Prologue
•The∙Wastelands∙of∙Kore •

She stood amongst the fallen with her blood tipped spear grasped tightly in her hand.

In the blackness, tortured souls screamed and rose into the night. She stood silent as the warm wind caught the loose and wild strands of her black hair. They moved like snakes, twisting and turning, snapping viciously at the air. Aysá remained unblinking, even as one by one the raindrops fell from the darkness around her, washing her and cleansing her of her sins.

The skies above her roared and the rain came down harder, cutting tracks through the blood that coated her arms. Lightning tore the clouds apart and ignited the air. For a split second, the carnage below was illuminated for all the heavens to see. The bodies of men and women alike lay twisted and ravaged by war. Arrows punctured armour and shield, and swords lay discarded in the mud. She remained unmoving, save for her molten eyes that shifted slowly across the decimated landscape.

A soldier approached her, lone and solemn. His boots squelched through the thick mud. "Arman has arrived, my Queen. His banner is yours." He bowed his head and made his way down the track towards the encampment where Aysá's prisoner stood bound by chains. She turned, only to catch a glimpse of him before he was engulfed by the shadows. Aysá glanced back at the corpse littered fields below and then made her way down the hillside.

The bodies became fewer on the walk back to her tent. The silence of the dead gave way to the moans of the dying. She looked down at the few that clung to life but she did not stop. Those that wore her sigil, deep crimson with a black, two headed phoenix, looked up at her as she passed, with fearsome pride burning in their eyes. They knew their sacrifice had ensured their victory.

There were whispers as she moved through the camp. Eyes followed her but she remained focused on Arman. The mutterings of her name grew louder and louder as it swept through the remaining soldiers like a wave. Over and over they called to her, their weapons raised high above their heads in victorious salute. The chanting of her name had grown into an almighty roar by the time she neared her tent. Swords crashed against shields and clenched fists beat against armoured chests. They pounded like a heartbeat. Throbbing and pulsing. The living remembered the eternal dead and brought their spirits back to life with their passion.

The two guards that stood in front of her makeshift quarters snapped to attention as she approached then moved quickly to peel back the swaths of red fabric that covered the entrance. She handed off her spear to one of them and stepped inside without as much as a word or a nod.

Arman stood waiting for her in the centre of the tent. His bare feet were clad in heavy iron shackles and his wrists bound by the same. The blue of his tunic was sullied with blood. Dirt and grime covered him, staining the exposed parts of his body. He stood before her defeated.

"My Queen," he muttered, his head bowed, his words laced with shame and regret. He had underestimated Aysá and the men that followed her into battle, and now he was paying the price. The new queen said nothing, even as she stepped past him to a table that lay bare, save for a jug of water, a pewter bowl and a tray with two silver goblets. "I owe you my life, my Queen. My colours, my sword, my shield, they're yours." Her silence unnerved him to the point where he was forced to look up at her. Aysá looked back at him, her face expressionless. "I am yours." He emphasised.

She took the jug from the table and poured its contents into the bowl. Arman watched her curiously through the locks of his knotted hair. She was a difficult woman to understand; silent for the most part, calculating and cruel, devoted and passionate. Her fire made him both loath and admire her in equal measure.

Once the bowl was filled, Aysá brought it before him and set it down on the table along with a goblet filled with sweet wine. She took her place opposite him in a chair beautifully carved with dragons and demons. "Drink," she said, motioning towards the goblet with a wave of her clawed hand. "You look like you could do with it." Arman stared at her, somewhat surprised by her gesture. "It's not poisoned." She assured him, yet she was met with silence. "Oh come now, Arman. You pledge what's left of your life to me, you swear your sword and your shield to me, yet you cannot accept a simple drink?" Arman edged closer to the table, his shackles rattling with each shuffling footstep. "Sit. Rest your bones," she encouraged. "Clean the blood from your hands and drink with me. For Cethyn, for the Throne and for the Fallen."

The defeated warrior did as commanded and sat opposite the new Queen. The chains made it difficult for him to reach for the glass but he took hold of it none the less. Aysá smiled, causing the white of her teeth to gleam against the ruby red of her lips. She reached forward, plucking her own glass of wine from the tray. She raised it slightly and announced with a hint of sadness. "Cethyn." Arman did the same, his sadness echoing hers. As he took a sip of his wine, the chains that encircled his wrists, rattled. Aysá stared at her defeated foe. He looked broken and battered, a fading shadow. He looked almost perfect.

The Queen sat up and rested the chalice on the arm of her chair. "We are no different, Arman, you and I. We are both broken and defeated; both bound by chains." Arman scoffed and shook his head, causing Aysá to lean forward, her golden eyes shimmering in the candlelight. "We're both slaves to a higher power. We're both destined to be greater than what we are right now, right this second. We have a fire, a passion, a rage that when unleashed, will be all consuming and unstoppable."

Arman looked across at her. He could see the excitement etched onto her face. He could see the fire in her eyes. She captivated him but he refused to let it show. He leaned forward as she did, his bound hands resting on the table. "The only one person in this tent bound by chains is me." He held his bloody wrists aloft, proving his point.

Aysá took a sip of her drink. She paused to savour its sweet, rich taste, and then stood. She shrugged her armoured shoulders and moved to his side of the table. She leaned against it and looked down at him. "Metaphorically speaking of course." Arman huffed and sat back in his chair to get a better look at her. She sat there, her skin as blood smeared and muddy as his. Her black, webbed armour was scratched and dented; each nick and blemish held a meaning and an air of perfection.

One by one, the candles that lit the room began to fade, their light consumed by the demons that inhabited the shadows. "Let me tell you a story…" she whispered, then, she too was engulfed by the darkness.