Six months and thirteen days. That is how long you have been here. That is how long you have lived in fear, keeping your head down and doing what you are told. You do not smile. You do not speak. You trust no one.

Six months and eighteen days. That's when you lost the battle, when you and all of your comrades were either captured or killed. You were one of the unlucky few who were allowed to live. So you were taken here, to their capital in the mountain.

The Empire is fighting a losing battle. Back when you were in the middle of the war, your ears were filled with lies, promises of victory and promises of honor. They lied. All of the things that you were told were lies. But now you see the truth, and the truth is that they Goyl were going to win all along. Even without their fairy, they were going to win.

The fairy. You've only seen her once and from a distance. Surrounded by guards and walking with her king, your new king. She is beautiful, but the chill of dark magic clings to her pale skin like the dust of the moths that nest in her shimmering hair.

It is her magic that has reaped so many men, turning their hearts and skin to stone. They are vicious warriors, more aggressive towards humans than one would expect. Almost as ruthless as their jasper leader.

So now here you are, the mark of your enemy branded onto your forehead. Washing their dishes and cleaning their stone floors. You never thought that it would come to this. It is a fate worse than death.

Cygnus Pevril, slave to the Goyl.