Nallog the Third strode into the cavernous entrance of Saerons Hall. The walls and ceiling were covered in too many paintings to count, but Nallog did not look at them.

His armor – which had gleamed in the morning sun – was now dulled with the blood of countless men. In his right hand he held Rienol, the sword his father had taken thirty years earlier from the dead hand of Raite the Sixth, former ruler of the Southern Continent. It had served father and son well for many years, but today the tip had broken off around noon. He continued to use it because the battle was so fierce that he could not send for another. He would not use the inferior swords used by the Tirseari, or take a sword from one of his men.

In his left hand he held a severed head still dripping blood. He raised it by the hair until he was looking into the dead eyes. “Come Tember, take me on a tour of your palace.” Laughing at his joke, Nallog walked into the hall, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.