Rhys sat in the dim, quiet room of the Wandering Wyvern inn. The sounds of the celebrating city below were a distant, muffled hum, a world away from the cold reality spread across the table before him.
For hours, he had studied the crude map and the scrolls of information the leaders of Boulder Creek had compiled.
His fingers, stained with the faint dust of the Matriarch's lair, traced the dark, unwavering line at the northernmost edge of the continent.
It was a simple line on a piece of old parchment, but it represented the single greatest obstacle to his future.
The Seal.
He had thought his path was one of accumulating power, of building his empire from the ground up until he was strong enough to face the powers of the Mainland.
But he was wrong.
For him to ascend, he had to face a god. Even if he became an immortal, he could not face a god yet; there was only one way for him to avoid that hopeless confrontation.
