Caithas has gotten caught up in forces far beyond his own. He’s got the blood of the Empire on his blades, noblemen at his side, and a rebellion brewing that is a powder keg waiting for a spark. How in the hells did he end up like this?
It started with wine, as so many things often do. It started with a wizard named Runolf Greycloak interrupting said glass of wine with a promise for vengeance. Vengeance against Latis, the mysterious shadow that had opened Kyra’s throat. Promises of secrets shared and wrongs righted flowed with each twisted word. And the price? Be a spy. Be the eyes and ears of a mad old man, reporting on a silly nobleman of little consequence.
What could he do but acquiesce?
But then came the boat. Then came Jules. Jules, who was to be his charge and victim. Jules, whose humor and honesty slashed through Greycloak’s promises. Then came Elana, whose crimson flame was almost enough to make a man forget himself, his promises, his oaths. Then came Malcom and his rebellion, a chance for honor, for glory, for righteousness and for a new life.
No more futile searching. No more grasping at inky shadows in the night, always hunting for what couldn’t be found, always praying for redemption from the unredeemed. Latis, Kyra, the Old World…all began to drift away with the clouds, the waves, the men and women of Svorinn. Ten years is long enough.
Blades in hand and a slight smile on his mouth, Caithas sits in the company of commanders and lords, plotting the downfall of a Crown and an Empire, feeling his old life slipping through his fingers like the sands of time.
Not bad for a bastard half-elf, the ranger thinks to himself as the tides of fate push him ever onward.