Author's Preface
Snow still clung to the ridges when Alexios and his men began their descent from the mountains of Rafia.
For days, the storm had hunted them along the peaks, burying tents, freezing rations, and testing every man’s will.
Now, the blizzard had passed, leaving behind a silence so deep it felt almost sacred.
They moved carefully down the icy path, boots crunching through the crusted snow.
Behind them, the mountains glowed blue and silver in the morning light.
Their breaths formed white clouds, each step carrying the relief of survival.
Some whispered that the witches had guided them through the storm.
Others claimed the Queen of Darkness herself had spared them because of Alexios.
He said nothing.
His eyes stayed fixed on the trail ahead, his thoughts haunted by Ishtar’s voice the voice that had promised him power and given him a task that could change the world.
By the third day, the wind softened. The snow thinned, and the smell of pine replaced the sting of ice.
At last, they reached the foothills, where the trees stood black against a pale sky.
Men laughed for the first time in weeks. One knelt and kissed the ground.
They camped beside a frozen stream. Firelight shimmered across their worn faces.
Alexios sat apart, sharpening his blade as its edge caught the red glow.
Marcos watched him from across the flames, uneasy at his captain’s silence.
“You haven’t spoken since the storm broke,” Marcos said as he approached.
Alexios’s gaze stayed on the sword.
“I’ve been listening.”
“To what?”
“The silence,” Alexios murmured. “It speaks louder than the gods ever have.”
Marcos nodded, unsure what to say.
He had followed Alexios since they were boys through raids, storms, and wars.
He knew this quiet meant something was coming.
The next morning dawned bright and cold.
As they reached the last ridge, sunlight poured over them.
Below stretched the green plains of Lyria and, far beyond, the faint shimmer of the western sea.
Alexios stopped on a rocky ledge.
His cloak whipped in the wind, and for a moment, he looked carved from stone, a man born of mountain and flame.
His men gathered below, waiting.
“Men!” he called, his voice carrying through the crisp air.
“You have walked beside me through storm and hunger. Once again, the men of Lyria have proven their worth. Nothing is impossible for us. We are pirates, hunters of fate, and nothing will stop us.”
A roar of cheers erupted.
“Alexios! Alexios!”
He lifted his hand, and silence fell.
“Today marks the day that the pirates of Lyria and the witches of Rafia stand united,” he declared.
“Together, we will take back what Farmonia stole from us ages ago.
“Today, the history of Somaria changes.”
The men shouted again, pounding their weapons against their shields.
But Alexios’s gaze turned distant.
“There is something I must do alone,” he said.
“Rakash has given me a mission that only I can complete.
“You will return to Rafia. Spread the word: the age of the witches of the West begins now.”
The crowd murmured uneasily.
“Where are you going, Alexios?” one called out.
“And who will lead us while you’re gone?”
Alexios smiled faintly.
“Do not worry.
“Marcos will lead in my absence. He is my brother-in-arms, my most loyal friend. Obey him as you would obey me.”
Another voice rose.
“How long will you be gone?”
Alexios looked toward the sky, the sun flashing in his eyes.
“I do not know,” he said.
“But I promise you this
: when I return, every man here will be worth his weight in gold.”
He reached into his cloak and drew out a small pouch.
Inside were crystals white as frost, glowing faintly with shifting colors.
He held them up, and their light danced across the snow.
“These were forged by the witches,” he said.
“Each carries a fragment of my essence.
“Keep them close.
“When a crystal turns red, you will know I am coming back to reclaim what Farmonia stole from my great-grandfather, Portos.”
The men fell silent, awed by the faint magic pulsing within the stones. One by one, they stepped forward to take the crystals, their faces lit by wonder and loyalty.
Alexios looked over his soldiers, his brothers.
“Go now,” he said.
“Carry our banner home. The world will remember Lyria once more.”
Boots crunched through the snow as the men turned and began their march back toward Rafia.
Only Marcos lingered.
He looked up at Alexios, uneasy.
“You’re truly going back into the mountains?”
Alexios nodded.
“There’s something still waiting for me there.”
“Then let me go with you,” Marcos urged.
“No,” Alexios said gently.
“This path is mine alone. Speak no more of it. This isn’t goodbye; it’s a beginning.”
Marcos clasped his arm, his eyes bright with worry.
“Good luck, brother. May Portos guard your steps.”
Alexios watched as Marcos turned and followed the others until there was nothing left of them but drifting snow and the faint red flicker of the crystals.
His voice carried through the wind.
“Come back safely, my friend,” Marcos whispered. “May Portos guide you home.”
Far away, in Toleem, Ser Richard’s estate echoed with quiet wonder.
King Bencort and Queen Aromophies stood beside the cradle, gazing down at the child.
Marvin was only a month old, yet his eyes held an impossible calm, the gaze of someone who seemed to see beyond the room, beyond even the world.
“By the gods, Richard,” the King said. “He truly is the chosen one.”
Richard smiled, his voice low with awe.
“Yes, my lord.”
As they spoke, a guard burst into the chamber, breathless.
“My lord! An urgent message!”
“What is it?” the King demanded.
“The Duke of Reveen,” the guard gasped. “He rides with a great army toward the royal capital. They march under his banner and will arrive within three weeks.”
Bencort’s eyes widened.
“The Duke of Reveen?”
Richard turned, stunned.
“But, my sire, I thought the Duke was dead. He fell years ago in one of the battles against Lyria’s invaders.”
The King stepped away from the cradle, his face hardening.
“If he rides again, then death itself has changed sides.”
He turned to Richard.
“Gather your family. We are riding to the capital tonight. If Farmonia is to survive, all Santorian bloodlines must stand together.”
Richard bowed.
“As you command, my liege.”