The first light of dawn spilled over the jagged peaks surrounding Varyn's fortress. The blue flames in the hall flickered and dimmed.
Varyn stood before the map of Elarion. His fingers traced the path north, toward the Black Caves where Serrina the Wise was said to live.
"Rathen," he said sharply, "we leave now. Gather the men. Prepare the horses and supplies. Time is the enemy."
Rathen bowed. "Yes, my lord. Everything is ready."
Varyn turned toward the mountains, black veins crawling faintly along his hands. The sickness pulsed inside him. Every second lost made it stronger.
"This curse will not defeat me," he whispered. "Serrina will bend the darkness to my will… or I will endure it myself."
Warriors assembled in the courtyard. Armor glinted in the sunlight. Horses stamped impatiently on the cobblestones.
Varyn moved to the doors, pausing to glance back at the fortress he had long called home.
"We leave now," he said louder. "Every moment lost strengthens the sickness. March!"
His cloak flowed behind him as he descended the steps. The army followed.
The Northern Black Caves awaited. And in their shadowed depths, Serrina held the secret that might save him… or doom him.