“In his hand he holds the whisper,
In his mind he holds the shield.
In his heart he commands the sorrows,
Of a people who cannot yield.”
-Inscribed on the Breastplate of Artamoth the Conqueror

Fog and mist cloaked the Tower grounds and obscured all but the most obvious features. The tall tower rose from the forest like a king on his throne, commanding the respect of all who passed by. The walls that ringed the tower grounds stood hard and gray against the cold, and guards perched like great hawks at regular intervals. Within the walls the small town began her daily routine, albeit with a sense of foreboding this morning. The whole valley was ill at ease and even the animals seemed wary, almost as if a predator was watching their every move.

Within the Tower Lord Vulklan watched all this below him. He too could feel the predator watching, waiting, and preparing. He ran his hand through his bushy black beard. “Where are you Artamoth.” Lord Vulklan muttered under his breath “What do you have planned for me?”