PROLOGUE

A Night of Endings

It was a popular day to die. The war concluded in a climactic battle, and The Wicked was finally dead. While messengers trotted triumphantly back to the temples, the soldiers could rest, nest, and dream. Now the day was done with the night its end. It was a night of many endings.

The dark’s shadowy fingers blanketed over a grim river shore where bodies piled as haystacks along the rocks. The dead—with endings already passed— watched the candle-like fae dance in the red moonlight above. There was a screech cut short which echoed over the stones, and a raptor flew off with its claim and by the bodies lay a raging fire, with a figure fast approaching its embrace.

For Monti the night sighed out the end to a long and arduous walk. His feet were raw, legs shuddering at the knees. They failed him once he reached the warm light where he crumpled onto the stones. He swept back wet bangs of fiery red hair, and took the time to gather his breath. Around him, a procession of similarly robed men marched to their own grim flow.

The monks wore white, and carried bodies slung over shoulders or dragged through the stones. When they reached the fire Monti was resting by, they lay the dead among the coals. They bowed their heads, more out of habit than not, to recite the usual code. Then they’d shamble back down the shadowy shore to start over again.

When the monks passed Monti, some nodded or smiled. Some muttered welcomes back, but all of them left him to sit and brood, so he did. He wasn’t the same boy who’d left that morning, all starry eyed, and quick with a question. They hadn’t seen what he’d seen. He’d spare them the grim details.

“Monti!”

Monti looked up in time to see a man lay down his burden. For Erahil, the night cried out the end to a gnawing, and terrible fear. The man waddled over fast as the rolling currents, and Monti had hardly the time to climb to his feet before the fat man hoisted him right back off them. Monti was crushed like a twig.

“Blessed day, boy! I was so worried!”

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Monti grunted, “Sorry, Vera-Erahil, I came as fast as I could.”

Erahil set him down so Monti could breathe. “Oh take all the time in the world, why don’t you, so long as you return safe.” In their moment of sweet reunion, they laughed.

A flash of blue flared in the darkness. On the bank, a pair of eyes opened, and a corpse moved. It was the same body Erahil had left moments before.

Erahil sighed. “Monti, help an old man out would you?”

They wrestled the body to the ground. Dragging it over, they threw it into the fire as it flailed. A bow, and a prayer, Monti and Erahil watched the taken burn until its raving limbs seared black, and it grew properly still.

“May He guide you swiftly through hell,” Erahil murmured. They let the body burn in silence.

“So what did take you so long?” Erahil finally asked.

Monti shot his teacher a sideways glance. “I spoke to Vera-Hilz before coming.” Erahil’s face darkened, so he stumbled on, “His words are true, Vera. Necromancy won’t disappear with The Wicked.”

“I thought I warned you to keep away from that madman.”

“He’s not mad, Vera.”

Erahil spat. “You didn’t see what he did to her.”

Monti gritted his teeth. “Well, either way, I’m going.”

“You’ll get yourself killed, boy,” but Erahil sighed. “But it looks like you’ve made up your mind. Just, be careful Mon…” He shook his head, and straightened, facing the boy. “Take care of yourself, Vera-Kieul.”

Blinking in surprise, the sound of the honor made Monti straighten in return. “I will, Vera!” He bowed deeply. “Believe me, I will.”

They worked the rest of the hours in silence. When the bodies were all burned, and scattered away, the monks headed up the river towards camp. Tomorrow, they’d be returning home.

It was the end of an era, the end of a war. The people of Vornail could rejoice in this, and what it would bring. Their sons would return within the season, and families would toast to their good graces. With winter soon gone, the winds would come, and with them the sweetest fruits to harvest. The sky brightened in a new morning, and even the night faded to a close.

Yet there was something else left that night, something yet to be seen. Something easily overlooked, or rather perhaps the signs weren’t yet there to see. It was the kind of end that few men fear, for none will see it till it’s done. An end to change the borders of a map faster than storm, flame, or tide. An end to let the masses starve and send hundreds to their ashes. It was the shuddering, stuttering, inevitable end of a land long since fallen from grace.