Prologue
Iron swords were murderously clashing as the young black-haired man and his companion tried making their way out of the castle and the city. It was a dark, starless night and the bleakness of the nearing winter send shivers down the spines of the fighting men. It had been raining over the course of the day, so the ground of the road was dirty and muddy.
The young man slipped and fell to the ground and he would be dead by now hadn't been Tornac – the one person he valued most – saving him. The gifted swordsman drilled his sword deep down into the back of the offender and, as a result, covered his protégé in dark blood and soil.
Then they heard further men nearing to take them captive and began anew to fiercely try and save their own lives.
Iron swords were clashing.
If it were for Fate, each of these men's lives would be spared. But this world is callous, so the young man and his teacher were victorious for their own sake. Not wanting to wait another precious moment, they proceeded their way into freedom.
Murtagh ran and ran and for all his life was worth – suddenly – he came to halt. Behind him, Tornac stood still, his arms wide as if he was soliciting one of the many gods for peace.
His face that was full of black dirt was smiling. Smiling that cruel grin of Fate.
Now, Murtagh noticed the soldier behind his friend. He thought he was noticing the slow motion of a dagger being pulled out of his friend's body, standing upright. He thought he noticed another sword being drawn. And then he thought he heard a haunting whisper.
"Run."