter the seal that the barbarians had made through blood-magics to restrain him. But his liberation was not to be. Narianna had her champions as well.

In the moment that his escape seemed imminent, the guise he employed to slip past the guardian spirits of those that caged him fell away and was undone. His demonic sword returned to him within the realm of Twilight and reclaimed its former master – its greatest thrall. In so doing, the mask Darkyr wore – the semblance of a Morvandi sorcerer, an evil priest named Cerbias – was shattered, and the wardens of his spiritual dungeon recognized him for who and what he was. His escape was thwarted and he was thrown back into the swirling abyss.

These details Ranslizar passed over with little interest as he divined what had occurred. How Darkyr had been stopped or that he had been stopped at all was of little real significance to him. Something other captivated his attention.

Every Shadowgate offered great power to those that could control it. All the dark creatures that flowed through paid tribute to the one that commanded the key to its power – its Waystone. Ranslizar had gone to seize that authority; but, instead, he had found the portal useless to him. Somehow, the dark lord had been defeated and cast back into oblivion. That did not trouble the Archmage overly. The newly born portal itself was closed. That, too, was of little significance. If he found the Waystone, it could be reopened. What troubled him was what lay beyond the gate. Even closed he could sense that the black fires of Morthalin were extinguished. The corruption had been expunged completely. There would be no tribute paid at this gate and no power for the Archmage to claim. It no longer touched the Dark World.

Ranslizar marveled at this achievement. Sealing such a portal required divine intervention, but there were priests among Narianna’s defenders capable of such miracles. Blocking off the link to Morthalin was entirely possible. In fact, other than the Pit of Malchydar, all other dark portals had been sutured over time by similar means. What fascinated the Archmage was that not only had the Shadowgate been closed, it had been completely unmade. The festering wound in the Tapestry of the world had been healed entirely. Even Xorconum, the supreme god of the Palescia, could not have accomplished this. The sun-god might have cauterized the wound and burned out the cancerous node, but his power did not extend to re-weaving the Threads of Creation themselves. That auspice fell to another of the Aesyr: the goddess Auril, the Weaver. It required the power of her mythic Loom. But the goddess and the Loom had not existed for an age. She was dead and her loom lost. That was what intrigued him.

When Dyerbazog destroyed Elyarsa Altairus, his fires threatened to consume the world. Auril descended from the Palescia and interceded, staunching the devastation and containing the apocalypse. Doing so saved Narianna from annihilation, but it also expended all Auril’s immortal essence. The goddess sacrificed herself to save the Bright World and her Loom vanished in the flames. Now, somehow, her power had been reborn. With the next Shadowfall fast approaching, this was an eventuality that could not be ignored for it threatened the emergence of every Shadowgate, including the Pit of Malchydar.

Ranslizar reached into the black fire with his mind and searched for the answer to the mystery. Darkyr had been banished back into the Etherstorm, but there were still clues as to what had occurred. There were spirits about that had seen what had unfolded.

Why have you summoned me? a distant voice hissed through the flames.

Ranslizar watched as a wraithlike figure manifest in the dark pyre. I should think you would be glad to be free of your master’s claws for a time, he said to the specter.

Such a respite from damnation only makes the return to suffering more unbearable, the ghostly form replied. Leave me to my torment.

It is not your pain that interests me, Ranslizar answered coldly. Nor do I care what you will. The Deathdemon that claimed you was destroyed. I find that somewhat amusing.

My soul was claimed by another soon after. I see no humor in any of it, the specter spat back. Again, I ask: Why have you summoned me? What do you want?

You are as defiant as your current master claimed, Ranslizar laughed. But, then again, I should have expected nothing less from a Morvandi.

What or who I was means nothing now, the specter replied, his voice crackling with rage. The fires that consume me within the belly of the Deathdemon leave that life in ashes. Soon Cerbias will be no more. Damnation has a certain finality to it.

Perhaps, Ranslizar said, or perhaps not.

Don’t mock me, wizard! hissed the specter.

Or what? Ranslizar snorted as he walked casually around the hellish entity. The specter’s eyes followed him but he gave no reply. There was nothing he could say or do to the sorcerer. He had no power, no magic at his command. He was, after all, dead.

Ranslizar let the assassin seethe in his impotence as he circled the pit in silence, waiting to see if the Morvandi’s composure held. Cerbias stilled his tongue. He knew that he held no advantage in this encounter.

Satisfied that his point had been clearly made by the interim, Ranslizar continued saying, You have something I want.

Why should I help you? Cerbias ventured incredulously.

Ranslizar smiled and gestured towards the raging black flames, completing a spell that he had set in motion before this séance began. The fires parted, revealing the Kalavroon assassin beyond and opening a path through the conflagration.

Cerbias looked out through the fiery veil. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. What trick was this? His time within the Bright World had passed; and, yet, the Archmage opened the gateway as if to invite him back into the lands of the living.

I am not a spirit, Cerbias protested. I am bound to the realm of the dead and cannot transit between worlds as such creatures can. What false hope do you offer so cruelly? And why?

Yours is a mortal soul, true enough. And, as such, beyond life you face judgment in the realm of the dead. You have been condemned and belong to the dark powers. It is fortunate, then, that you have value to me. Otherwise, I would not have paid so high a price for you. Do not mistake what I have done as mercy, Cerbias. Just as in your former life you served Armadar to Mithcran’s ends, in this new existence that I have bought for you, you will now serve mine. Your Deathdemon master promised me many secrets through you and I fully intend on learning them all. Your soul belongs to me now.

Should I dare to ask for what purpose? Cerbias sneered.

I do not take you for a fool, Ranslizar retorted sharply. Do not presume that I am one either. Nor should you assume that my patience is without its limits. You have already guessed what it is I wish to know. It is all you have of value.

Cerbias stepped from beyond the inferno into the dark cavern, his form limned by tongues of wraithlike fire. He looked down at his ghostly hands. I see I am beyond even your power to restore in full.

Ranslizar shrugged and said, Your life is over. Nothing can change that. But I have the means to sustain some of who you were. In Morthalin, you would have been filled with the essence of shadow and enslaved by the princes of the Dark World. Cerbias would cease to exist completely. At least for now, your mind and your will persist and take on this form. My magic fills the void and allows you these moments. I expect that you will want to use them well.

And when my usefulness has passed? Cerbias asked accusingly. When I, as your slave, no longer serve you, what then?

Then back into the fires you will go, Ranslizar answered impassively. But consider this. The Shadowfall is near. When the darkness comes, if you have served me well, you may find that I am a generous master. When worlds collide, many things become possible. You might even discover a new life of sorts.

There was no pretense in the Archmage’s words. Cerbias guessed at what he implied. "I am to become