The Prologue

Sand tore at the Jeyhachian sky. The wind was a barricade of dust and sand, stripping meat from skeleton. The scarred veteran plodded through the tangerine fog. Blood ran down his ribs, searing as the sand burrowed into the exposed flesh of his wounds. Shielded in his clutch, he held a little maiden, both their locks the telltale white of Dhia, a shared mark of divine heritage.

"Hold fast, Klayah," The words left his lips in a parched whisper. "The Fox-tribes lie beyond the ridge. They will keep you breathing."

The child raised her chin, her gaze locking with his. "I refuse to hide. My father has fallen, and I will fight in his stead. Uncle Druhan, we must return!"

Druhan's mouth curved, though no warmth reached his eyes. "Fight? You were born in Aborea, girl. You have not smelt burnt flesh. You have not heard the weeping of the conquered. My sons were tempered in war. You were born for peace."

"Then I am nothing." Her voice shook as her lip quivered.

He shifted her higher. "No blood of Dhia is nothing. Live. That is command enough. Others may die for glory. You will live for remembrance. If the name Dahlisor ever reaches your ear, you run. You run until the earth itself denies you passage."

Ahead, fire flickered through the storm. Druhan raised one blood-stained arm.

"Fox-kin!" he called out. "Take her west. Guard her well."

The tribe reached him, eyes glowing amber beneath their scarves. Druhan thrust the girl into their arms. She reached back once, her small hand clawing at the air, but the wind took her.

He stood until the torches vanished. Then he turned east, toward the sound of war still clawing at the horizon. The sand crunched beneath his boots. He spat a thick glob of blood, drew his sword, and walked on.

He had gone scarcely two leagues when a voice cut through the gale.

"I thought the great Druhan had forsaken his war."

Druhan stopped as the storm lashed his armour. "Show yourself, Dahlisor," he bellowed.

Steel came before sight. Druhan turned and caught the blow a breath before it split him. The clash ripped through the storm, metal on metal, raw and bright. Black sparks spilled from the stranger's blade and clung to Druhan's sword, wrapping the steel in coils of living shadow. The air reeked of burnt iron.

Druhan braced, his eyes locked on the enigmatic figure before him. Dahlisor, dressed in black and masked, a formidable adversary. His boots sank into the sand as he forced power through his arms.

Light broke from the cracks in his armour, a hard white glow flaring into gold, then red, blue, purple, until his body burned like the heart of a forge. The shadows recoiled and the sand fused beneath their feet.

"With you," Dahlisor said, "the Dhia line ends."

Druhan's tusks grazed his upper lip, a chuckle barely suppressed. "You wish to end my kin?"

"Nay," said Dahlisor. "I will end your lineage. All the Dhias."

Druhan took his stance, his blade now holding the last of his light. "Come then. Let the desert choose its master."

He struck first.

The storm swallowed them, lightning splitting the sky and sand rising in suffocating sheets. Every breath burned. Druhan fought on, each swing shaking the air, his blade a flare of colour against the dark. The storm drank his strength, but the shadow-fed steel of Dahlisor's sword drank deeper.

Wounds opened across Druhan's body, red against the light spilling from his veins. He fought until his arms grew heavy and his breath tore. The next blow drove him down. His knee hit the sand. His sword slipped from his hand and sank.

Dahlisor advanced, his black cloak snapping in the wind behind him like the wings of a vengeful daemon. With a quick motion, he plunged his shadow-forged blade deep into Druhan's chest, piercing through the light-infused armour as if it were mere parchment.

Druhan's eyes widened as he felt the cold, unnatural steel penetrate his flesh. Then he looked up at Dahlisor, as blood flew from his mouth and over his tusks. Despite the pain that wracked his body, Druhan's eyes burned with the ferocity of a smithy's fire, unyielding.

"You may take my flesh," Druhan's words echoed like a sacred hymn, "but the Dhias will outlive you. Even the sand will remember your failure."

For a moment, nothing happened, until light burst fiercely from Druhan's chest. It ran down his arms, filled his eyes, then broke outward. His body came apart in glass and fire, shards white and gold spinning across the dunes like torn stars.

The figure in black crouched among the scattered light. He lifted the largest shard, a fully formed crystal, while the rest became one with the sand. It was a perfect small sun in his hand.

When the storm lessened, a figure strode forth from the settling sands. His hair was black and closely cropped, and his shoulders were squared with purpose. His red eyes, vibrant against his sun burnt skin, seemed to take in every detail of his surroundings.

It was Hadrian Bedarth, he stopped a short distance away, his gaze fixed on the strange, mirror-like surface that now covered the sand.

"Dahlisor," he called out. "You appear to be alive. That means Lord Druhan is not. Is this war finally over?"

Dahlisor held the crystal up to the setting sun and watched its slow pulse. "Only the gods know how many seeds he left behind."

He tossed the crystal and caught it.

"They will all end the same," he whispered with glee.

Then a sound escaped him, a soft giggle that sent chills down Hadrian's spine.

"Every. Last. One. I have waited so very long for this. Has it been long, Hadrian? It has been long, has it not?"