Around the edges of Kaairoes city, where the sea met the land.
The morning mist clung to the meadow like the breath of dying gods, swirling around the ankles of those who waited in the shadow of the approaching femme fatale.
Aragon stood at the edge of the gathering, his young face marked by lines too deep for his age, carved there by the weight of responsibility he had never wanted and a war that seemed to stretch on forever.
He hadn't expected the scale of the battle he was going to rage against the Arakenys.
The old sage had returned with the information on the Arakenys and their kingdom.
At that moment, Aragon realized that he alone couldn't win this war.
He wasn't afraid to go against them; even if he died, he would definitely die taking thousands of their numbers with him.
But he couldn't, or shouldn't. He had made a promise to his grandmother, and he needs to be alive to keep it.
