Autumn wind, chill and cutting, howls through the barren tree branches high above. Like gnarled fingers, black, leafless branches claw out the failing rays of sunset. Each warped, misshapen tree is more horrid than the next, and a deep blackness fills the endless void between them. Briars and thorny vines choke out all other life along the forest floor. Beneath a cave-like tunnel of twisted and knotted limbs, a muddy footpath snakes out of sight. Rather than by chirp of songbird, silence is broken by the screech of bats flapping across the thin, rocky tail. From an unseen perch, a crow caws loudly. Enarit glances back over his shoulder, blood trickling down his forehead. He's drenched, caked with grime and gasping for air. Rain spatters his dirty face and sprinkles the ground; a mist rises, pooling and swirling around the elf's boots as he continues to flee recklessly down the path. The bow he carries is shattered. He clings to it nonetheless. He clings to it as he clings to his life. Hoof beats pound in the background like rolling thunder. Riders approach at a lightning pace. Mighty Rothuk, barbarian of the Sun Burnt Isles was the first to fall. His gory death flashes before Enarit's racing mind. Rothuk's gleaming axe, his most trusted friend, torn from his grasp—it became his worst enemy. It became the tool of his slaughter. Aldric was next. The knight could neither defend his comrades, nor could he save his own life. His heavy armor shredded like paper, shield hacked in twain, his blood showered the battlefield. A horse roars furiously and surges forward along the trail, its black rider pushing it harder and harder toward his prey. Eyes wild with fright, Enarit dives through the clawing briars and pushes his way into the dark forest away from the trail. He's beyond pain. Adrenaline masks the hideous wound in his side. "No!" he cries as hands unseen rip and tear at his cloak. No, not hands, he soon discovers—the briars. With a twist, he rids himself of the cloak, but in his great haste, trips and falls backwards into the mud. Just then, the dark rider emerges, and in an instant, his horse had leaped the briars and was bearing down on the elf with its hooves of flame. Enarit awakes in a cold sweat, his hands still covering his face.