(Approximately Eight Months Before Present Day)

  The air was thin, sharp and biting against the skin. It was the first day of winter, and the breath of Captain Sebastian Claremont’s men hung in the morning mist like a smoldering coal. At forty years of age, Sebastian felt the damp cold in his joints as he led his Peacekeepers on a routine escort. They trailed the dwarven ambassador and a merchant caravan, the iron-rimmed wheels of the wagons groaning and rattling as they neared the base of the Attikì Mountains. Above them, the range loomed: a jagged spine of stone pockmarked by the dark mouths of mining tunnels and the distant, flickering hearth-fires of the cliffside villages.

  Since his days as a recruit, Sebastian had never hungered for greatness. He lived by the rhythm of the order: never more, never less. He had climbed the ranks with a slow, steady indifference, eventually settling into the captaincy of the West Port Peacekeepers. It was a cushy post, more of a quiet retirement than a command. Most years, the only "action" was the fishy-breeze off the River Quoe and the steady pulse of trade. He preferred the informal title of "Capt.” The full weight of "Captain Claremont" felt like a dress uniform that was a size too small.

  Twice a year, the air in West Port grew thick with the smell of exotic spices and the clatter of dwarven coin. The ambassador would arrive to oversee negotiations, bringing a caravan heavy with mountain-wares. This year had been no different. After a fortnight of gold-heavy pockets and the smell of roasting meats in the city squares, the dwarves had turned back toward their mountain home.

  West Port sat three days by caravan from the dwarven realm, or a grueling day’s march on foot. It was perched on the River Quoe, where the mighty river turned its head into the vastness of the land. It was a place of constant movement, a hub of human merchants and stout dwarves, where the air always tasted of river silt and wet timber.

  By the time Sebastian and his men began the return trip, they had been away nearly a week. They had spent their final night at the dwarven keep assisting with the unloading, and indulging in the hospitality: pints and pints of dwarven ale. The march back was sluggish. The sun was hot on their backs, and the yeasty, heavy scent of the ale seemed to sweat out of the men’s pores. Seeing his squad wavering and pale, Sebastian called for an early camp to let them sleep off the dregs of the drink.

  The sun was a low, bruised orange on the horizon when the first of his men collapsed onto their bedrolls. Sebastian set two guards, ones whose eyes weren't yet glazed, and retreated to his tent. The world tilted slightly as he sat down. He waited for the dizziness to subside, the rhythmic chirping of crickets outside eventually lulling him into a heavy, leaden sleep.

  He was jolted awake by a hand on his shoulder.

  “Capt. A dwarf child has entered the camp. Claims to be lost,” the guard whispered.

  “At this hour?” Sebastian’s tongue felt like parchment. “What? How? Damn it!”

  He stumbled out of the tent, the cold night air slapping his face. He rubbed his eyes, squinting against the low embers of the campfire. “What’s the meaning of this?” he shouted.

  A small figure stood in the long, dancing shadow of his tent. The child stepped forward, his face not touched by the firelight. “I was playing with my dogs. We got separated from the caravan days ago.” His voice was thin and trembling. “I know the way home, but my dogs ran off. I’ve been searching for them since.” He looked up, his eyes reflecting the orange flames. “I saw your fire. Please... I can still hear them.”

  Sebastian stood still, holding his breath. Through the rustle of the leaves came a distant, hollow barking that echoed off the rocks.

  “Very well,” Sebastian sighed. “Round up a few of the men who aren't still swaying. Prepare to leave.”

  Minutes later, Sebastian and four men pushed into the brush. The woods were a maze of grasping branches. Their torches cast frantic, orange light against the trunks as they spread into a line. They followed the boy, the sound of the dogs always staying just out of reach, a phantom noise that refused to get closer.

  Hours bled into the night. One by one, the torches sputtered, the smell of burning pitch fading.

  “Turn it in, boys!” the captain yelled, his voice tight with unease. “We’re heading back to camp.” He looked at the child with a heavy heart. “Sorry, kid. Our torches are about out. We’ll pick up the search in the morning.”

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  The final torch flickered, its light gasping. In that dying glow, Sebastian saw a smile stretch across the child’s face, a smile that was too wide, filled with the glint of sharp, predatory fangs. The boy’s silhouette began to stretch and snap, bone grinding against bone.

  Then, the light vanished.

  Total darkness swallowed the clearing. The air suddenly filled with the wet snarling of beasts. A scream of pure agony tore through the silence, followed by another.

  “Capt!” a man shouted, the cry ending in a sickening, wet thud.

  From the void where the child had stood, a voice emerged—a discordant harmony, like many voices speaking as one. “I found my dogsss. They don’t like the light.” It was a hush, an eerie vibration in the air. “Our massster wishesss to ssspeak with you. You mussst come with usss. If you do not, the ressst of your men will die. Tonight.”

  Sebastian followed the shadows. They were formless, flickering in and out of existence like smoke whenever the half-moon caught them. He marched for hours, the forest floor a tangle of roots that tripped his tired feet. Finally, they reached a clearing dominated by a massive, jagged rock.

  “Go. Ssstand by the rock,” a formless hand gestured. “My master awaits.”

  Sebastian approached the monolith. The moonlight seemed to focus, illuminating the stone until it glowed like bone. He waited only a second before the air shattered. A clap of thunder, deafening and sudden, vibrated in his chest. He buckled to his knees, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  “My name is Jemot.” The voice was everywhere, vibrating through the earth. “I was once a grand master wizard... banished and outcast by my peers for researching things they deemed sinful.”

  A silver mist began to coil in the moonlight, thickening into the shape of a man. Sebastian recoiled, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the mist-man loomed.

  “You will do my bidding, or I will send my Luna Stala to your camp to slay your men as they sleep.”

  A ghostly, freezing finger touched Sebastian’s forehead.

  A blinding flash of white light seared his vision. When his eyes cleared, he was standing on a beach. The air was thick with the scent of salt and ancient decay. To his left, the ruins of a city rose like broken teeth against the sky. A dragon, massive and terrifying, descended, the downdraft of its wings whipping sand into Sebastian's face.

  He fell to his knees, begging for a mercy the beast didn't care to give. A man with a long, snowy beard climbed down from the dragon’s back, walking through Sebastian as if he were a ghost. Sebastian scrambled to his feet and followed. Tethered to the dragon was a cage. Inside, a man sat bound in leather, a gag pulled tight across his face.

  "You have authored your own ruin, Brother," the bearded man, Arryn, said. With a sharp gesture, the cage groaned open. The leather bindings fell away. The gag levitated, hovering like a dead leaf.

  "Arryn, Brother. Stay your hand. I implore you," the prisoner pleaded.

  "Jemot, your deeds have hollowed the world," Arryn replied, his voice colder than the icy sea. "You will live out your days here on the Isle of Time in solitude."

  "Brother, I beg of you!"

  The scene dissolved into ink.

  "They thought my banishment a curse," the voice hissed. "I found a way to make it their undoing."

  Visions fired like lightning. Sebastian saw a dusty, crumbling library, he smelled the rot of old scrolls and felt the weight of centuries. A shimmering figure stood over Jemot, teaching him forbidden things. Flash after flash, scene after scene, Jemot grew younger, his eyes burning with a terrifying, renewed power.

  Then came the ocean. Sebastian stood atop a mountain of water, a massive, roaring wave. Beside him, a youthful Jemot was laughing, a sound of pure, malicious joy. Below them, a city waited. The vision ended as the wave crashed, the roar of the water drowning out the screams.

  Sebastian was back in the clearing, shivering before the mist.

  “The time has come. I will take my place as ruler of this world,” Jemot said. "and take back that which was stolen from me."

  “I will do as you ask, Master Jemot,” Sebastian whispered, his voice shaking, his body shivering.

  “Stand.” The mist-man loomed. “The Luna Stala are yours to command. They are creatures of the night, useless in the light, but they can take any form you wish. Prepare the way for my return. Failure will result in your instantaneous death.”

  Another thunderclap shook the trees. The mist-man collapsed into the shape of a giant hand, its fingers carving into the rock with a screeching sound of stone on stone. Sebastian watched as the hand etched a contract into the monolith.

  “Place your hand on the stone.”

  Sebastian stepped forward, his heart a frantic drum, and pressed his palm against the cold rock.

  A flash of light blinded him. A massive surge of energy, hot and violent, coursed through his arm. He was flung backward, hitting the dirt hard. He looked at his hand; it was a red ruin. The skin of his palm was gone. On the rock, his own palm remained, smoking and dripping blood.

  "I have bound your life to the Luna Stala," Jemot’s voice faded. "Now go. I will summon you when I have need."

  Everything went black.

  Sebastian bolted upright the next morning. His mind was a fog of ale and nightmare. He looked around his tent and froze. Four of his men sat in the corners, silent and unmoving.

  “What are you doing in here?” he barked, trying to mask his fear. “Prepare to march! Go!”

  He reached for his armor, but a jagged bolt of pain shot through his hand. He hissed, pulling back. His palm was crusted with dark, dried blood. He looked at one of the men in the corner. The man smiled, a slow, predatory grin that revealed fangs.

  It wasn't a dream.