The Empire of Ashes: The Ascendance Trilogy, #1

By Samuel P. Robbins

The world changes far too quickly.

 

A man from the far south rises, proclaimed as the promised Dragonwind that will defeat the emperor—but he himself doubts this.

 

Another man leads his orphaned people northward, toward the Storm Mountains and the fabled fortress of Phoenix Haven, where lies an emerging rebellion against Emperor Archax's rule.

 

Out of a clan of dark assassins—exiled from their ancestral home, imprisoned in a foreign city—a single woman dares to defy the guild's ancient code when she refuses to kill her quarry.

 

Set in a brilliantly realized world ravaged by war and magic, this epic novel of blood, intrigue, and betrayal marks the beginning of the Ascendance Trilogy, a magnificent new fantasy series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trensicourt Publishing
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201115326

Book preview

Dedication

To all those who have inspired me along the way. Your influence, your interest, and your support have allowed me to come this far. Now imagine what we can do next.

Prologue

The Prisoner

The room was dark, the blackness concealing any details on the walls. From within came the sound of breathing; but it was not normal-sounding in the least. This breathing was slow, rattling, tortured. It came from the hooded figure that stood, hands clenched into fists by his sides, inside the dark chamber at the end of a cold stone hall, and it made the prisoner Vorsa’s spine tingle.

The breathing rattled again from underneath the black hood. You will tell us where the boy is, the figure intoned, its face hidden in shadow.

Vorsa put on a brave mask, hiding his terror. I’ll tell you when the Burning Lands freeze over, he spat. You can abandon this fool’s errand, or you can resign yourselves to pursuing a hopeless goal.

The hooded figure in front of Vorsa seemed to take no notice at his bold remark, continuing to face him. That terrible breathing still issued from underneath the black hood, rattling and echoing through the darkness like the screams of tortured souls. Vorsa shivered. He was sure whatever horrible eyes were behind that dark hood were watching him, calculating his every move. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, but Vorsa maintained his bold composure.

Vorsa didn’t know why he was here. He had been dragged into this room while blindfolded and kicked into unconsciousness. When he had woken, bruised and battered, he found himself alone in the dark chamber with the hooded figure.

The figure moved so quickly that his prisoner didn’t have any time to react. Vorsa stumbled backward, and his back hit the cold juncture between stone wall and stone floor hard. His breath whooshed out of his chest, leaving him gasping. His eyes flicked upward.

The black hood stared down at him, and Vorsa felt the cold touch of steel on the skin of his neck. You will tell us where the boy is, he growled, prodding Vorsa’s neck harder with the blade. He felt a trickle of hot blood on his skin.

N-never, said Vorsa weakly. He could feel the cold steel of the figure’s blade pressing against his voice box.

The figure stayed completely still—that was what unnerved Vorsa most of all. The minutes trickled by, and so did the blood on Vorsa’s neck, slowly dripping a path of dark red liquid down his shirt. Then the hooded figure made a motion with his hand to someone Vorsa could not see. Take him to the Chamber.

W-wait! What’s that? Vorsa received no answer. The wall shimmered and disappeared behind him, resolving itself into a dark stone archway. Someone in the passageway grabbed him in a rough grip, then lifted him up by his arms. The hooded figure withdrew the sleek, sharp blade he carried, leaving Vorsa’s blood to drip freely down the polished steel. Then they were moving.

Vorsa began to panic, his heart racing faster. He felt sweat beading on his forehead. Where are you taking me? Wrestling against his bonds did no use. The grip of the man holding him was like that of a metal clamp.

The walls were made of stone, that much Vorsa could see. But that told him nothing; every castle in Tarthia was made of stone. His surroundings gave no hint of their whereabouts—except for the dark flame insignia imprinted on the far side of the hallway. But that much Vorsa had figured. He was still in Fellis, at least.

The figure stopped before a great door inscribed with spidery runes. Vorsa recognized them as the written form of the Dark Speech, the language of the king’s servants. His heart began to beat faster in his chest with each passing second. The hooded figure murmured an incantation, and the runes on the door suddenly blazed to life, burning with incandescent ruby fire. The light blinded Vorsa, and he turned away. But the runes were imprinted on his eyelids, burned into his vision.

He heard the door opening. A musty smell emanated from whatever dark chambers lay within. String him up, ordered the hooded figure in its harsh, guttural voice.

String me up? What do you— Vorsa’s cry was cut off as the hooded figure’s stiff hand clamped over his mouth. He screamed, but the thick fabric of its glove stopped the sound, reducing it to a muffled cry. With his other hand, the hooded figure motioned to one of his accomplices.

Vorsa struggled silently as ropes were tied firmly to his ankles, and then his wrists. He had heard rumors of the horrors of Archax’s torturers, but he had never thought they were all true! Primal fear gripped him like never before, and suddenly he wanted out more than ever. Twisting, turning, clawing, biting—anything to get away from his torturers. But it was no good. Vorsa could swear that he saw eyes flickering with cruel amusement from the darkness behind the hood.

They chained him to a dark square stone slab, securing his outspread arms and legs into place. Fear whirled in his mind, and he was breathing hard, writhing against his bonds.

Vorsa was hanging now, dangling over empty space. If not for the ropes binding him to the slab, he would have fallen to his death, for below him opened a dark pit, in which he glimpsed the gleam of sharpened metal spikes.

Vorsa’s sheer helplessness overwhelmed him. He was at the complete mercy of these fiends, and he couldn’t imagine what horrors they would inflict on him. He again struggled in vain to get free, knowing that it would do nothing to help his situation.

The hooded figure’s head turned toward him. Vorsa couldn’t sense what was behind the hood now; all semblance of emotion was gone. He knew the hour had come, and he wasn’t sure if he was strong enough.

Begin, barked a voice that came from an unseen mouth under the dark hood. Simultaneously, wordlessly, the figure’s black-robed acolytes began cranking a wheel on either side of the slab. Vorsa realized with horror that around the wheels was bound the same length of rope that tied his ankles and wrists to the slab. His limbs blazed with pain as he realized what was happening to him, and he held out for a few seconds longer, perspiration beading on his brow, before he let out an anguished scream. His cries of pain echoed through the dark Chamber, and the hooded figure laughed.

Reduced to little more than an animal, Vorsa began to cry out again, with no control over the words that streamed from his mouth. He thought nothing of protecting the great secret he was supposed to protect; he felt pain, and only pain. A red haze dimmed the edges of his vision, and he screamed as he felt and heard a loud pop. Dimly, he realized that his right leg had been forced out of its socket. He bared his face to the ceiling and screamed again, the force of the sound coating the inside of his throat with metallic-tasting blood. Breathing heavily and choking from the blood inside his mouth, he began babbling again, tears streaming down his face. His chest heaved, and he retched, the foul-smelling vomit splattering onto the dark stone of the Chamber far below.

The hooded figure listened intently to the stream of random words flowing from his captive’s mouth. Once he had heard all that he needed to hear, he held up a black-gloved hand. Cease.

His two acolytes bore the black stone slab down from the niche in the wall and into its place before him again. The man lay there, breathing heavily. A gurgling sound issued from his throat, and blood soaked his pants.

The hooded figure’s acolytes waited, as if they expected to be asked to bear the captive back to the cell. The figure ignored them, thinking, That won’t be necessary. He slid his thin, dark blade from its sheath, stabbing downward.

Let this be a lesson to those who defy the Fellis Empire, growled the hooded figure. Bone crunched as he put one foot on the captive’s back, nudging the sword embedded in the skin. He pulled out the blade, drops of blood flying free as he swished it through the air once, then slid it back into its sheath with a hiss of leather. Turning swiftly, he exited the room, his dark cloak billowing behind him in the cold drafts from the fortress’s windows. Tell the king we have the information he wants, he said to his acolytes. The last Dragonwind will soon be no more.

PART ONE

His quiver spent, Magnus sat on the birch tree stump. He was breathing hard from the exertion of loosing thirty-two arrows in a single sitting, and he was simmering with barely-bridled anger. The archery range was where he came to wind down—to forget his worries and hone his skill. But today was the exact opposite. Burning fury blazed in his mind, and try as he might to brighten up, he couldn’t.

He went to the target, seeing that two of his arrows had landed spot-on in the red circle in the center. Trying to stay angry and not to let a satisfied expression cross his face, he yanked the arrows out and shoved them into the quiver slung across his back. As he retrieved the thirty other arrows, he thought about what had happened.

Curse Fellis! he shouted aloud, his voice echoing through the forest. Startled birds twittered and flapped their wings as they took flight from their nests, jerked from their peaceful quiet. Magnus knew there was no one to hear his cries. Curse Archax! He felt tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

Blinking furiously to clear the tears and angry at himself, he shoved the bundle of arrows in his hand into his quiver and stalked out of the clearing toward the trail that led to the village.

The sun waxed in the sky and sunk low to the horizon, shedding its piercing orange light through the leaves and onto the forest floor. The orb had sunk completely below the line of forest that separated the sky from the land by the time Magnus reached his makeshift camp.

He set down his pack wearily, and a puff of dust rose. Stumbling under the shade of a tree, he groaned as he lowered himself into a laying-flat position. His tired muscles finally stopped their protesting, and for the first time that whole day, Magnus was content.

As the sky darkened and the blanket of night began to stretch over the sky, Magnus observed the stars as they began to pop suddenly into their places in the heavens. All of the constellations he knew were already visible, like the hunter and the maiden. Magnus never tired of gazing at the stars. He imagined them as islands in the midst of a great sea—the Sea of Stars, whose great onyx waters were spreading over the sky, turning the day into night.

Magnus spread a light blanket over himself—the summer night was warm—and, tucking his arms behind his head, he lay there, trying to sleep. Troubled thoughts of flames and screams ran through his mind, and he clenched his fist involuntarily when he thought of the burning husks of the houses that had once made up the village of Duskvale. His friend Frey’s face floated before him in his half-sleep state, and tears came to Magnus’ eyes. I will avenge him.

Sleep came late that night.

In the morning, Magnus gathered his supplies and provis- ions, tucking them into his pack, which he slung onto his back. Tugging one of the tightening straps, he set off down the game trail, in a dark mood.

Midday came and went, and the sun began to wax low in the sky. Magnus knew he must have been nearing Millfalls, and he hoped to reach the village by nightfall. He quickened his pace.

As the last burning orange rays of the sun shed their light onto the rapidly darkening land, Magnus crested a large rock outcropping. Before him lay the valley, exposed like an unrolled map. Far below him was the village of Millfalls, a cluster of brown buildings. White smoke rose from the chimneys, defiant of the wilderness around it. At this height, farms were small square patches no bigger than the end of Magnus’ finger. The Torsa River wound from the falls toward the valley’s southern end, reflecting great strips of sunlight. Far in the distance it flowed past the village of Duskvale, now in ruins.

After a pause, Magnus left the outcropping and started down the trail. When he arrived at the bottom, a soft dusk was creeping over everything, blurring colors and shapes into grey masses. Millfalls’ lights shimmered nearby in the twilight; the houses cast long shadows. Aside from Duskvale, Millfalls was the only village in the valley. It really is the only one now, Magnus thought with a pang of sadness.

Now he saw Millfalls up close—a meager collection of wooden houses and wheat farms. The bleating of goats, the lowing of cows, and the shrill cries of sheep pierced the night. A smile tugged at the corners of Magnus’ face. His previous mood couldn’t dissuade him from the smell of chimney smoke and the familiar friendly chatter of the villagers. This was his home, and he was glad to have it.

The village was composed of stout log buildings with low roofs—some thatched, others shingled. Smoke billowed from the chimneys, giving the air a woody smell. The buildings had wide porches where people gathered to talk and conduct business. Occasionally a window brightened as a candle or lamp was lit. Magnus heard men talking loudly in the evening air while wives scurried to fetch their husbands, scolding them for being late.

His tired legs slowed him down, but he was eager to be home, and renewed vigor filled his steps. The village ended abruptly, and he left its warm lights behind. The pearlescent moon peeked over the mountains, bathing the land in a ghostly reflection of daylight. Everything looked bleached and flat.

Near the end of his journey, he turned off the road, which continued south. A simple path led straight through waist-high grass and up a knoll, almost hidden by the shadows of protective elm trees. He crested the hill and saw a gentle light shining from his home.

The house had a shingled roof and a brick chimney. Eaves hung over the whitewashed walls, shadowing the ground below. One side of the enclosed porch was filled with split wood, ready for the fire. A jumble of tools cluttered the other side.

Halward—Magnus’ uncle—stood in the doorway. His frame was wiry and thin—the family never got enough food to feed themselves properly. His hair was matted to his head, and he wore a half-grimace. Delwin’s left to see Astrid, was his answer to Magnus’ inquiring glance.

Have fun on your hunting trip? Halward asked tentatively.

Magnus’s face flickered with irritation; his uncle knew very well that hunting had not been the reason that Magnus had left. He nodded.

Before Halward could say anything else, Magnus swayed tiredly and said, It’s good to be back. Halward’s eyes softened, and he nodded.

Magnus stumbled to his room, hung his bow and his quiver from their customary places on the hooks embedded in the wall, then fell onto the mattress.

Home, he thought contentedly. For the first time since before he had left four days ago, he relaxed completely as sleep overtook him.

AT DAWN, THE SUN’S rays streamed through the window, warming Magnus’ face. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up on the edge of the bed. The pine floor was cold under his bare feet. He stretched his sore legs and rubbed his back, yawning.

He sighed, letting out some of the tension that was knotted in his stomach, and went to the nightstand, where he splashed his face, shivering as the water ran down his neck. Refreshed, he hurried to the kitchen, eager to see his family. Halward and Delwin were already there, eating breakfast. As Magnus greeted them, Delwin stood up from his chair with a grin. He was half a year older than Magnus, muscular, and sturdy. They could not have been closer even if they had been real brothers.

Delwin smiled. I’m glad you’re back. How was the trip?

Magnus glared at him, but he didn’t reply. Instead he seated himself roughly in the chair farthest from his cousin. Delwin looked slightly hurt, and his expression was confused. Magnus felt a little guilty, but he shoved it down underneath the sea of anger roiling in his mind.

MAGNUS AND DELWIN SHOVELED hay into the barn. The harvest was upon them, and frost had begun to creep down from the mountains into the valley. Winter was coming.

Magnus shivered. The day was not warm. A cold wind caressed his bare arms and turned his sweat into freezing droplets that inched their way down his skin. Beside him Delwin grunted as he lifted a bundle of hay with his shovel and heaved it into the barn.

Magnus still felt awkward around Delwin since the events of that morning. He wanted to tell his cousin he was sorry, but he didn’t know how to do it without sounding stupid. He hadn’t really meant to sadden Delwin. He just...

Suffice it to say that there were a lot of things on his mind right now.

He bent to scoop another load of hay into the barn and moved closer to Delwin. Hey, he said tentatively.

Delwin’s eyes flicked to him. They hadn’t spoken at all during their task until now.

Yeah? He didn’t sound angry.

Erm... Magnus heaved his load of hay into the barn, then said: Sorry... about earlier.

There was silence for a few moments, then Delwin said, It’s fine. This has been hard for you; I understand. Can you imagine what it would be like for me to lose Astrid?

Not really, Magnus admitted. His cousin and the tanner’s daughter from the village had been soul mates for as long as he could remember. From a young age the village people had declared them perfect to be married when they’re older.

Except for the fact that Frey wasn’t my girlfriend, Magnus added. So that wasn’t a very good analogy.

Delwin flushed and looked down. She’s not...

Oh, stop it! I see it in your eyes every time you look at her.

They began talking and joking good-naturedly again, like brothers. They practically were brothers—growing up with Halward and Delwin, Magnus had forged a bond with his cousin that had never truly been broken. There had been disagreements like this one, of course, but they had all eventually been sorted out and forgiven. He treasured his bond with Delwin—he was really his only friend.

They finished shoveling hay and went on to another task. During the next few days, the sun was cold and pale, providing little comfort. Under its watchful eye, Halward, Delwin, and Magnus stored the rest of the barley in the barn. Next, they gathered prickly vined squash, then the beets, turnips, peas, and beans, which they packed into the house’s root cellar. After hours of labor, Magnus, Halward, and Delwin stretched their cramped muscles, pleased that the harvest was finished.

The remaining three weeks of autumn were spent doing various odds and ends of work around the farm and preparing for the arrival of the traveling traders. They rolled through Millfalls once every year, around the end of autumn and the beginning of winter. Everyone in the village looked forward to their coming, and they carried all kinds of wares imaginable. Halward always gave Delwin and Magnus some money to spend when the traders came as well, and that was what Magnus was looking forward to.

Three days before the first day of winter, they packed their surplus produce into the wagon as the rising sun cast its tentative, pale rays into the valley. Halward put the year’s money in a leather pouch that he carefully fastened to his belt. After a hasty breakfast, they harnessed the horses and cleared a path to the road, shoveling away mounds and piles of snow. In some places, the traders’ wagons had already broken the drifts, which sped their progress. By noon they could see Millfalls.

In daylight, it was a small earthy village filled with shouts and laughter. The traders had made camp in an empty field on the outskirts of town. Groups of wagons, tents, and fires were randomly spread across the field. The troubadours’ four tents were garishly decorated. A steady stream of people linked the camp to the village. Crowds churned around a line of bright tents and booths clogging the main street. Horses whinnied at the noise. The snow had been pounded flat, giving it a glassy surface; elsewhere, bonfires had melted it. Roasted hazelnuts added a rich aroma to the smells wafting around them. Magnus could smell spice, cooking meat, sweat, and—most prominently—smoke. The fires on the sides of the road leading through the traders’ camp gave off clouds of it.

Halward led Magnus into the throng, shouldering his way through the bustle. Women were buying cloth while, nearby, their husbands examined new latches, hooks, or tools. Children ran to and fro amid the tents, shrieking with excitement. Spices were displayed here, knives there, and pots were laid out in gleaming rows next to leather harnesses.

They continued into a different part of the trader’s camp. The first thing that caught Magnus’ attention was the cluster of people—children and adults alike—around a plain, drab brown tent. They were all silent, and only one man was speaking. Magnus knew that voice—it was Kendry, the storyteller that rolled by every year with the traders.

Halward saw Magnus’ interest and said, You can go listen to Kendry if you’d like; I have some business to do. Delwin, do whatever you want, just meet me at the butcher’s shop at dusk. Delwin nodded and strode away. Magnus was sure he was going to see Astrid and propose to her with the ring. But he put aside his thoughts about his cousin and, with a farewell wave to Halward, joined the throng of people listening to the storyteller Kendry speak. A knotted white beard rippled over his chest, and a long black cape was wrapped around his bent shoulders, obscuring his body.

He seemed to be just concluding a story. So the dragon wrestled Varin to the ground, and he said, ‘Do you yield?’ Varin, being the brave knight that he was, shouted, ‘Never!’ and charged the dragon head-on. This was a bad mistake on his part. The dragon was much stronger than him, and with one gulp it ate him up. And that was the end of Varin. The children around him didn’t applaud; they looked frightened. You should know from Varin’s example never to anger a dragon, he admonished them good-naturedly. Now shoo. I have darker stories to tell.

The children scampered off, looking to be playing some kind of reenactment of the story of Varin and the dragon. The crowd, meanwhile, consisting of most of Millfalls’ men, leaned closer to Kendry as he began a new tale.

Incline your ears carefully; this is a tale I have told only twice before, Kendry said. It is the tale of the fall of light and the rise of darkness. It is the tale of Fellis. The name that strikes fear into all that hear it. The name that rules this land of Tarthia even today. He smiled, tight-lipped. This is its story. He spread his arms and recited:

Before your grandfathers’ fathers were born, and yea, even before their fathers, the land of Tarthia prospered under the benevolent hand of King Broddring the Wise. For three hundred years it continued this way, for Broddring was one of the immortal Asur race, and thereby immune to old age. In those kinder days, all races were intermingled. Under Broddring’s rule, tall cities and towers were shaped out of the living stone by the magic of the Dragonwind family, who were peacekeepers in the land. While they kept peace, the land flourished. It was a golden time. The Asur were our allies, the Brâgar our friends. Wealth flowed into our cities, and men prospered. But weep... for it could not last.

Kendry looked down silently. Infinite sadness resonated in his voice.

Broddring the Wise, wise as he was, made one foolish mistake: he promised his throne to his friend, who was part of the Dragonwind family, instead of following the age-old tradition of passing it on to the next in line in the royal family. When Broddring grew tired of governing Tarthia, he stepped down from the kingship to lead a quiet life, and the friend to which he had promised the throne took control.

Kendry stroked his beard and said somberly, Then were the first seeds of evil planted in this land. It was said that no enemy could destroy a Dragonwind. But they could protect from themselves. The new king allowed things that never would have seen the light of day during Broddring’s rule. He used the Dragonwinds as his personal secret police force to eliminate the people he didn’t like. Fellis became corrupted, and more and more Dragonwinds began using the darker side of their powers to further their own ends.

He paused, then said, "So it came to pass at the height of their power that a boy, Archax by name, was born in the province of Dârvdor, which is no more. At ten he was tested, as was the custom, and it was found that great power resided in him. The Dragonwind family accepted him as their own.

"He passed through their training, exceeding all others in skill. Gifted with a sharp mind and strong body, and very adept at the practice of magic, he quickly took his place among the Dragonwind ranks. Some saw his abrupt rise and unusual power as dangerous and warned the others, but the Winds had grown arrogant in their power and ignored their brothers’ caution. Alas, sorrow was conceived that day.

"So it was that soon after his training was finished, Archax began to resent the power hierarchy of the Dragonwind family. He thought that it could be improved. In a suggestion to the Dragonwind court, he proposed that they demolish the social construct of hierarchy and set all Winds as equal to one another. Some were drawn in by his smooth tongue and agreed with him. But, though appearing noble on the outside, Archax was manipulating the family for his own ends.

"Archax found a young, naive Dragonwind eager to join his ranks, and he pounced on the opportunity. He and his new disciple trained in an abandoned, dark fortress cursed by the ancients. There the young Dragonwind, Larkin, entered into a dark apprenticeship, learning secrets and forbidden magic that should never have been revealed.

"When his instruction was finished, Archax revealed himself to the world, with Larkin at his side. Together they fought any Dragonwind they met. With each kill their strength grew.

"Six of the Winds joined Archax out of desire for power and revenge against perceived wrongs. Those six, with Larkin, became the Seven Crimsons, a name feared throughout the land. The peaceful Winds were unprepared and fell beneath the onslaught. The Asur, too, fought bitterly against Archax, but they were overthrown and forced to flee to their secret places, from whence they come no more. But no one knew that Archax led the Crimsons, for he kept his face carefully hidden.

That was when Archax, smooth-talking and deceitful, stepped onto the stage. He spoke out against the brutal murders of Winds occurring across the land and, with lying words, convinced the people to appoint a new king—one that would rule them well and destroy their oppressors, the Crimsons.

Kendry looked down at the ground, his expression sad beyond belief. The crowd was gasping and nodding. They had already guessed who it would be.

Archax, the crowd and the storyteller said as one.

Kendry continued. "Broddring, the former king of Tarthia, could do nothing to stop Archax’s rise to power. In vain, he assembled a hopeless rebellion and attacked Derusian, the capital of the new Fellis. On the field of battle, Broddring and Archax dueled. But the old king’s strength was no match for Archax’s newfound evil power. Broddring was defeated, and the forces of the rebellion wavered as they saw their king fall.

"Then as power rushed through his veins, Archax anointed himself king over all of Tarthia.

And from that day, he has ruled us.

With the completion of the story, Kendry shuffled away with the troubadours. Magnus thought he saw a tear shining on his cheek. People murmured quietly to each other as they departed.

Magnus was moved to tears by the epic retelling. What has become of us, he murmured to himself. Once a proud republic, now a shattered, evil Fellis. He lifted his eyes to the sky, where the sun was sinking below the horizon. Clouds were moving over it, darkening its radiant light. We are slaves, he thought. Slaves to Fellis, and to Archax. For the thousandth time, he cursed the king’s name. One day, he would find a way to avenge Frey’s fate.

But as the sun sank below the mountain peaks surrounding the valley, Magnus felt more lost and hopeless than ever.

THE NEXT MORNING, MAGNUS told Halward he was going out. He needed some time alone to think.

He tread lightly along the trail toward Millfalls, his hands in his pockets. The day was overcast, and a harsh, biting wind stole the warmth out of his limbs and forced him to bow his head in the shelter of his hood as he stumbled along the trail.

Magnus stopped at the fork in the road. The bent, wooden crossroads sign was rotating around and around weakly as it was bombarded by the wind. It bore the names of the villages: Duskvale and Millfalls, on two arrows that were constantly whirling. If any travelers came this way, they would be utterly at a loss as to which road led to which village. The thought brought a little smile to Magnus’ lips, but it faded just as quickly as it had come when he read over the word Duskvale again.

Again, he saw