Two years had passed since the fall of the Byzeth king.
The moon hung low in the dark sky, spilling silver light across the roads of the Byzeth Kingdom.
The land, once restless with fire and rebellion, now lay under a heavy stillness. But beneath that stillness, secrets stirred, carried on the cold night air like whispers too dangerous to be spoken aloud.
A man in a worn, dark cloak rode swiftly along the northern road, his horse's hooves pounding the frozen earth in an unrelenting rhythm.
His silhouette looked carved from shadow, an outline that seemed to flicker and dissolve with each turn of the road.
The wind carried with it the faint smell of tilled northern fields, their soil dark and rich, but he gave no thought to the scenery. His eyes, hidden by his hood, were fixed forward.
His purpose was singular.
