Dark clouds gathered over Crescent Isle. Six silhouettes hovered at the edge of that storm: Blackie, Micah, Regis, Starfall, Dragon Child, and Uncle Jed. They hung there like a single, tense breath waiting to be released.
Ahead of them, on a small rise of rock, stood a man in flowing ancient robes. He carried the kind of calm that does not belong to people who expect trouble. This was Lord Alaric, the so-called master of Ascension Isle.
He stared at the six of them with a look that mixed surprise and something colder. Who are you people, his eyes seemed to ask.
Blackie answered for the group without a word. He shed whatever pretense he had left and took on his true shape; the dark cloud beneath his feet swelled and solidified as if called into being by his will alone.
"Listen here, punk," Blackie snarled. "I am the one who should be asking why you attacked me." The thunder in his voice was more than metaphor. It was a promise.
