1 Prologue

An Empire shattered by the raging winds of time. The great Kingdoms of Granterra fallen to ruin. The mighty commanders of old usurped by the corrupt and self-seeking. Beings of wisdom supplanted by craven flatterers. Everything he had built for Aria, withering into the husk of glory that once was.

“Hail, Lord Vorigan!”

The members of the High Council rose and inclined their heads in reverence as the Emperor made his way toward the ornate dais, flanked by two of the Imperial Guard—the dreaded sentinels of Aregon.

He adjusted his cape and lowered himself into the dark marble throne. The scales of his blood red armor glinted in the dull sunlight seeping through the immense crystal window behind the dais.

Ah! If only these fools knew of their impending fate. If only he could make them all understand. If the beings they worshiped as ‘gods’ ever returned, it would mean the end of the mortal world.

The envoys and warlords settled into the stone chairs set against the curving wall.

Vorigan leaned forward, hiding his distaste behind a mask of indifference. He held no love for the two-faced councilors before him. They had no true master, but their greed and fear. They preyed on weakness, like the lowly scavengers they were. No matter how he desired to sink his fangs into each of their necks, they were still important pieces with a role to play in reclaiming Granterra.

The silence reigned for a moment, before Hadrian Willmont, the warlord of Turahn spoke. “We have failed to capture the Atlantian, your highness,” he said. “He is one of the first six. Ca…Capturing him will be difficult without cooperation from the Imperial Guard.” His gaze remained focused on the foot of the throne.

The Emperor frowned, his steel enclosed fingers steadily tapping the armrest. The accursed Atlantian was testing his patience. He had to be eliminated. If there was one thing Vorigan detested above all else, it was self-righteous renegades disrupting his plans for the greater good.

The Envoy from Lycaonia, Julian Le Cordier, cleared his throat. “He speaks truly, your grace. The Atlantian cannot be underestimated.”

He paled as Vorigan’s gaze pierced his gray eyes. He brushed aside a lock of hair. “We have already lost three of our best trackers, and one was a lieutenant to the first pack.”

The council hall broke into whispers and murmurs.

The Emperor studied his countenance. He often wondered why the Lycan King had made this inexperienced half-human his envoy. He had an eloquent tongue and a cunning mind, but he was no true leader.

Maybe that was his intent.

The noisy babel faltered when Orion Ironfang stood, drawing many looks of wonderment and indignation. His stone cold features betrayed no fear of death or doom, as befitted a scion of Argent. “Pardon my impertinence, sire. But this is no time to be conferring about a lone Atlantian. There are more important matters to be discussed.”

Julian tilted his head. “Matters of more import?”

Orion directed a dark glance at the Lycaonian Envoy, his blue eyes inscrutable. “Indeed.”

“What might those be?” Vorigan’s voice cut through the hall like a blade of ice.

“I was referring to the Resistance, your grace.” He turned his gaze to the throne. “It seems they have become more active. I hoped the High Council would take this threat seriously.”

Vorigan exhaled in exasperation. Those fools from the Resistance were plotting their own end. They had all forgotten the terror the Vyohreisian had wrought on Granterra ten thousand years ago. They were blind to the tragedy that awaited them if he failed.

If only they could understand. He held no ill will toward them, but if they hindered his efforts to unify Granterra and prepare it for the Great War, he would be left with no other choice.

“The Vampyre Lord is right,” Irwen said, addressing her fellow councilors. “We sense their presence even in the depths of Tangarís.”

Vorigan found her cold green eyes. “I hear there have been more rebellions in Celavrón.”

The Envoy to the Queen of Tangaris raised her chin. “The elvanór are unhappy with the Empire’s interference in the internal matters of Celavrón. Many have deserted our cities and allied with the-”

Vorigan held up his gauntleted hand. “Does Queen Ványa share that dissatisfaction?” he asked, a cold glint in his eyes.

The elf maiden’s ethereal features remained without expression, betrayed only by the nails digging into her palm. “Certainly not, Lord Vorigan,” Irwen replied in a flat tone. “Our only desire is peace between all races of Aria.”

“Excellent.” He placed his palm on the marble armrest. “Then our goals are aligned.” He had to keep an eye on them now that Aries had begun making his move. Even though Ványa was not foolish enough to underestimate him, she would not hesitate at the prospect of driving a dagger into his back. An alliance between the Resistance and Tangarís would certainly prove troublesome.

“What do you intend to do with the Resistance, Your Grace?” Orion asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Vorigan’s face twisted in a grimace. “It seems I have condoned their insolence for too long.”

The councilors murmured their agreement.

“We have to act quickly, Your Grace,” Julian said. “It will pose a greater threat if the Atlantian were to make contact with the Resistance. He has powerful allies within the Atlantian Council.”

Vorigan rested his chin on a gauntleted fist. Though the Atlantian pest was not an immediate threat to his plan, he could not sit back either, not if he wanted to unite the continent under his scepter. He would need the entirety of Granterra behind him if they were to succeed. These matters had to be dealt with care.

“Very well.” He lifted his head. “Stonearm and Iowen shall lead the forces at South Warren and root the Resistance from Aria. As for the Atlantian, it is unlikely any of your soldiers are competent enough to find him. I will have one of my own take care of that menace.”

He would not spare any more troops, not for this foolish infighting. There were more important things to be done.

A loud thump reverberated through the chamber, and the heavy doors opened with a faint creak.

The councilors frowned at the guard standing on the threshold.

“What is it?” Vorigan scowled.

“A messenger from Valenta pleads an audience, your grace. He claims the matter to be dire.”

“Send him in.”

The guard bowed and retreated.

A masked messenger, garbed in a dark cloak, walked past the guard. He retrieved a scroll from his sleeve and bent his knee before the throne.

“A missive to the Emperor of Aria.”

Eydis Drabek of the Imperial Guard stepped forward and took the scroll from him. She examined it, running a hand over the rolled paper. Satisfied, she offered it to the Emperor.

Vorigan broke the seal and unrolled the scroll.

A sketch of a red haired woman covered half the parchment, followed by a few sentences in Sintican script. His eyes narrowed into slits as he deciphered the message, the tendons in his neck tightening with each line.

A snarl emanated from his lungs as he rose, pupils aflare. The scroll slipped from his gauntlet and rolled across the dais. He recognized that hair all too well, but it was inconceivable. He had wiped out all of them for his treachery.

Vorigan’s old wounds flared under his armor. If Ilirion had not betrayed them, they would have been able to rid the Vyohreisian once and for all. Ten thousand years later, she still cast her shadow of terror on Granterra, all because Ilirion had failed to acknowledge the noble cause and had sided with the enemy.

The councilors shifted uneasily in their seats, alarmed by his reaction.

He took a deep breath and forced himself back into the throne. “Eydis.”

The member of the Imperial Guard sauntered toward the messenger and circled him, her hand tracing his shoulder. Her wide lips parted in a provocative smile. “Tell me, my love. Who was it that sent you?” she asked in dulcet tones, her voice sweet and sharp like roses and thorns.

He stared at the floor, refusing to meet her eyes. “N…No! I cannot…”

Eydis placed her palms on either side of his head. She leaned in, as if to kiss him. “Revien déseviet tuo,” she whispered, her breath caressing his lips.

Eydis gazed into his eyes, as if glimpsing through his thoughts and secrets. His eyes rolled into his skull, and his expression turned blank as a stone wall.

The High Council turned still, eyes fixed on the unusual spectacle unfolding before them. Vorigan sensed their fear, and it amused him. No matter how hardened many of them were, mystery of the unknown wrought terror in their hearts.

Eydis released her grip, and the masked messenger collapsed to the ground. “Take him to the dungeons,” she said. “I shall attend to him later.”

The guard rushed to follow her orders.

She turned her gaze to the Emperor and inclined her head. “I was unable to find the source, your grace. His memory was erased, but for a strange message.”

Vorigan raised his eyebrows.

“Adân yadakar Ilirwyn,” Eydis said.

Julian’s eyes widened. “Ancient Eitheonian.”

The elf maiden, Irwen, rose from her seat, drawn to the scroll lying near the dais. She picked the scroll and ran her delicate fingers across the feeble letters. “A forewarning.”

Vorigan’s brow furrowed.

“Ingien.” Eydis pointed at the elf.

Irwen jumped back in alarm as the scroll burst into flames. She threw a venomous glare at the sorceress and returned to her seat, lips pressed into a thin line.

The less they knew, the better. He had to take care of it personally. Ilirion’s descendants were the only ones who knew where she was hidden. She, the one who had taken it all from him, the one who had brought ruin to Aria. The very thought of her made his blood boil with rage.

I will make certain you rot to nothingness, Vyohreisian.

Vorigan cleared his thoughts and faced the High Council. “Prepare your troops to move against Valenta and Maera. I have squandered enough time on diplomacy. Leave the Resistance to the Imperial Guard.”

Granterra had to become one.

“As you command, your grace,” Julian said, and the others bowed in agreement, knowing enough to keep their curiosity in check.

The Emperor gestured at Lucien.

The Captain of the Imperial Guard stepped forward to address the High Council. “The Council meet stands adjourned,” he announced. “You may return to your respective quarters.”

The warlords and envoys rose from their seats and strode out of the chamber, relief evident on their faces.

“Summon the rest of the Imperial Guard,” Vorigan ordered. The matter with the Resistance could wait. He had to find the descendant quickly and quietly before they did, or there would be consequences—consequences he was not ready to face.

Lucien inclined his head. “As you wish, my lord.”