Chapter 2
The Fallen Warmaster
Marnog Jar, the city of the Mist Elves, lay wrapped in dense veils of mist. Prince Sylvian took Kyrintha's face in his hands. He kissed her briefly—more out of duty than tenderness—before releasing her to mount his spider, turning from her anxious gaze without looking back.
With practiced movements, he checked his weapons and tightened the saddlebag straps, each gesture controlled yet visibly strained.
Kyrintha moved closer. “Be careful. Especially at the border wall to Wetherid. If the Raging Hordes discover you, they will take you captive—if they do not kill you outright.” She laid her hand upon his arm. “Please… spare me that pain.”
“I will be watchful. Your concern is the Dark Forest. When I return, your plan should already be underway,” he replied. He laid his hand over hers in a brief sign of resolve, then urged his spider forward.
The soft drumming of the spider's legs upon the damp wooden walkways soon faded into the hush of the swamp as he left Marnog Jar behind. The moor swallowed him beneath its wet shroud. The croaking of toads and the guttural calls of marsh birds broke the stillness, echoing dully across the black water. Veils of mist drifted between the trees, creeping over tangled roots and knotted branches. Every fiber of the moor was saturated, and a sharp, rotting stench hung thick in the air.