Prologue

At first light, a pale silver mist clung to the chilly air near Xakaito's northern steppes, where a solitary Strafe Buzzard began to stir in its rugged nest high atop the jagged mountainside. With a ruffle of dusky feathers, the buzzard spread its impressive wings and soared into the awakening sky, sunlight glinting off the frost-encrusted peaks. Circling the vast, windswept plains, the bird’s keen gaze swept over the ground below, ever searching for the shapes of fallen or dying creatures among the brittle grasses and icy stretches. Strafe Buzzards were notorious for their opportunism; they rarely hesitated to swoop in and claim the remnants left by others. Their persistence mirrored the harshness of the land they called home.

Beneath the buzzard’s flight, the Kingdom of Xakaito sprawled across the steppes, resembling more a bustling trade outpost than a true kingdom. At its heart stood the Blazing Hearth Citadel, a formidable stronghold radiating warmth into the biting cold, with towers guarding the northern, western, and southern mountain passes. The wind carried the faint scent of pine resin and wood smoke, mingling with the ever-present tang of frost, as traders and guards moved briskly through the citadel’s gates, their voices muffled by thick scarves. To the east, the land sloped downward into the perilous Brileberry swamp, accessible only via a single, winding trade road that snaked through dark pools and ancient, gnarled trees. The treacherous terrain quickly became a trap for the careless.

Local legends, passed quietly among traders and tribal folk, spoke of a time when powerful magic had swept through the region, leaving devastation in its wake. Tales claimed the very earth was poisoned, the aftermath of violent conflict forever twisting the land into shapes that echoed old grief. Despite this grim history, the Brileberry swamp pulsed with life. Dense stands of hemlock—some so tall their upper branches vanished into perpetual dusk—offered refuge to countless creatures. Human tribes, fiercely territorial, claimed portions of the swamp, their bright banners and painted faces visible only to the observant. Yet, an aura of secrecy pervaded the swamp, as though its depths concealed mysteries unknown even to those who dwelled in its shadows. Hemlock wood, prized for its strength and beauty, was a coveted export, fetching high prices from Xakaito’s merchants.

As the buzzard glided above the ancient trees, it rode the rising thermals, eyes alert for movement below. The bubbling black pools, their oily surfaces reflecting the red-tinged sky, hinted at easy meals—a drowned rodent or a beast claimed by the swamp’s hidden perils. Silently, the buzzard’s attention was drawn to a group of humans riding sturdy horses, their faces shrouded by hoods and scarves, traveling in tight formation around a solitary wagon. The wagon’s wheels struggled along the muddy trail, its faded canvas cover flapping as it made its way toward the distant silhouette of the Blazing Hearth Citadel. The guards remained vigilant, hands never far from their weapons, serving as a warning to any would-be thieves. Finding no opportunity among the well-guarded caravan, the buzzard banked away, venturing deeper into the murky swamp in search of easier prey. The air thickened with the smell of decay and the earthy tang of decomposing leaves.

Suddenly, a glint of motion caught the bird’s eye, but before it could react, a black wooden arrow shaft pierced the mist. The arrow flew silently and struck the buzzard with lethal accuracy, piercing its eye in a flash of pain. Everything went black as the bird tumbled from the sky, crashing into thin air and landing with a muted thud on the frozen ground. In that moment, one of the wagon’s wheels rolled over its lifeless body without pause. The guards’ laughter echoed as they celebrated their precise shot.