From the healer’s hand and love’s demand, you will live and love no more. Through the crumbling castle, the words whispered, hollow as death, black as the night they were--black as his soul. Damian Alessandro tightened his mailed fist, his fingers digging into the scarred wooden arm of his throne. Cold rage, barely leashed, fueled his body, clouded his mind. For centuries the necromancer’s words had taunted him, an enigma he had yet to solve. Through the years, he’d given up hope, and so he remained in Helmskeep, seeking the answer to a riddle ... seeking an end to the torment of living death. On a black throne he waited ... waited for an oblivion that would not come ... that would never come. Outside a storm rose, shattering the calm of night like crystal thrown upon a stone hearth, mirroring the ever present turmoil of his mind. Beyond darkened windows, their panes broken and leaking in the fury of the storm, lightning flashed like silver in the clouds, the gods beating their drums in the sky, harkening their ire. The air charged with each hush before the thunder, and distant, he heard a sound, of breath heaved into worn lungs; horses screaming in terror; the snap of a whip sharp in the air.
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