Prologue: The World-Eater

"When twilight draws near, the demon wolf will swallow the sun and plunge the world into darkness. How long this darkness will last, I cannot say."

— Morene Gylfaginor, The Codex Gylfaginor

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Three days ago, the mountains shook. The trees huddled together, beneath a gray sky. A silence permeated—not peaceful, but expectant like that before a storm; the world holding its breath.

A band of men trailed up the mountain, heads hung low, armor rattling as they trudged with snow knee-high. All but one wore the Legion's black and silver with House Uldan's spear and shield—Edric Thoren wore gold, the fiery-orange Rhinegold of the Kingsblades, shaped in the Soulforge itself.

Edric was not particularly tall like Long Jon, nor was he broad like Darius the Crusher—yet, when he raised his hand, the company halted. Edric lifted the visor of his helmet and looked back towards his men. Their faces were heavy with sweat, fatigue, and homesickness.

"How far are we from the top?" Darius growled, warm-faced and heaving, the sweat freezing on his skin before it could roll off.

Edric took a sip of water and pointed behind him. "The Summit of the World lies on the other side of this pass," he said. "We'll be there before sundown."

The passage lay between two jagged crags, a yawning chasm of darkness in the side of the mountain. Rugged rock jutted out from either side like broken teeth coated in ice and snow. Edric was reminded of the great, gaping maw of a giant beast, looming over the band of men like an ill omen. The path spiraled upwards into the distance and disappeared in a haze of grey and white.

"We shouldn't have left our mounts behind," one of the men said. "We'll be too tired to fight by the time we get through."

"We'd have had to leave them behind anyway," another pointed out. "The pass is too narrow and dangerous for a horse."

The men took turns peering into the gloom before settling beneath the shadow of the rock face, away from the wind and snow. They took from their bags stale bread and washed it down with water, every last crumb. One man unwrapped a wheel of cheese and sliced it into pieces, sharing it with everyone else—the scowls eased considerably.

A week had passed since they had left Darmouth at the base of the mountain. The locals had been cold and unfriendly, their tongues only loosening at the sight of the King's gold. The crew had spent fortunes to hire guides up the mountain, and even then they had had only agreed to take them halfway. The mountain bred fear more than death itself. Mandara, they called it—the Pillar of Heaven, the Tomb of the Ninety. The locals firmly believed in their god, often sacrificing their own. Snowstorms were the god's roar, the tremors of its restless sleep. Plagues were a result of its wrath.

But actually, their god was a demon: a relict, a creature of ages long gone.

But is there really a difference between a god and a demon? Edric wondered. Winter stretches on all the same. Snowstorms and earthquakes happen regardless.

Long Jon had drawn a circle in the snow with a stick. He placed a statuette of a woman in the center, a slender goddess with long, flowing hair and a floral dress, and knelt down before it. Edric watched with interest as the tall man closed his eyes and prayed before the makeshift shrine, his lips moving wordlessly in the wind. Edric kneeled as well.

"I didn't take you to be a religious man," Jon said.

"I'm not," Edric replied. "But this may well be the last chance I get to pray."

Jon nodded. "You've chosen the right god, then. Cenedria is the goddess of love and mercy. She also watches over the mountains, and I daresay we could do with her help."

Edric closed his eyes and clasped his hands together, wondering. Most of the men would wish to come home safely to their wives and children, but Edric's wife was dead, along with their unborn child. So was his brother. In fact, his entire family was gone. So Edric simply asked to be remembered. If the Thoren bloodline was to die, he wanted to at least be remembered.

Halfway through his prayer, a hawk's cry roused him and he stood up, the shrine forgotten. There were no hawks in this part of the world, yet one flew above him, descending from the sky in a streak of grey. A few of the men raised their heads as the bird contorted, growing in size as if its skin were wriggling beneath its feathers, burgeoning until it was the rough shape of a man. The figure landed, and its feathers were no longer feathers but a shivering cloak sewn from a thousand patches of grey; a man with matted hair and a voluminous beard, older than any age one could estimate. There were lines on his face etched as deeply as some of the cracks that ran through the mountain, and he had a hooked nose rising up like a gnarled trunk.

"Keldan," Darius grunted. "You took your time."

The man ignored him and looked at Edric. "The pass is safe," he said. "As for what awaits on the other side… I cannot say."

"Is it dead?" Edric asked. "The mountain hasn't shaken in three days. The people of Darmouth seem to think their sacrifice did the trick."

Keldan shook his mane. "I cannot explain it. You must see for yourself." He dusted the snow from his cloak and wrapped it about himself once more.

Edric looked at the plethora of faces around him.

"What do you say, men?" he asked. "Should we rest for the night, or forge on?"

Darius raised his axe. "Forge on, I say. I don't want to stay another day on this damn mountain."

"Aye," said the rest, nodding in agreement. Long Jon packed up his statuette and erased the circle in the ground.

"Very well, then," Edric turned to Keldan. "Lead the way, Druid."

They heard the song about halfway through the pass, an echo that bounced off the walls, multiplying into a ghostly choir as if the mountain itself was singing—beautiful and eerie. It sang of ages long gone, of sleep and dreams, and of memories that lay buried. Before he knew it, Edric had stopped.

"Concentrate," Keldan said, turning around. "Don't lose focus now."

The other men looked dazed, as if woken from a dream. Edric placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and shouted a few words of encouragement, more to rouse himself than anything else.

The wind whipped in a frenzy, snaking along the two bluffs, tugging and twisting at the company as they made their way over rocks and ice to the top. They were approaching the highest point in Faengard, the Summit of the World, the closest man could get to the gods above.