text: on a warpath," Arroden says as if one explaining soft notes in a red wine.
  
  "Impossible. There is too much infighting between tribes to organize anything, especially something of this magnitude. The tribes have only unified once, under the Great Warlord of old. And we all know how that turned out," Paxson answers, drawing attention to the wave of red expanding east.
  
  "Oh but they have," Arroden says, pouring a goblet of his favored honeyed wine. He offers a glass to Paxson, who takes it. You don't say no to the master. "Copies of this map have been dispersed to all nobility within Helswith. High Lord Ursa is offering substantial reward for any warriors that can be 'volunteered' into service, seasoned gladiators highly sought after. The High Lord's already conscripted those he can into his ranks."
  
  Paxson glances down at the map again. The wave of red, the barbarian horde, is mere miles away from entering the desert. To his knowledge, the High Lord's army isn't vastly numberable, but their chariots are deadly to face in open ground. Between the chariots and extreme conditions of the desert, High Lord Ursa's land seems well-defended. Still, in war, sheer number can overtake the most disciplined of armies defending key positions. It all depends on how many bodies are thrown at accomplishing the goal. Paxson has no doubt the horde is willing to throw as many as necessary.
  
  "The battleground is vastly different from the arena," Paxson says. "There's too many factors that a gladiator is untrained for. I fear you might lose some good men if you sell our services to the High Lord. Besides, half the men would desert, you know that."
  
  "Of course I know that," Arroden sharply says. "Which is why I'm only sending you. Your wife's return is tethered to my efforts. I hold nothing over the other men; you can only beat a dog so much. But you, I know you'd never betray me. If you did, your precious woman's return might not be such a favorable change."
  
  "When am I to depart?"
  
  "Five days. Try not to injure yourself in the meantime."
  
  > Burned remains
  You awaken to find a pair of angry green eyes staring back at you, framed with unnaturally black hair. As you attempt to sit up, your face eats a punch from the woman, knocking you back down.
  
  "Did I say you could move, betrayer?" Morgan breathes. You quickly glance at your surroundings. The burned remains of the temple sit quietly behind her, charred, cold and ominous.
  
  "Joren?" you ask. Bringing up the man's name earns you another blow, this one, a kick to the gut. Morgan squats back down to peer at you closer.
  
  "Gone."
  
  "And the others?"
  
  Morgan utters half a laugh. "What others? There are no others. There's never been."
  
  The news causes you to sit up again, and this time, you don't get knocked back down. "But I saw other members about. Nathan, the portly librarian for one."
  
  "Tricks of the trade," Morgan answers. "Killian's specialty. 'Projecting,' he called it. In fact, your other 'friends' got to witness it first-hand when they visited the farm. This entire island is abandoned, save for Killian and I... well, now it's you and me." The sudden mention of Killian and her distracts Morgan for a few seconds, but you're soon sure to be the object of her wrath again. So that's his name, the man with the white hair meditating at the willow tree: Killian. Strange how you never learned that until now.
  
  "He's gone then?" you ask.
  
  "A lightning blast to the chest will do that."
  
  "So where does this leave us?" you question. "If you wanted me dead, you could have just slit my throat while I was out."
  
  "The thought did pass my mind, I assure you that," Morgan answers. She peers into your eyes still, sparkling green pupils locked with your dark brown. "But Killian saw something in you. In his memory, I will spare your life."
  
  Morgan not-so-gently steps on your chest with a black boot, standing fully upright. She towers over your prone body as if a lighthouse over a cliff. "I'm going after him," she says. "The spirit of vengeance guides me. Are you coming?"
  
  > Yes
  "I'm with you."
  
  You imagine there might be a time when you disclose your visions to Morgan. After all, she's the only one, at least that you know of, that serves the woman who visits you. And there's the small matter of the "sight" given to you just before the ritual. It was almost as if you knew what was going to happen. Not specifically, of course, but the scene in your mind played out eerily similar. Killian might have been the one to help you understand as he was in the master's role. It dawns on you that your relationship with Morgan might turn out the same: a teacher and learner, one to instruct, and the other to follow.
  
  "Let's not delay, then. Our prey was picked up by one of Tristrand's ships," Morgan says, offering a hand to help you up. At the last second, the open palm clenches into a fist, a fist which kindly re-introduces itself to your face. "You deserve that and more," she spits.
  
  As you rise on your own accord, Morgan walks to a nearby tree. Two travel packs are already filled with supplies and sitting at the base of the trunk. She picks up both and tosses one behind her, almost taking your head off. One of your hands catches the leather straps mid-flight, and you swing the entire thing onto your back.
  
  Still unspeaking, she leads you from the ruined remains of the temple and into the surrounding forest. Twisting through several scarcely visible trails, taking a couple of hours, the dense forest opens into the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea. Scattered like stones on a hill, islands mark the water, creating spots of green in the ocean blue.
  
  Morgan scans through the bushes, searching for something, and finally she pulls two large coils of rope securely fastened, or rather, welded, to a large boulder. Two packs, two coils of rope, she knew this day was coming, but somehow you didn't imagine she imagined it'd be you. Killian, most likely. She throws you a coil and begins to suspend herself over the cliff's edge. You glance down at the sheer mountainside, taking note of the jagged, spear-like rocks waiting for you in the water. Taking a deep breath, you follow suit.
  
  Instantly, cold misty air hits you, built from the crashing waves below. You take extra care to keep a firm grasp on the rope as the going gets slippery the further down you are, a result of being closer to the water. Like rowing on the slave transport, your eyes remained focused on what's in front of you, in this case, a rocky cliff, layered with strands of vine and your straw-colored rope. No sense in looking down. There's a small beach at the bottom, which is off to the side, enclosed, in an underhang of rock. Moored where the water and sand meet is a small, two-person fishing vessel.
  
  "Come," Morgan says. "Tristrand will know the whereabouts of our target." Shipmasters, they're all the same, keeping charts and logs of voyage details. If anyone has a record of Joren's passage, it's the man with access to the entire fleet. King Tristrand.
  
  > King Tristrand
  Ships and smaller sea vessels fill the water, traveling closely together like schools of fish. The island, crescent-mooned in shape, is one large harbor on the concave side. Countless docks stick out from the land, some mixing with one another creating a puzzle-like shape. Large galleons and warships have their own dock, while civilian fishing boats and barges fight for open space. As luck would have it, one angry-looking fisherman sets sail when you float near, allowing you and Morgan to steal the space while others are left waiting in the water.
  
  Behind the row of docks is a city with winding streets and closely packed buildings. The buildings are a tan color with red, tile rooftops. Further up beyond the city sits a massage stronghold.. From your view you count five walls, a pentagon. Heavy cannons line the walls, and you have no doubt it's hiding more firepower within.
  
  Morgan drops two coins into the hand of an approaching bean counter and motions for you to follow.
  
  "I'm unfamiliar with this area of the world," you say, walking briskly to catch up to her pace. Damn does she walk fast. "What name does the city go by?"
  
  "Le'lune Aethas. It means 'the scythe of the seas' in the ancient tongue. Though most people just call it Lune," Morgan answers, eyes forward, walking briskly. Passing through the winding streets, ignoring peddlers, street vendors, and some very direct and rather vulgar "companions," you head straight for the keep.
  
  Soldiers patrol the five walls. More are posted outside. Their uniform is naval, prioritizing movement with cloth pants and leather boots. Royal blue, no less. The vast majority only wear light leather protection, although you do see some with shiny steel breastplates. The officers, if you had to guess. While the keep's gate is raised, a guard stops you from entering.
  
  "Halt," he commands, holding a tanned hand up, palm facing toward you. "What business do you have in the Crow's Nest?"
  
  A fitting name for a keep overlooking the entire island. You know it's based on a ship, but the mention of "crow" is oddly fitting, like a quiet confirmation you're on the correct path.
  
  "We're searching for a man. A man picked up by one of your lord's ships," Morgan explains.
  
  "And you think we just give out records to anyone who walks up demanding it?" the guard questions, raising an eyebrow for emphasis.
  
  You intervene. "No, of course not. Not to just 'anyone.' My father is Arroden Scholhart. Heard of him? The man we pursue is of great interest to my father, and he is willing to pay well should the information from the records pan out."
  
  Morgan's face darkens for a moment, then returns back to its blank state. No doubt she's gauging if you're lying or not. The guard does the same, but isn't willing to risk offending the son of a renown gladiator school, even if the house does lie in another nation. Along with wealth, that profession is typically paired with a short fuse.
  
  "Right this way then, young master," the guard answers, motioning to the open gate. You stride ahead, first, in front of Morgan.
  
  > reach out
  The sight, your new-found power from the temple, tingles. It's the feeling on your skin when static energy is in the air, like the hairs on your arm are standing up. Something about the man calls to you. A secret that wants to be shared, but is too afraid to be spoken. For the second time in your life, you draw on that power.
  
  Your vision darkens, transitioning to a dark purple, then to a deep black. Wind, clouds, smoke. At once, they rush through your sight as if you're falling from a clifftop, only in a horizontal direction. Your body isn't physically moving, but your mind races through...wherever this is at an alarming pace. You pick up speed, rushing to a level where your eyes begin to dry, causing a build-up of tears in response. As the tears roll down your cheeks, your movement is suddenly halted.
  
  The man, the guard floats next to you, unseen by the people before you. Like previous visions, you're able to survey the scene before you from above, lightlessly floating. This time, however, the guard is the same as you. A child, the younger version of the guard sits at a crudely constructed table, an older man next to him. His father, if you had to guess.
  
  The man addresses the child. "Son, we need money, and the navy is willing to pay it. I know things have been difficult since your mother...left us, but this is the best thing for us. Can you be a good boy and tend to the horses for me?"
  
  The kid nods. "Yes, Father. Do you really have to go?"
  
  "You can't serve in the navy from the comfort of your living room. I'll be back. Promise. Six months tops."
  
  With that, the older man gets up and places a kiss on the child's, the guard's, forehead. After a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder, he exits the home. You get the feeling that's the last time the child saw him.
  
  > The Crow's Nest
  Another guard meets you inside the gate, wearing royal blue and carrying a longspear. He doesn't speak, but a quick head motion signals follow me. The keep's courtyard is lined with a sandy brick, the stones closely aligned as to create a smooth floor. Tristrand's men don't show it, but you know every eye is on you and Morgan. The Crow's Nest doesn't seem to get many visitors. A quick march takes you to the keep's main doors, a pair of sturdy wooden things reinforced with cross beams of steel. The march takes you inside.
  
  Deep blue greets you upon entering. The floor is dyed a dark, ocean blue like the color of water with low depth, the color of water where unseen, undocumented predators swim, where few explore and survive. Instead of being taken directly to the throne room where you can speak to the king, you're brought to a separate chamber, not far off from the main doors.
  
  It's a small room. Only enough room for two rickety chairs behind a desk assembled from driftwood. The desktop is mostly flat, although different colored and shaped driftwood sometimes jut out in weird spots, one of which is directly in the center like an antler was nailed to the desk.
  
  "I get the feeling we're not about to meet the king," you whisper to Morgan. She silently agrees with what looks like a borderline pout.
  
  The door to the room opens and slams just as quickly. A portly man enters, red beard running down at the edges of his face, though not quite completing the connection to a thin moustache. Despite his loose clothing, rolls of fat move with each movement, which are surprisingly dexterous for someone of his size. He slams down a massive leather book on the table, creating a similar sound to the door shutting. The book narrowly misses the desk antler, or in this case, pike.
  
  "So you're searching for a man. What makes you think we give out records to the public?" the man says, fashioning a pair of tiny glasses to his nose, the frames barely wider than his pupils.
  
  "Justice," Morgan answers. "The man we seek is a murderer. He killed our...teacher. One of your vessels picked him up from an unnamed island."
  
  "And just who do you think you are? Taking the law into your own hands. The punishment for murder is a death at sea," the portly man replies. Seeing your confusion, he continues. "Why bother the hangman when a heavy rock, rope, and deep waters are at your disposal?
  
  "No arguments here," you answer. "But still, in order to uphold the king's law, you need to locate the murderer first. Think of it as our civic duty, helping to locate a criminal."
  
  "Alas, no," the man says, readjusting his glasses. "I'm afraid we cannot allow every vengeance-seeker to carry out his deeds, no matter how 'righteous.' Leave me a description of the man, and I will make sure our men are on the look-out. There are two of you claiming witness to his crime. That's good. Along with a description, leave your names and residence. We'll contact you once he's brought in. Now I'm done here, unless you have further questions?"
  
  > Further questions
  "What are the chances you'll find the man we seek?" you ask.
  
  The man stands, heading towards the door, obviously thinking that you had no further questions. "Hard to say. We'll know more once you leave a description of the man. My lord's waters are vast, spanning the majority of the sea. There are many unnamed islands such as the one you claim to have come from."
  
  "It's not some fairy tale," Morgan answers. "We can show you the evidence."
  
  "Unfortunately, that will not do either. If you have the coordinates of the island along with the date you think one of my lord's ships picked up this man, then that will narrow our search. I really must be going. Leave the information on the parchment I left on the table, and see yourselves out. Good day."
  
  The portly man slips out of the small room, making it seem less small. As you sit up to write on the parchment, Morgan stops you. "He's hiding something."
  
  "People in his position are always hiding something," you answer.
  
  "Yes, but he knows something about Joren." Morgan spits the man's name with obvious distaste. "He couldn't wait to get out of here."
  
  "Just because he doesn't want to spend his time with us doesn't mean he's actively aiding Joren's escape...but he did seem rather shifty, didn't he?"
  
  "Exactly. And I plan to find out what he knows."
  
  Somehow you don't think Morgan's decision involves holding to King Tristrand's laws.
  
  > Done here
  You and Morgan leave the Crow's Nest and journey back to the main hub of Lune. Part of you knew it wouldn't be easy to waltz into a king's keep and demand information, but the other part naively believed you would find the information you sought after. Back to the winding streets you go, searching for a place to reconvene and plan your next steps.
  
  The streets are packed with citizens and shops. A place such as this relies heavily on importing and exporting goods to survive. While King Tristrand's territory may be large, the amount of land mass is on the smaller side. Food, clothing, even jewelry needs to be brought in from other lands. It's no wonder that the streets are constantly abuzz with sale. The same street vendors and peddlers yell towards you as you walk past, promising their goods will change your life. One comment about "sprucing up the bedroom" with their product earns a nasty look from Morgan.
  
  Suddenly, the crowd seems to move as one, parting down the center like the crease of a leather-bound book. Blue uniforms appear. Soldiers from King Tristrand's navy rush past in a thunderous stomping of boots and heavy breathing. The climb from the docks isn't a short one, and, well, it's a climb to reach the Crow's Nest.
  
  Unlike a coordinated march, the soldiers in royal blue run scattered, allowing for the faster ones to not be held back by the slower. Still, none are slow, just some slower than others. A mix between soldier and sailor, Tristrand's naval men are built with lean muscle from manning their vessels. A ship can only hold a limited amount of food, so the soldiers need to condition their body to work without an excess of nutrition.
  
  "What do you think that's about?" you ask Morgan shortly after the final blue uniform passes.
  
  "I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," she answers. "In the meantime, we have work to do. I don't intend to leave this place without answers. We need to find an inn and gather some equipment."
  
  "Equipment for what?" you question, fully knowing the answer.
  
  "Like I said, I'm not leaving here without answers, and they're sitting behind lock and key in the Crow's Nest. Ready to put your training to the test?"
  
  "I made it through your instruction. This should be easy in comparison."
  
  Your reply earns you a smirk from Morgan. The first one you've witnessed unharmed.
  
  > find an inn
  "I'll find us a decent place to rest. You'd better get the equipment as you obviously have something in mind," you say. "Meet back here in three hours?"
  
  Morgan nods, sending a few loose strands of black hair bobbing. She takes off down the street, walking with purpose. That's not normally the way you'd describe a person's steps, but hers are intentional, deliberate, straight-forward. There's no swaying of the arms or casually glance side-to-side with her head. She's heading towards a destination as if wearing blinders, ignoring the noise around her. Strange woman. Beautiful woman. Deadly woman.
  
  Finally, you're alone. Somehow it feels relaxing without the constant eyes of Morgan upon you. Not that you're at odds, it's just that you don't quite feel like allies yet. You're thrust together by necessity. A man lies dead, a temple destroyed in the process, and the blame lies mostly with you, at least according to Morgan. The crow on your arm, the tattoo burned into your skin signifying the Lady's mark: it's the only reason why you're still breathing. Joren was to be executed when Morgan and Killian first captured you, and what happened? You saved his life. You wonder what would have been, should you have stood back and let Joren die.
  
  No. That's not who you are. Weak men stand idly, too afraid to act. True, your act may have, in a sense, doomed Killian and the order, but the blame lies with Joren and his decision. You can't be at fault for that, despite what Morgan may think. If she needs to view you as the object of her blame, so be it. You can't change that.
  
  Walking in thought, you end up staring at a sign post marked SEA BREEZE. Showing signs of blue and white paint, it's almost completely void of its original color. In fact, if you shut one eye, it reads E R EZE. Looks as nice a place as any to rest your head. Not really, but the few crowns Morgan placed in your hand will cover room and food for a few nights. The door opens with a creak, and you head inside the dimly-lit building.
  
  Wooden tables sit in various places of the inn in no apparent position, besides being spaced out far enough that listening ears would have trouble tuning in. From the doorway, the entire right side of the inn is one long bar, holding positions for both stools and standing patrons. Behind the bar, a hearth lies cold and dead, likely only fired up during cold nights. Speaking of patrons, there are none, which you're unsure if that's a good or bad thing.
  
  "Are you gunna stand there or buy somethin'?"
  
  An old man missing a few teeth yells at you from behind the bar. His hands are busy cleaning a mug with a rag that looks as if it could use a nice washing. The same goes for the old man. You approach the bar, wooden floorboards settling in as you walk. Your palm slams down on the bar top, and upon retraction, two crowns appear.
  
  "I need a room for a few nights. How's the cook?"
  
  The man nods, swiping the coins into his hand. "Best I ever seen."
  
  "And the ale?"
  
  "Even better."
  
  "Order me up his best dish then. My...wife will be along in a few hours. Better have something ready for her then. And I'll take that ale now," you say.
  
  > engage with the man
  "And let me guess, you're the cook?" you say as the man places a tankard of ale in front of you. Foam bubbles at the top, overflowing down the side. Not a great pour, but you'll take it. Nothing like a good ale after a few years of being dry.
  
  "That's right. Cook, bartender, waiter, handyman, owner. Anythin' that needs gettin' done, I do," the man says with a smile, a smile with a few gaps in teeth. "And what about you? What's your trade, traveler?"
  
  "Up until recently, somebody's possession." You reveal the inside of your forearm, exposing the scars on your wrists. They line your arm like tallies keeping the score of a Nilshball game.
  
  "And lookit you now, throwin' crowns around like you haven't a care in the world," the bartender laughs, an odd cackle that's throaty, like someone clearing their voice before speaking.
  
  "Yeah, well might as well spend them while I can."
  
  "No arguments here. What's it like, being someone else's property?"
  
  You take a sip of ale, savoring the frothy bubbles. It's lighter in taste. Flavor too. Must be made from grain that could have been more refined. "You learn what's important and what's not. The quicker you learn, the better off you'll be."
  
  "Listen," the man says, lowering his voice. "I don't want any trouble. If you're free by an unlawful act, I don't want to know. I don't see a brand on you. Good thing too. If your old master lies dead, keep to yourself. I don't want to hear any of it."
  
  "No, it's nothing like that," you assure the man. Pondering a moment, you continue. "Well, he is dead, but not by my hand. There was a shipwreck."
  
  "He have family?"
  
  "Not any legitimate."
  
  "Writ of ownership?"
  
  "Lost at sea."
  
  You receive another gap-toothed grin. "Ha-ha you, my friend, are quite the lucky one. Not many escape the chains."
  
  His statement brings a somber mood, reflective, as it causes you to draw on the past. "After being dealt a poor hand after countless shuffles, it's hard to call one lucky after a single win. If anything, it's just one step towards settling the balance."
  
  "No man's misfortune is a laughin' matter. Next one's on me," the man says, motioning towards the tankard.
  
  > meet back with Morgan
  You return back to the meeting place with Morgan. With the equipment needed and a place to return to, you make for the inn, Sea Breeze. The room given to you by the teeth-missing owner is of the single bed, single room variety. There isn't even a place to "do your business." That was handled in the public house down the street. A single bed, taking up most of the area, sits in the center of the space. There's not even room for a desk or small table in the corner. Any food ordered would have to be eaten from your lap or downstairs.
  
  The sun is beginning to set outside the window. Morgan takes a seat at the foot of the bed. "I see no reason to wait another night," she says. "The Crow's Nest holds the information we seek. Those soldiers rushing past us will serve as distraction enough. Tonight, we find the whereabouts of Joren."
  
  "Sneaking inside the keep is difficult, but manageable," you say. "Still, there's the small matter of locating where exactly the information lies. We can't be mindlessly searching each room. The longer we stay, the more likely we get caught."
  
  "Dear pupil, don't you know anything about the world?" Morgan coaxes. "Keeps such as that one always have record rooms. When you have as many ships as Tristrand, you need to keep track of their voyages, along with any anomalies...such as picking up a man from an unnamed island."
  
  "Ok, fine. But we'll still need to know where that is," you answer. "If we don't, my point remains the same. We can't search each room, or door, until we find it."
  
  "While you were off doing the bare minimum, I 'found' this," Morgan says, pulling a parchment from her bosom. You quietly try to ignore where she just revealed the object. It's a small room, after all. She unrolls the parchment, showing blueprints of the Crow's Nest. Each room is labeled, checkered lines showing the size of each. "Here," she points to a room in the eastern wing. "That's where the information we seek lies."
  
  "How do you know that?" you question. "It's the only room without markings."
  
  "Purposely so," Morgan answers. "Captains' logs bring the king current information on the happenings in his territory. Reading through them all is knowing as much as the king."
  
  "That doesn't answer my question. Look, here's a room labeled 'Records.'"
  
  "It's a bluff," Morgan says, examining one of her fingernails. "My 'friend' was very sure of that. Get some rest. Tonight we'll find the answer we seek. I have some final preparations to take care of. I'll be back shortly."
  
  > Rest
  As Morgan leaves the room to take care of her "final preparations," whatever that means, you sit down at the foot of the bed. Downstairs, you hear the door to the inn open and close. Clanking of bottles softly rings through the air, the result of the owner cleaning up before sundown.
  
  There's not much to do in the room. It consists of a bed and, well, that's it. Still, it's more than you've had lately. You've come to view a simple bedroll as a luxury. A bed? You might as well be a goddamn king. Feet still planted on the floor, you allow your back to fall heavy atop the bed, hands resting behind your head into a makeshift pillow. You are tired. Keeping pace with Morgan is like a rowboat holding speed with a schooner. Gently, your eyes flutter shut. I'll just shut them for a minute, you think to yourself, a lie told many times by exhaustion. Slowly, you begin to
  
  "Young Master Scholhart! Young Master Scholhart! You mustn't get too close."
  
  As with your previous dreams, visions, premonitions -- you're not sure what to call them -- your body floats in the air, lightless, watching the scene play out below you. A younger version of yourself is glued to the balcony watching the gladiators below. Wearing the brown robes of a scholar, an elderly man approaches you.
  
  "Young Master, you need to be careful. It's a long ways down from here, and cleaning your blood from the sand would put a nasty ache in my back," the elderly man says. You recognize him as your childhood mentor, a teacher assigned to you, ensuring your studies get done.
  
  The childhood version of you laughs. "That's why you don't want me too close? Not for my safety?"
  
  Your mentor, Zachary, doubles-down. "Correct, Young Master. When you get to be my age, you learn to avoid certain tasks that are hard on the bones. Cleaning your guts with a pail and shovel is one of them."
  
  "Ha-ha, ew."
  
  "Now get inside. There will be time to watch your father's warriors after studying. Holbrook's Notes, Volume II, Chapter 3."
  
  "Yes, Teacher," you respectfully answer, walking visibly disappointed into your father's home.
  
  In a blink, the scene fades from view, colors gradually darkening to a total black as if paint being washed from canvas. Darkness consumes you. Cold air, like that of a morning, fills your lungs. You're being taken somewhere. As if a torch lit in a cave, brightness returns, and you see a new scene before you. It's still a younger version of yourself, although much older than the kid at the balcony, mid-to-late teen if you had to guess the age.
  
  You're sitting at your father's table. Plates of food are spread out in front of you, much more than two people could ever eat. More than a family of four could ever eat, realistically. You eat quietly, allowing your father, Arroden, to speak with the man standing at the doorway. The man, chained at the wrists and dressed in a loincloth, leaves no imagination to his hardened muscle built by combat. He stands attentively towards your father. Several guards are posted in the room, armed with short swords and tower shields, should the man decide to act disobediently.
  
  It's a scene well in your memory. The man, your father's champion, felling countless opponents in the arena, a god in the world of gladiators, standing before your father stuffing his face with comforts and honeyed wine. Yet, the champion is but a pet to Arroden Scholhart, doing his bidding, completing his every command. It's similar to the way a warhorse is tied, a single strap of leather binding it to a flimsy post. It has the strength to revolt. It can crush a man before its feet. But still, it attends to the master's bidding.
  
  Why did you leave?
  
  That voice, familiar in sound, speaks to you. Next to you, floating alongside, is the woman from your dreams, the one whose mark you bear. The woman flocked by crows, her bright hair barely touching her shoulders, seeming to float above them, despite the length going down her back. The sharp features of her face look at you questioningly, although you have a feeling she knows the answer. She just wants to hear it from you.
  
  "I've replayed this scene in my mind countless times," you say, willing, wanting to say the answer the woman seeks. "The imbalance of power planted a seed in my head. How is it that a man of strength is so easily controlled?"
  
  Physical strength can only take you so far. The mind, your will, is what separates the strong from the weak.
  
  "By the same token, chains can only limit you so much."
  
  The woman smiles. Warmth rushes over you, as if stepping out from cool shade