Prologue

22nd of Sol’Shen, the year 1430 R.A.

The twin moons Lyst’Tri and Nann’tar sent glowed with an eerie blue-green cast, sending light in streams through the crisp night air across the tundra land of middle Norhen.

Deemer Galed Hallias, magistrate of the Berathin empire, frowned gazing up at the ill omen known as lunarin chrysalis, only seen on the ninth and final cycle of the year. His eyes fell to the scenery out the window of his private steam carriage. To be out traversing such wildes during this time not preferable, old superstition of the Enevian faith or not.

An endless array of jutting hills, outcroppings of stone along with distant throngs of gleaming iridescent elarium crystals glowing in clusters near and far. All of this characterizel the ride thus far from Port Stroudston, and the rhythmic whine of the pistons and steam engine was all too loud to allow for sleep.

Galed straightened, lowered his hood, and rubbed his face with both hands and then the crest of his bald head, in need of shave after the long journey from the imperial homeland via ayreship.

How inhumane, to have been denied proper time for hot bath and a shave in two days.

The carriage at least, was lavishly furnished, the seats a deep velvet and the inner edges replete with ornate gilded framing—some comfort despite being sent on this loathsome mission as magistrate to the mining colonies. His charge was that of bringing judgement and order to the lawless in this savage frontier land. The Norns were all too ungrateful for the civility and prosperity the Berathin empire sought to bring them, and becoming all too bold.

The Deemer reached for the brass voxophone on his right, and spoke into the device.

“Corporal. We are nearly there, I trust?”

“Almost my Lord.”, a thin distorted voice responded. “Just three hours more till we reach the Southwind.”

Galed sighed with intent into the horn of the voxophone. “Very well.”

The warm salve of the wine he’d had at dinner before departure from the port city had begun to wear off, and his earlier worries returned bringing a sinking sensation to his gut.

He cleared his throat. “No sign of raiders, or those savage tawros I assume?”

“No my lord. All is quiet this night.”

Galed hung up the voxophone on it’s stand with a click.

In truth, he should have known better to have been concerned. In addition to the rhythmic whine of the pistons the clanking were trudging mechanizations of troops in elaritek armours flanking their caravan. Any attempt to assail or waylay would be a fool’s errand. He leaned his head back against the velvet to sleep the rest of travel away.

As if mocking his thoughts, a lurch and a bang sent him flying forward into the other side of the carriage, his head hitting the metal of the passenger door. He hissed and swore and clamored back to his seat. He called for the corporal, or any who might hear but heard nothing in return. Galed felt his breath catch at the sudden blankness he beheld out his window. The moon bathed valley had been plunged into pitch dark. He jumped at the first muffled sound that came—a scream as if from behind a wall and some distance away.

The carriage shook and the passenger door flung open, and from the blackness to the Galed’s horror tendrils of black shadow shot forth and wrapped all around him. He let out an uninhibited shriek, hoping against hope to awake from this nightmare. He was pulled into the black and found himself rolling upon the cold grass of the valley. Landing face up he beheld the cursed halo moons once more and turned his head to the side to see the caravan alight with fires.

Hooded men whose faces gleamed in a ghostly silver shimmer from the flames bore torches.

One turned toward him, and Galed saw that the phantom visage was that of a light silver veil of chain mail, the strands of metal linked on metal swaying all too elegantly amid this chaotic scene.

All around, the clanging metals and anguished screams of battle swelled to a fever pitch. Galed scrambled to his feet and turned his eyes away from the carnage of men being torn asunder by Dragi, hulking apparitions of swirling shadow with deep violet juts of crystal shards protruding.

This was in fact no battle. It was a slaughter.

Galed quaked where he lay on all fours, attempting to crawl away unseen.

So it’s true… The Veiled have returned.

A dread futility overwhelmed him as he stumbled to his feet and pressed on into the open wide expanse of the valley, his breath labored and heaving and the pace of his heart in a state of perpetual quickening.

Then he felt his body seize, frozen mid stride. He could still breathe, but only just.

Blood pounded in his temples. It was deafening, the only sound apart from the last screams of a dying soldier, squelched out and cut off with a sickening crunch he heard from behind him.

Soft footfalls and the light wisp of robes and clothing approached. The men in the chain veils of silver beneath the deep violet hoods and robes encircled him but kept their distance. He couldn’t turn his head and was still frozen. Any effort his muscles made to move subverted without effort by the invisible force that held him here.

A man in a hood of deepest black stepped into view, his hands wrapped in the same silvery chain mail, his face uncovered though indiscernible beneath an unnatural shadow his hood provided, somehow completely dark but shimmering with a blurred sort of violet.

Then a boy, no older than many of the young soldiers in the now defeated and slaughtered caravan stepped up next to the dark cloak.

His hand was outstretched, a whirling vortex of black and violet encircled it. The force field of dread which held him there, that filled his heart with a sorrow so deep and a hopelessness so bleak he wanted to give up his spirit then and there.

“Your men are dead.”, the boy said. His face was rife with sweat, and his stringy dark hair fell in pieces before his tired, sullen looking eyes. “There is no point in resisting.”

His throat dry and tight, Galed swallowed hard. If he were to try and speak it would be futile. He painfully croaked out a response.

“What do you heretics want?”

The boy twisted his outstretched arm and a snake of dark shadow lashed forward and wrapped around Galed’s neck, and he felt the force that held him release as he fell to his knees, now being strangled by this black tendril that felt searing hot and piercing cold all at once. He choked and felt his vision blur, wanting nothing more than to be out of this dread nightmare, even if it meant death taking him.

“Enough.” The voice shouted out the command in a stern and commanding tone. “Release him, Torin.”

The boy gritted his teeth and sneered but obeyed.

Galed clasped his neck and gasped desperately for the chill night air. The man in the robe of dark black stepped forward, hands of silver mail shimmering in the moonlight.

“You are the key to our way forward.”, the hooded figure said.

“I don’t understand. What do you want from me?”

“For you to be the spark. The catalyst for your empire to act with a firmer hand here in this frontier.”

A silvered hand reached out, chain mail glove glinting in the light of the moons.

Galed rubbed his neck and he looked upon the outstretched appendage with trepidation and suspicion. He clasped it anyway and was helped to his feet without consequence.

“Who sent you? Was it Kallan? Ephus?” He racked his brains as to which of his political opponents would be so bold as to hire these archaic cultist radicals.

He puzzled at the face beneath the hood only feet before his own but beheld nothing but a deep blackness. The boy with the violet veins running upon his face riled.

“Do not speak to the High Blighter with such irreverence.”

The so-called High Blighter raised a hand toward the boy.

“Tell me what you want. Whatever it is I will do it.” Galed was a proud man—though not so proud he wouldn’t barter, perhaps even beg for his life.

“We need your title.”, said the High Blighter.

“My… title?”

The High Blighter nodded, the dark veil of shadow continuing to obscure his face.

“But it is not mine to give.”, Galed spurted, averting his eyes from the unsettling faceless void beneath the hood. “Deemers are appointed in a special session of the imperial council, and carefully selected.”

“We are well aware of this.”, the High Blighter said, voice calm. “Which is why we need you to vacate your seat so the next in line may secede you.”

Any semblance of hope the Deemer had felt was snuffed out as a candle flame beneath a brass bell snuffer. Confusion and panic warred in his mind, neither one winning out.

There was no one in direct line of succession for a Deemer. They had to be appointed. But that didn’t matter. Galed needed a way out, and these men it seemed could not be reasoned with.

But he had to try.

“I will… give up my title then. I will resign.”

“Your death reported to the proper Berathin authorties. You will be made a martyr for the cause of your imperial justice.”

Panic and dread returned to his body in fierce measure presently, Galed’s veins pulsing with rivers of the blood he feared would be spilled. Then a spike of anger drove him to shouting.

“I’ll see you all hanged!”

“No.”, said the High Blighter. “You will not see the light of another sun.”

The flash of the silver hands beneath the dark cloak gave way to a flash of violet. Galed felt a hot pain that subsided into welcome cold numbness, and he fell to the dirt below.

The accursed haloed moons above shone brightly. How he longed to gaze upon their light for just one more moment.

But for Deemer Galed Hallias, there was only blackness.