Flickering flames cast long shadows. But this was no battlefield. The fire blazed in a beautiful hearth of blue marble, filling the chamber with the rich smell of cedar. This was the home of Lord Hadran d’Cannith, and the trappings spoke of his wealth and power. The floors were covered with soft Sarlonan carpets, each one embroidered with a labyrinthine pattern of twisting, thorny angles. Portraits and glamerweave tapestries adorned the walls, depicting the glorious deeds of his Cannith ancestors. Dominating the room was a vast darkwood desk, its surface covered in golden sigils that glittered in the firelight.

Lord Hadran d’Cannith sat behind the desk, pulling at his chin as he listened to the messenger’s report. It had been over a year since the battle of Keldan Ridge and the devastation that had wiped Cyre from the pages of history. Over a year since he had heard anything of his betrothed. Hadran was a wealthy and influential man, and he had spent a fortune on inquisitives, messengers, and diviners. Although he feared the worst, he had always clung to an ember of hope. And now, it seemed, his prayers had been answered.

“Lei was injured at Keldan Ridge, Lord Hadran,” the inquisitive said. She wore a long cloak of dark green leather, a hood pulled low over her face. “It has been difficult to gather any sort of information about the battle, but it seems her troop was faced with an overwhelming force of unknown nationality. They were driven west into contested lands between Thrane and Breland, and that’s the only reason Lei is still alive. On the Day of Mourning, she was just outside Cyre—just beyond the effects of the disaster. I imagine she’s one of the few people who actually saw the Mourning with her own eyes.”

“But she’s alive? You’re sure of it?” Hadran chewed on his gray mustache, a habit his first wife had always despised. “Why didn’t she arrive months ago? Why hasn’t she sent a message through the stones?”

“I’m not a diviner, m’lord,” the messenger replied, pulling her emerald cloak tight around her body. “I believe her companions took her back into the ruins of Cyre to search for other survivors. As for the stones, I wouldn’t be surprised if she has no coin. But I know for a fact that Lei d’Cannith is alive and on her way here. I expect she and her companions will arrive in Sharn within the week.”

“This is glorious news!” Hadran cried, jumping to his feet. He found that he was shaking. “I … I know you can’t rely on such things, but months ago I spoke to an augur about Lei. She said we would never be married, that death would come between us. I prayed and I prayed that it was a false vision, and oh, Olladra be praised, it was!”

He moved to embrace the messenger, but the cloaked inquisitive took a step back.

“Be careful, Lord Hadran,” the messenger said, her voice seeming deeper and darker. “It is all too easy to misread prophecy. I said that your betrothed was coming to Sharn. I never said you would see her again.”

“What?” said Hadran, his joy turning to anger.

“Your oracle said that death would come between you and Lei.” The shadows in the room seemed to grow deeper, and beneath the hood the messenger’s face was lost in darkness. “You assumed the death was hers.”

She threw off her cloak and Hadran cried out in horror.

Moments later, the messenger wiped her bloody hands on Hadran’s shirt. She picked up her cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling the hood down over her head. She took one last look at the ruin that had once been a dragonmarked lord.

“I’ll give your love to Lei, Lord Hadran,” she purred. “I have great things planned for her. Great things.”

No one saw her leave.