Prologue

Death.

It's a funny thing really. We all avoid it, but in the end it always catches up with us. It can sneak up and take a person's life in an instant, but it can also slowly drain someone's lifeforce away until they pass.

When I find myself on the ground and staring down the blade that's pressed up against my neck, wielded by the Stag Lord himself, I deduce that that my death might be in between those two extremes.

I look to the side and see Holli on the ground not too far away, the gnome's pink hair contrasting sharply against the dull underbrush. There's a lengthy gash on her side, and she isn't moving.

Ella is weakly sitting up against a tree, breathing heavily and coughing up blood. She's pocketed with arrows, and the motherly elf's eyes are filled with pain and sorrow. I see her attempt to move, but she hisses with pain and becomes still again.

And then there's Drevan. My eyes tear up when I see him, sprawled face down in the mud. His black leather armor is pierced by arrow shafts and multiple sharp weapons, and like Holli, he isn't moving either.

Before I can dwell too much longer on my friends, the point of the sword digs a bit into my neck. From under his ghoulish helm, the Stag Lord laughs, a low gutteral sound. At my misfortune, at my pain.

How did it all come to this?

...

Where did we make a mistake?

...

How did it all go so wrong?