The Lord Priest raised his blood-stained hands from the corpse and lowered them into a basin filled with aromatic water. Blood danced around the rose petals floating there, swirling into a branching web of veins. In the centre of it all, lied a black bead, pulsating and beating as if alive. The priest remained motionless until the King, overlooking the ritual, clapped his hands twice. At the sound, a young priest, garbed in white, stepped out from the shadows and, with the acknowledgement of the Lord Priest, unstrapped the woman and dragged her bloodied corpse out of sight.

The Lord Priest grabbed the bead and approached the foot of the dais, where he knelt and stretched out his arms. The King leaned forward and inspected the bead before returning it gently to the priest. He began to tap the wood of the arm of his throne. "Well, Cain?" said the King.

Cain stood and lowered his head. "The human was exceptionally gifted. A sorcerer rarely seen—"

The King frowned and slammed his fist on the throne, interrupting Cain. "Are you taking me for a fool, priest?"

"Never would I dare—"

"You know what I am asking for," the King said, vexed. "Look at me!"

The priest dared not delay any further and lifted his head to return the gaze of his monarch. A chiselled face with two ranks of jagged teeth and deep-set, violet eyes that churned like the sea. They carried contempt and disgust as if the mere sight of Cain irked him. "Well?"

"The signs are good, lord." Cain paused, contemplating if he should continue. "But there are troubles . . . not great troubles," he hurriedly added.

"Who are they?"

Cain licked his dry lips, "Not they, lord. A lone rider."

The King looked deeply at Cain as an obstinate silence engulfed the room. By the time Cain was sweating, the King finally said, "You are taking me for a fool, priest."

"Lord, I—"

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"Silence!" The King retorted. He stood from his throne and started down the steps, then pivoted and walked towards the balcony entrance behind the dais, the shuttered entryway adorned with velvet curtains on either side. Cain rose with difficulty and trailed behind the King's silvery mantle. He slammed the shuttered doors wide open, and as the winter breeze caught his raven black hair, two sharp and elongated ears emerged on either side.

Cain lingered by the threshold, relishing the smell of the salt of the ocean as if it was his first time. On the windswept balcony perched two gargoyles on either flank, twice as tall as any man. They resembled a griffon and a wyvern, two among thousands that guarded the walls of this ancient fortress.

The King paid these statues no attention and leaned against the battlements. The sea thrashed beneath him, and the castle stones looked rough and chilled beneath his fingers. There they stood in silence for minutes, both silent in contemplation. The gargoyles maintained their silent watch, wings folded tightly and eyes against the northern horizon. After a while, the King turned from the scenery and faced Cain. "Then tell me, priest, who is this rider?"

The Lord Priest scratched his balding head, somewhat embarrassed. "A man by the name of Reith Lornhart. He does not follow the faith yet wields its powers."

"You believe this lone rider can threaten my aspirations," the King asked in amusement.

"Of course not, lord. I am only conveying what the signs showed."

The King leaned against the balcony and glanced at the ocean beneath him once more. "I see," he paused, then continued, "Leave, I will handle this matter." The priest bowed deeply before scurrying beyond the curtains and out of sight.

Delrith looked at the departing priest deep in thought before finally saying, "Guardians, leave for the old ancestral home and investigate the matter of Reith Lornhart. Find him, and eliminate him."

After receiving the order, a grey cloud of pebbles and ancientness submerged the two sculptures. Then, before Delrith could react to the whipping gale, the fifteen-foot tall statues were beating their wings off in the distance, rapidly disappearing into the horizon.

Delrith looked around. To his right was a range of rugged, snow-capped crags, to his left the vastness of an undulating ocean and oblivion. In front of him was the path to the realm of Asura, the root of his fallen empire, remembered only by ancient tomes. In the cities south of Delrith, to the south of his ancient fortress, there was an army assembling, millions of men and abominations—all amassed under the banner of the Elven King. With insatiable greed and hatred, these soldiers would become monsters among monsters, a force of destruction and misery. It was a power beyond man, and yet the priest had warned about a lone rider.

A storm was brewing ahead of him, blocking the path to his dreams. He raised his hands and laughed. "Entertain me, Reith Lornhart!"