Prologue

The man stands atop a white balcony, a gust of wind making his long raven hair fan out around him. His red eyes take in the city beneath him like a hawk, razor-sharp and ever watchful.

He watches the small figures of his subjects bustle around the crowded streets, feels the tides of their lives ebb and flow.

Yet no sound reaches his ears. No childish laughter, no boisterous voices coming from merchant stalls, no song or cry, nothing that would indicate that this white city is inhabited by anything other than ghosts. His full lips curve in a self-satisfied smile.

Everything is as it should be. The streets are crowded, but the people move around as quietly as shadows. Soldiers patrol the bleached stone, marching through with barely a sound.

No sun shines over this necropolis. Dark, heavy clouds cover the sky at all times, any memory of bright light all but forgotten.

There is nothing but dull gray washing over white buildings that look like bone—the skeleton of a gray beast, clinging to the memory of what it once was.

Manerkol takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Damp earth and ash. That is what the city's smell reminds him of—ash from the fires that had ravaged whole kingdoms, the very fires he had stoked to succeed.

Damp earth from all the tears that have been shed during his conquest and after. All of it worth it…worth finally having a world that bows to his rule, shaped and molded according to his will. The mere thought of it makes him shiver in delight.

But then he feels it.

Like a blade through his mind, a knowledge that shouldn't have been his to hold pierces the barriers of his psyche and leaves him reeling. He stumbles forward, his blood-red eyes widening even as they roll back. The railing of the balcony is the only thing that helps him stay on his feet.

He tries to steady himself as images from a far-away place assault him: figures holding brilliant weapons up to the sun, the light emanating from them brighter than a thousand stars. The Soul Stones. They are finally awakened…or soon will be.

The vision ends as abruptly as it came, leaving him hollow and exhausted. How long has it been since he claimed the Onyx Stone for his own? Years beyond count. And still, every time he receives its prophetic visions, it leaves him weak and disoriented.

He can't afford to be like this, not really.