For five hundred years the Gods have united the Three Lands in harmony.
Now that balance has been shattered, and chaos threatens.
A town burns and flames light the night sky. Hunted and alone, seventeen year old Eric flees through the wreckage. The mob grows closer, baying for the blood of their tormentor. Guilt weighs on his soul, but he cannot stop, cannot turn back.
If he stops, they die.
For two years he has carried this curse, bringing death and destruction wherever he goes. But now there is another searching for him – one who offers salvation. His name is Alastair and he knows the true nature of the curse. Magic.
Alastair stared into the fire, letting its heat wash
through his damp cloak. The autumn storm had
caught him in the open, drenching him before he
could reach the shelter of a band of
The sudden violence of the storm was a grim
warning of winter’s fast approach.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Alastair shifted
position, groaning as his old joints cracked in the
cold. He added another stick to the fire. A greedy
tongue of flame licked up the tender wood. Wind
rustled the dark branches above. The fire flickered in
the breeze and blew smoke into his face. Its feeble
light cast dancing shadows across the clearing.