The crackling flames in the fireplace failed to provide the room with warmth. Autumn was ending, the nights became colder, and the touch of sun weakened day by day.

Just as it had to be.

Rynlav sat in the armchair by the fireplace, studying a letter lying on the glass table, chin resting in his left and a glass of wine in his right. He had set aside a pile of parchment out of his reach, letters he wished not to deal with yet. The one he was reading came from Andoriel, and thus could not be ignored. He had read it through a handful of times—his grip tightened around his glass upon each reading.

Honourable Countess Vishala Morbane,

Jaws flexing, he breathed in long, looking out through the oval window at the far end of the room, taking some moments to calm.

Recent years have taken a toll on me. Alas, this Behemoth of our land lies bleeding, with no perceivable future to be granted.

I do not wish to burden you with memories of the past long forgotten—you have chosen to walk a path you deemed rewarding, as have I. The stories we have shared seem so distant and ethereal as the warm touch of the summer sun in wintertime.

Rynlav snorted. All these words to say nothing. Truly impressive.

And yet, you have told me once, “When you feel there is no light to guide you and nightmares gnaw at you, when darkness creeps around and enemies lurk in shadows, fear not, for know this: I’ll always be watching over you, I’ll always be there for you.” These words are forever etched into my heart. Your last words cause as much pain to me as much comfort it means.

Fingers whitened around the glass.

Do not make me beg. I need you by my side more than ever. I know I ask much. You may bring your family, your court, and whomever you name. I feel brittle, Vish. My very own daughters turned their backs on me to plot against their own father and kin. Never had the burden of the crown been so heavy.

The gates of Shalyndar will ever be open for you.

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Yours faithfully into eternity,

Emperor Jhalaran I, Rose of Andoriel

Rynlav threw the glass across the room, teeth ground as splinters of it ricochetted off the frame of Jhalaran Brygard’s portrait, bloodred stains slowly trickling down on the snow-white wall.

‘Why did you dress?’

Rynlav sprang to his feet. The drowsy voice came from the Crownprince; he was tumbling out of the bedroom, clad in a gilded blanket of sort, eyes heavy with lingering dreams. Rynlav, exerting himself to physical pain as he struggled to calm and act like his Mask, smiled and briskly walked to him.

‘I needed to attend to certain matters,’ she purred into the Crownprince’s ears. ‘I’m sure you’d find them boring.’

‘Come back to the bed,’ Bethlorn fought to smother a yawn; even though he started to wake in a certain way.

‘I will,’ she whispered again, her hand gently pressed on the young man’s neck. ‘Go back and dream. Dream, my prince, of things you desire, of things you may never possess.’

Rynlav surged the Bane into Bethlorn’s mind. The prince’s mental defences shattered a couple days ago; since then, Rynlav had been giving him adequate doses of the power, just enough to let him keep his self-consciousness—otherwise, he would have been just an empty shell of a mindless meat golem, just like his Shadow.

Bethlorn’s eyes darkened for a moment, then he readily nodded. He leant forward for a kiss, but Rynlav softly evaded the prince’s awkward attempt, turning him over. Then, for one whim or another, Rynlav leant forward and kissed the back of his neck.

‘Be a clever boy today on the Seat,’ she whispered, ‘then you’ll be rewarded.’

Bethlorn visibly shook, then nodded and left for the room.

Rynlav sighed, went to the shattered glass and picked up its remnants. His thoughts drifted back to the letter, Vish, and Jhalaran.

The envelope in which the letter came was addressed to his Mask, not Vish. That bastard knew he would read it before Morbane. He knew Rynlav would read every line of it. There was an insignia hidden by the letter, too, so that Rynlav could get the letter into another envelope, address it to Vish and seal it by the Emperor’s insignia.

He wrought his hands, flexed them into a fist, then slammed into the table, sending the pile of letters onto the imported rug in a disarray, a crack appearing on the surface of the glass.

That whoreson doesn’t even leave me a chance. He wants to take Vish to Andoriel.

Absolute contempt and ire churned within Rynlav.

Then, he froze. A tingling sense of piercing cold rushed through his skin, shaking his entire body. Something broke. Something was torn from the world.

Then something … woke.

Rynlav choked on his own breath as waves of unearthly powers slammed into him. He forgot all his insignificant problems at that very moment. A wide, content smile cracked his lips.

Amrith wakened. This time, fully.

Rynlav felt something pulling her entire being to the East. He also sensed that something was coming from that direction.

The shard has been revealed. Finally.

He stepped to the window, casting her glance over Grospan and the distant dales under the clear, glistening skies.

Soon it would begin.