The wind howled through the blackened forest, dragging leaves across the cold earth like whispers of forgotten kings. Beneath a sky strangled by storm clouds, a rider in crimson cloak fled across the ridges, his steed foaming at the mouth from exhaustion. Behind him, the once-great banners of his kingdom burned in distant cities.
King Andric of Velarian was no longer a ruler — he was a fugitive.
Beside him rode his queen, Seraphim, her hand clutching her swollen belly, now six moons heavy. Her face was pale, eyes haunted by the collapse of all they knew.
"They have taken Rolan, the last outpost," she whispered, barely able to speak the words. "There is nothing left, Andric."
"There is always something left," he muttered, voice hoarse from grief and fury.
The map was stained with blood, and the roads were thick with enemies. With no men, no magic, and no mercy from the gods, Andric turned to a name forbidden even in nightmares — the Djinn of Amber Hollow.