Somewhere in the Valley of Deerwood, the ground rippled and shook. Overhead, the limbs of the ancient trees rattled together, dropping their leaves and frightening the little beasts of the forest. Birds took flight in a dark mass, squalling in protest at having been woken so brusquely. Rabbits and burrowing creatures popped their heads out from beneath the leaf litter, their ears flicking back and forth as they searched for the source of the danger. In minutes, a low fog rolled over the land, engulfing the forest in a hazy cloud.

Vasileios stopped his carriage, caught by a sudden ominous feeling. The wyrmling on his shoulder gave a low growl, cocking its head to one side as if to confirm Vasileios’s concern.

“How far is it now?” He asked, squinting into the trees.

He could’ve sworn the forest on either side of the winding path had been perfectly clear only moments ago. Now, he could hardly see past the first line of trees, the fog was so dense. It was as if a dark cloud had blocked out the sun itself, only the sun was still high overhead, shining brightly.

“Still two day’s ride,” the coachman answered. Even his voice seemed dulled by the fog.

A black cloud of wings and beaks crossed overhead and Vasileios shuddered.

“Double our speed,” he instructed sharply.

“But-”

“Do as I say or neither of us will live to see the city gates,” he cut the man off, settling back onto the trunk and pulling the mace from its place at his belt. He laid it across his lap, his fingers wrapping tightly around the ornate handle as he continued to scan the forest for danger.

The coachman whipped the poor horse, urging it onward. It gave an indignant huff, but they were moving an instant later and Vasileios willed himself to relax.

“Just bad weather. It always happens this time of year,” he muttered to himself, trying to ignore the low thrum that had begun to emanate from the trunk beneath him.

Vasileios remained on high alert as they wound their way through the valley, finally finding the pass and leaving the darkened forest behind. He would have sighed with relief, except that the trunk was positively vibrating with energy beneath him, and even the mace in his hands had started to warm alarmingly.

Whenever the coachman looked back at him, obviously anxious about the way the horse was huffing and struggling to keep up the relentless pace, Vasileios only gave him a stern shake of the head and they continued on.

They crested the pass and came into view of Gullyhaven, and old township well established at the base of the ancient mountains. It had long been a stopover for weary travelers who wished to rest before or after making the journey over the pass. But as soon as Vasileios laid eyes on the stone walls, he knew something was terribly wrong.

It wasn’t that he could see anything out of place at this distance, but rather a deepening of that ominous feeling that had stuck with him ever since the forest. Something just felt… off. Like the sun’s rays could no longer penetrate the gloom that settled over the once lively town.

“Goin’ to let old Harriet get a drink,” the coachman said, steering them toward the town, apparently oblivious to the foreboding darkness that oozed from the walls like poison.

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Vasileios began to protest, but he bit his tongue. It was no use. The horse was looking worse for wear, and if they didn’t let it rest, it would surely die of exhaustion. Plus, there was no route around the sprawling town. Their only choice was to pass through the gates, hanging open as always, but somehow less inviting than usual.

The coachmen directed the horse toward inn and stables, looking around curiously when no one came out to greet them.

“Get her some water and stay close. I’m going to have a look around. I’ll be right back.”

Slipping from the back of the carriage, Vasileios dipped inside the inn’s front door, finding the place abandoned and eerily silent. Hot coals still burned in the hearth, but there was no sign of whoever had started the fire.

Leaving the inn behind, he made his way toward the center of town. Overhead, banners from some celebration or another hung limply, their colors faded and their edges ragged. It was as if the whole town was in an active state of decay, although the place could not have been abandoned more than a few hours.

The wyrmling took flight, sailing back and forth across the broad roadway. It disappeared from sight around one building and then reappeared over top of another. All the while, it’s eyes scanned the town. Finally, it seemed to find what it was looking for and turned, leaving Vasileios to follow on foot.

As he walked, he cursed under his breath at every sound and brush of wind. Somewhere up ahead, a creaky shutter banged open, making him jump and clutch at his weapon all the harder.

He was so consumed by the strangeness of the abandoned town, he failed to notice that he was no longer directing his own feet. In fact, he was being drawn forward by a force almost imperceptible. And with each step, the mace in his hands grew warmer and glowed just a little brighter.

Rounding a corner, he spotted the ethereal dragon perched on a low wall. Just beyond it stood a tall statue featuring many mythical creatures carved into the stone. Each creature produced a stream of water, pouring it forth into a shallow pool.

Vasileios went to the edge of the fountain, walking a slow circle around its entire circumference, taking in its many strange facets. The creatures appeared so lifelike. In fact, they looked more alive than anything in the town since they’d arrived.

Vasileios was still pondering this fact when the wyrmling rose from its perch and wheeled up into the sky before turning into a dive. He was headed straight for the pool when he spread his wings wide and suddenly exploded into a shimmer of golden sparks which dissipated into the water.

At that moment, the mace in Vasileios’s hand gave a hard tug, making the mage stumble forward into the low wall. He yelped with surprise as he banged into the stone border with his legs, but the mace bucked in his hand again, pulling him until he was leaning out over the water rather precariously.

Confused, Vasileios tried to release the weapon, but found that he could not. In fact, it seemed quite intent on dragging him into the water one way or another. He pulled back, planting his feet and trying to gain some leverage against the wall, but no matter how he tried, he could not bring the thing back to his side.

Vasileios watched with mixed wonder and horror as the mace seemed to breathe in, drawing wisps of gloomy fog from all around them. With each draw, the weapon grew stronger in his hands. He could feel the power growing, sizzling just out of his control. And then the mace gave one more hard tug and dragged him over the wall into the water, his legs kicking and scrambling for purchase on the slick stones of the fountain’s base. But it was too late, because Vasileios was dragged under the water and no amount of struggling would bring him back up.

Just before he lost consciousness, his vision blurred and he saw the form of the wyrmling once more. This time, however, it was not the shimmery, ethereal being that had visited him before. It was flesh and blood, and its strong wings caught the rays of a too-bright sun, reflecting back myriad colors. Vasileios followed the wyrmling in his mind’s eye, drinking in the vast landscape that coursed by as it flew. It was a place he knew only by pictures, a place that hadn’t been seen for generations.

This was the world before the War of the Seven Citadels, a place breathlessly wild and as yet untouched by the devastating destruction wrought by the ancient guardians.

Then everything went black.