The winter is white and timeless outside the keep of Kangs. The cold as ageless as the turning of the seasons. It is the broken edged visage of endless swirling snow that reminds Yul of the legends he had read, the accounts written in the dead language of the mountain people – the records of the endless war by the right hand of the war maker and God tamer; Lain, the second commander Rune.
The dead language was the only lock keeping his secrets, once Yul had cracked it through, it had taken him barely a three nights long stretch of attempt, the first hand recounting of Lain's descend to cruel madness was all his to analyze.
