Fading stars.
In the last dregs of darkness as the dawn approached, a shower of
emerald lights streaked across the heavens. The stars had been falling more
often lately. Luckily, this skyfall would land far to the west. The stars
brought both power and destruction—skystone and dragons.
A nomad's dragonhide hut stood concealed among the thick
undergrowth. Only someone who knew where to look could find it.
Or someone who knew how to look.
The dying light of the moon reflected against the network of pale scars
running up the woman's arms and across her face. It shone on the blades of
her two long seaxes.
She paused, closing her eyes as she breathed in the scents of pine and raw
earth. Glowing golden marks traced out underneath her angular eyes,
flowing from the bridge of her nose over her high cheekbones.
Her eyes opened, her irises shifting from their usual black to the icy
white of a polar wolf.
She was a Wildshaper.
Her enhanced eyes narrowed, honing in on the hut ahead.
Crack.
She spun around, her lupine eyes making her glare all the more
intimidating.
"Sorry," her companion whispered, bringing a finger to his lips. His
artfully-crafted goatee and spiffy nobleman's tunic made him look
especially absurd out here in the woods. He too had a scar, though not from
battle—the silvermark on his left cheek branded him as a Psion. He made a
big show of taking stealthy steps to follow the woman.
She rolled her eyes.
Bringing up the rear was a mountainous canine of red and black fur. The
bloodhusky held his ears erect, on high alert.
They reached the hut, a lavvu-style tent made from thick dragonhide.
Painted in red above the door flaps was an icon of a beacon of light—the
symbol of the Knights of the Torch.
The woman and man exchanged looks. Reverent. A little afraid.
The bloodhusky gave a low growl as it took a watchful post. The man
and woman entered the hut.
A wispy layer of smoke hung above their heads, and the smell of
woodchips filled the air. A bed of orange coals crackled at their feet.
Wings.
A black bird with silvery runemarks all over its feathers flew between
them from behind, startling both the woman and the man. Starry violet light
gleamed in the creature's eyes.
A crown adorned the man's head. Solrac recognized him.
"King Rodan of Drakfell," he murmured.
In King Rodan's hands shone an elongated orb with a pearlescent hue.
Tiny crystalline scales covered its surface, and white light shone from
within as it pulsed with life.
"That isn't..." Valla started.
"The egg of a true dragon," the Farseer confirmed. "One of the last.
Stolen from the Dragon Isles."
"The King of Drakfell stole from the Drekai?" Valla shot a worried
glance at Solrac.
"Perhaps to sway High King Magnus to send aid against the increasing
skyfalls," Solrac said. "Though he may just be trading one type of war for
another."
The Farseer swirled his staff. The mythraven cawed as it transferred to
the Farseer's shoulder, and the vision in the flames shifted.
"Next, the present," the Farseer said.
Solrac and Valla peered into the fire. Flashes of men and women with
horns and bright scales along their hairlines and cheekbones. Scales in all
colors grew along the backs of their hands, shoulders, and tails. Many had
wings.
They were the Drekai—the part-dragon people who lived on the Isles
west of Drakfell. And judging by the fine battleworn bronze armor they
donned, they were preparing for war.
"Now finally," the Farseer whirled his staff in a circular motion once
more. "The future. Shadows of what may yet come. Take care, and
remember that omens of the future are uncertain—filled with symbolism."
The vision in the fire changed again. A beautiful woman with harsh,
midnight blue eyes and steely gray hair stood alone. A warrior in black, the
emblem of a swan etched in silver on the blackened pauldron over her
shoulder.
It was her.
Valla's gaze flashed to Solrac to gauge his reaction, but his face remained
a blank mask.
In the flames, a gray mist swirled around the woman's feet, startling her.
It crept along her black cloak, and Solrac and Valla watched with interest as
the woman hurried to remove it. Wondering what the strange omen meant,
Solrac frowned as the grayness leaped onto her pauldron.
The omen became even more confusing when the swan icon on her
armor peeled free, taking flight. The black swan spread its wings, then burst
in an explosion of hundreds of feathers to leave behind a single red rose.
One by one, each petal turned black, the image of the woman melting
into the omenfire. Solrac took a step closer to the flame, and Valla took him
by the arm to keep him from getting singed.
The vision shifted again.
A mighty, oversized frost drake lay dead against a backdrop of the starry
night sky. Standing proudly before the creature was a young man in
gleaming armor, a greataxe dripping with copper-colored dragon's blood
clutched in his hand. It was none other than Mason Drakeslayer, the son of
the High King over all the realm.
Vivid blue lightning crackled, flashing across the High Prince's regal
frame. The omenfire burned higher, consuming the High Prince's face for a
split second. When the flames pulled back, his young chiseled features had
shifted into those of his proud, bearded father, High King Magnus. The nine
skystones in his dragonforged steel crown glittered with eerie blue light.
But the omens weren't finished. Unsure what any of it meant, Solrac and
Valla watched as the depiction of the High King disappeared, leaving
behind only the starry heavens. Solrac stroked his goatee—that looked like
the constellation of the Great Dragon.
Suddenly, each star in the constellation began to fall, becoming greentailed comets as they shot downward toward an enormous map of Evgard.
As the comets landed on the map, they morphed into sharp, jagged starglass
daggers.
Without warning, more gray mists rapidly ate away at the edges of the
map until they consumed it. The grayness swirled together into a massive,
writhing gray dragon, who turned its head, electric blue eyes staring straight
at Solrac.
Then, all at once, the flames died.
The image of those eyes lingered with Valla and Solrac, almost as if
some unseen entity was watching them even now.
The hut was silent but for Solrac and Valla's breathing.
The quiet was interrupted as a howl from the bloodhusky outside pierced
the air. The Farseer's strange, glowing eyes turned toward the door to the
hut.
"Mage Hunters," the Farseer warned. "Too many to face. You must hurry.
Get to the nearest safehouse. See if you can convince the rest of the Knights
of the Torch to aid you."
Then he reached into one of the folds of his robes, pulling out a small
hoop carved from bone. The circle was tied with gold threads running
across it to form a star
A dreamweb.
Tied in the center of the web was a chunk of white crystal. Not a
skystone, but an ether-filled quartz. A series of tiny, carved runes decorated
the crystal's surface.
The Farseer passed the dreamweb to Solrac. "Use this to consult me
further in times of need. Now flee, before it is too late."
With that, the Farseer pounded his staff on the ground. Smoke billowed
all around him, and in a flash of golden light, the Farseer disappeared.
Solrac gave a low chuckle. "The Farseer never misses a chance for a
dramatic exit, eh?"
Valla's face was serious. "Where's the nearest safehouse?"
"Steel Rim. We'll meet with the Knights in the area there, regroup, then
move on to King Rodan in Keep Drakfell."
"Keep Drakfell." Valla narrowed her eyes. "Do you mean what I think
you mean?"
"Oh, yes." Solrac's eyes lit up with determination. "We have a true
dragon egg to steal."