Prologue
In the aftermath of war, the countryside was quiet. It wasn’t total silence, but the murmurings of families sifting through burnt houses and fields for what remained of their lives left a hollow emptiness in the wake of the shouts of battle and the screech of sword against shield.
Eshen had been a small country from the start, occupying a stretch of land some two hundred miles across, north of the Vitari sea. It was a beautiful place, with rolling green hills that eased up into low, rounded mountains which were dusted with snow only in the coldest winter months. Isra could still remember balmy summer nights spent in his family’s country home on the coastline, watching the lantern lights of the nightfishing ships drift and bob like stars fallen from the sky, the earthy sweet scent of nearby vineyards carried on the wind.
His mother always wore her silk nightdresses out on the balcony. He would sit in her lap while she lounged on the chaise, dark hair bundled into a loose braid, one hand cradling a glass of wine and the other thumbing through a book she read to him with her soft, melodic voice. When he closed his eyes to reminisce, he could still feel the slow rise and fall of her breathing as he lay against her. The memories were so vivid, warm and syrupy like honey and hibiscus tea.
They were far away from where he stood now, surveying his country’s ravaged lands from the edge of a war camp already being dismantled. The vineyards had been turned to ash, streaking as black scars across the hills. The air smelled of smoke instead of grapes and sea salt, and the breeze carried a slight chill to it- the first sign of the turning of the season. They’d have begun harvest in the next few weeks, if it hadn’t been for the war.
The sound of footsteps broke Isra from his reverie. He turned to see his father approaching, still clad in once-shining armor, now streaked with dirt and blood. He was a tall, broad man, with a dark beard shot through with grey. Over his shoulder, the banner of the Crown hung nearly unrecognizable, torn and soaked through. He looked as exhausted as Isra felt.
King Rauga didn’t say anything at first, and Isra got the sense that he didn’t know what to say, or that he didn’t want to say what he knew he had to, so Isra spoke instead.
“It’s over, then.” Isra said. It wasn’t a question. His voice was carefully clear of emotion. “You’ve called the surrender.”
The king simply nodded. His hand flexed on the hilt of the broadsword at his hip, and Isra saw the strain in his eyes that denoted anger. Frustration. Futility.
“What will we do now?” Isra pressed him, casting his gaze out over the countryside again.
“Whatever we have to,” King Rauga replied. “For the people. For our family. I will speak with the barbarians’ leader and see what his terms of armistice are.” The king’s concern went unspoken. It would not do for him to look weak, but he knew the winter would be a hard one. They were never harsh, but much of their crop had been burned, and their fields salted. Many of Eshen’s citizens would go hungry. Some might not survive.
As King Rauga spoke those words, Isra saw the first flare of red rise over the horizon- the blood-bright banner of the Ushaxi barbarians. This one displayed a black wolf against the red background, trimmed with gold and crowned with three golden stars- the crest of the Ushaxi leader. They called him the Pack-King, Faolan. Isra had never seen him in battle, but he had heard the stories- a vicious beast who tore men to shreds with sword and axe. Some stories even recounted the Pack-King fighting with his bare hands, spattered in blood, golden eyes wild.
The Pack-King was approaching, and the Esheni people could do nothing but wait.