Inside the Holy Cathedral of Elarion, Saintess Elara sat in the Hall of Prayer. Her hands were trembling. For weeks, she had felt a cold wind blowing from the North—a wind that smelled of the Necropolis.
"He's alive," she whispered, her emerald eyes filled with a mixture of terror and guilt.
Aris, the "Chosen Hero," walked in, his golden cape fluttering. "Nonsense, Elara. The boy is dead. What you feel is just the remnants of the sacrifice. The Gods are pleased with our progress."
"No, Aris," Elara looked at her reflection in a pool of holy water. The water was turning black. "He isn't just alive. He's coming to take back everything we stole."
Suddenly, the cathedral bells began to toll—not for prayer, but for war. A messenger burst in, his face pale. "The Fortress of Iron has fallen! General Valerius... he's leading an army of shadows toward the city!"
Aris's face contorted in rage. "Impossible! I killed him myself!"