Prologue --

The sun rose over a mockery of an army, tattered and defeated. Fires glowed among the tents, smoking rising to swirl over their heads. The wailing of the wounded and the stench of rotting corpses went unnoticed. There was no one left to command them, nowhere to retreat to. What hope had been retained was chased away by the sound of marching feet. Those still able to stand reached for threir weapons, if only for the sake of pretending to defend themselves.

The tramping came nearer, approaching the valley that would become their grave. As the orcs burst through the trees surrounding them, men stood straighter, determined to die standing, the last of Valuyial’s warriors.

The wave of brutes overwhelmed the meager defense, knocking them over like so many twigs. Crude swords pierced breasts as spears flew thick in the air. The cries of the wounded were silenced by cruel thrusts, the already dead desecrated.

-----

A dark figure stood above the valley, looking down at the slaughter. Its hand rested on the hilt of a sword, as though longing to join the struggle. Still, it stood watching, knowing that it would make no difference in the outcome.

It turned as it was joined by another, raising its hand in greeting. Together, they stood in silence watching the brutal end of decades of fighting. The first figure sighed, turning its back on the valley and walking down the slope.

“They underestimated Giodono.”

The second figure hurried to catch up. “Yes. There’s nothing that can be done now, though.”

“No one is left to fight, then.”

They halted at the bottom of the hill.

“Larien . . .” the second figure put its hand on its companion’s shoulder, “There’s always someone left to fight.”

“We aren’t allowed to.”

“Do you think they will care after this?”

Larien smiled. “No. I suppose they won’t need to know either, Kayrin?”

Kayrin laughed. “They don’t know about us anyway.”

Together, the two set off again, heading towards the hidden clearing they called home.