It’s hard for me to imagine the fields of shining knights and masters of sacred, magical arts forming ranks against creatures of endless shadow, shattering earth and sky in the battles of the Last War. The great glare that must have come as the Highlord ascended to godhood, banished the Shadow from the world. He ended it then, prevented the death of our world, but in his spite mortally wounded us all the same. The Age of Magic and Heroes ended that day with one man’s rage.
Now man conducts its wars only faintly emulating the glory of the past. Men and women throw themselves against each other, dying without ceremony in mud and dirt to scraps of metal flying too fast to see. Those few with the power burn bright and are snuffed out for it. The end of Magic’s time on this world approaches, but no one is willing to see it. It could be prevented, perhaps, they race towards the possibility: the soldier, the prince, the spy, and the debutant. I pray they do not, though I doubt the Highlord will listen. I’ll need to ask him when I meet him on the mount.
