The night erupted in starlight. Too close. The felsteeds neighed, bucked, and nearly rocked the group out of their saddles as their tight formation was sundered by the explosions. Though the flying steeds were black against the drop of the starless sky behind them, the Empire’s Bright Wizards far below were panicked and firing their artillery blindly into the air. Eventually they were going to hit something.
Another magical explosion ripped the sky apart near them, sending white lights cascading like a shower of blistering hail around them. Their black forms thus silhouetted against the speckled sky, crossbowmen far below took aim.
And yet the Dread Master of Liches heeded none of this. His mount only followed Rollo’s up ahead in the sky. To the Dread Master, there was only one sensation…
Rhythmic, tantalizing, immeasurably powerful. Somehow he knew that this echo was only the end of a great entity’s expansive reach, that far beyond the horizon there worked great powers against them all. This power dwarfed their own.
The question of ‘What’ was useless to him. They’d find out soon enough and were impotent to stop it. The question of ‘How’ was foremost on his mind. Mannfred knew…surely? Yet despite all his prior studies, their constant errands and crises had allowed the Count to gain yet another step on the Dread Master’s expertise.
None of the others sensed it. They pressed through the flights of quarrels, their mounts pierced and writhing against the burning infusions of bright magic in the tips, ever onward toward the source of the sky’s rebellion against the night. When the device came into view, it was suddenly clear how desperate their gamble was.
Chaos pressed on them. The Empire pressed on them. Their own agents conspired against them. Power was a dangerous game in this Age when the world itself hung in the balance.
Could a Knight destroy a King? Could a Pawn?
They’d find out soon enough. But first, they had to reclaim the night as their own.