The leader of the mountain people, the Icarian Summit, stood in the central square of the Gloaming. He held his sword high overhead. His face was blank. His long gray hair fell over his shoulders. Blood dripped down his bare chest. He swung hard at me. I jumped back, but too late. He slashed into my shoulder, and I dropped something from my hand. The pain blazed. I fell onto my back. The black box was hanging above me, taunting me as ever. It was a path out of this place, but I could not reach it. The Icarian Summit stomped his bare foot on the fresh wound in my shoulder. He pointed his long sword at my neck. It was Zarathus. It was supposed to be my sword. You grow soft, Andor. I heard his words in my mind, but his mouth did not move. “Stop!” I shouted at him. “Enough killing. Make it stop.” Only you can make it stop. His expression was the same, as steady and solid as a mountain. “I can’t. Look what’s become of me.” Who are you? Suddenly I was not myself. I was the king of Sunan.
