Dusk approached. A south wind chilled the air, and clouds cast thousand-yard shadows across a red sky. The briny smell of Sauver-Hill followed behind a seven-wagon caravan. Horse hooves and metal-rimmed wheels hummed a drummer’s tune. A family of merchants kept time, watching for the long day’s end. Their map keeper spoke of a clearing ahead, just beyond the narrows of a shallow-water bridge, the perfect spot to make camp.
Sam sat on a wooden wagon floor with his legs crossed. The carriage shook around him, but he moved with it like a reed in storm—-never rigid, always flowing. A dark magic raged beneath his skin, a storm of fire and ash circled like carrion overhead, and his aura rose higher each second until it touched the clouds above, shattering the sky like glass.
Across the world men in towers and women in gilded rooms stared out towards the Kreigan sky, as the aura of a Wild God descended upon the world.
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Those in the caravan were unaware, unable to even sense the scope of magic in their midst; their eyes unable to see the arid desert as a true ocean, each individual drop a spell strong enough to level buildings and scorch dirt—-To an ant what difference was there between a puddle and a lake?
Riben, sitting across from Sam, wasn’t holding up well. Every bump in the road took its toll on him, and even a thick matting of furs couldn’t keep his bruised tailbone safe. His hands clenched hard around the haft of his spear, his knuckles white from pressure. He stared at Sam, waiting for any command to come.
Gyre leaned off to the side, his heart in his throat; each beat hammered the wagon's walls and a small cyclone of magic formed in his center, a sandcastle of power most would have considered impressive if it weren’t standing in the shadow of a mountain.
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Sam’s hackles raised. His eyes flashed with magic—-a wicked evil glowed in the dim world.
A tree laid across the road ahead. An ambush waited there; men in dark steel lined the path, hidden in the trees and brush—-haunting the way forward like spectres, the wraiths of Lazann armed with crossbow and salt. They had no eyes, for they saw not the storm even as it descended upon them; calm winds at the center belied the true mounting dread. Magic thrummed, shaking the world.
Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!
Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!
Wizened mages hidden from the world awoke from their slumber and looked out, some for the first time in centuries. Wide eyes met a fractured sky. A terrible and tremendous magic lit up the world, screaming for all to hear, “I HAVE COME. CROSS ME IF YOU DARE.”
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An old man in the Kingdom of Lazann trembled, and his staff fell from his hands. His eyes peeled themselves back, stripping open in a spray of blood. He screamed and fell to his knees. Smoke and ash circled empty sockets, and the smell of singed blood filled the Imperial Courts. The Archmage Lyon Lazann would never see the light of day again. A small punishment for his crimes in Sam's eyes, but the sword of Damocles was hung.
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The caravan stopped, the de-facto leader near the front holding up a high hand. His experience showed as he picked out the dark figures on the sides of the road. Hardened from the years, his first thoughts were of banditry, but those thoughts soon changed. Caution turned to fear as, one by one, the shadows on the roadside burst into arcane flame, blue lights popping up in the shade for nearly a mile ahead. A cold wind howled, carrying both hints of a storm and a mass of dust north.
A final flame billowed, smiting the fallen tree from the path.
The caravan rolled ahead unhindered.