Prologue
A figure stood in a field of mists, forlorn, alone, a flickering shape of darkness amid an eternity of grey. Its very figure seemed shadowed, wavering and indistinct, contradicting and mysterious. It's form was in constant sputter and shift, as though time itself had cracked, and no longer knew how to present this spirit's image to the world. It looked up, piercing blue eyes gazing straight ahead, then spoke.
"I know I'm not supposed to do this," it said, its male voice a livid contradiction of young and old, sorrow and peace, "I know I'm not supposed to even see you, reader, and you are not supposed to see me. I am the narrator of this story that you are about to hear, and I ask that you hold no judgment on the tale, not until it is finished. Hear my words now, and see them in your mind. This tale begins with a young boy, who had saved a kingdom . . ."