Twenty years ago, in the Empire of Casdamia.

The night that the phantom brought a sealed parchment from the mountain of Casda de Moor to Emperor Moshere of Casdamia, a gale swept the city. Wind shook shutters off window frames so violently that their panes sailed about the cobblestone roadways as if they had burst from the clouds. Merchants’ signs clamored against lampposts, and whatever items had rested near a person’s porch were now hazardous projectiles thundering through the streets. A man would have been a fool to step outside, for gusts of angry mists rumbled down the narrow alleys looking for flesh to devour. Skura, their naked black wings walloping against the storm, spun through the backstreets, bouncing off walls as they hunted for prey. The alarm had sounded—shrill whistles blown by brave sentries risking their lives on rooftops—warning citizens to hide behind the stone walls of their flats. Panic-stricken men hurried their wives and children into homes, sealing shut oak doors with iron bolts fastened tight. Grooms and stable boys rushed unnerved livestock into sheds before they themselves took shelter, narrowly slipping out of the bloodthirsty claws of Skotádi’s beasts. Hungry appetites of the beasts devoured those who weren’t quick enough to escape.

“Quickly, Jesner, take the child upstairs, lock your door and keep your chambermaids with you,” Moshere instructed his wife. He kissed the newborn babe on his forehead. They had Christened him that morning. Barte son of Moshere. Somehow his father’s Vouchsaver heard he and his wife had a boy child. Moshere feared for the young one, as the curse he suffered could be transmitted to the babe. Their only hope would be to hide the child. Jesner swaddled the baby, hurried to her servants, and the assembly left, closing the hall ingress as they departed.

The emperor watched the atrocities outside from the window in his dimly lit throne room. His heart sickened; his galloping pulse resonated a near-fatal march in his chest. Before the young green-clad page opened the door to the grand hall and stepped inside, before the ghostly appearance of Skotádi’s messenger entered behind him—swirling about his ebon cloak as though the fabric itself provided flight—Emperor Moshere knew settlement for his debt had come.

“Vasil, a messenger from Casda de Moor….,” As soon as he made the announcement, the phantom emerged, cloaked in black. Flinging a streak of light from his fingertips that bolted at the page, the boy fell, whether he fainted, or by death, the emperor could not tell, neither did he step forward to find out, as the demon’s lightning barred Moshere from moving.

“What is this?” Moshere asked, his voice trembling. He kept one eye on his page, who lay motionless on the cold marble floor. What a pity! The lad had been a favorite of his.

The demon said not a word but set the letter on the ground and with a heated breath, blew the secret missive at him. The letter adhered to the emperor’s robe, and he clasped it tightly, never once taking his eyes from the envoi. The man, or spirit, or demon, or whatever one might call it—for Moshere could not be sure if any human blood ran in its veins—turned to the door, spat once at the threshold, and vanished.

The throne room door remained ajar, and Moshere hurried to his page. He stopped short, sickened at the sight. The boy had fallen on his back. A cut scarred his face, blackened as if a burning saber had sliced his cheek from one side to another. His pale blue eyes fixed in a deathly stare, the whites of which had drowned in a pool of red. His expertly tailored doublet fell open, charred, and singed.

Servants rushed into the room, having seen the Terror make its way out of the castle. The chambermaid wept as the valets lifted the poor, young soul and carried him away. Moshere turned his back to them, holding back bile.

He stared at the letter in his trembling hands and slowly broke the seal that had been smeared with blood. Whose blood? He could only wonder.

Ride to me. To the caves by Demonte.

You owe me.

Or your son dies.

-Skotádi

Moshere inhaled deeply. So! This is what it had come to. After conquering all the land and peoples east of the mountains with his father, an empire larger than any other—a prize no man had ever achieved before—he must now surrender to a greater and more deadly force. Why did he think he could escape the phantom’s jealousies? Skotádi’s puppet-beasts had hunkered on Casda de Moor, watching, and waiting. The emperor wondered just what the Vouchsaver was waiting for. Now he knew. Skotádi had been waiting for him to finish collecting the spoils.

A terrible screech sounded in the streets, coupled with a flash of lightning and a burning roof. Flames outside illuminated his chambers. His eyes burned at the sight of the demon’s fire, as if Skotádi’s curse seared his soul from inside out.

“Vasil,” a valet entered and bowed, shaken. “Fire!”

“Yes. Send men to put it out.”

“The wind?” the young man asked.

“It will die. Saddle a horse for me. Quickly, now.”

Before the servant turned to leave, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.

“What are you gawking at? Do as I say.”

“Your eyes, Vasil. They’re aflame!”

“Leave!” Moshere ordered. The servant fled.

Moshere threw the note in the fire and watched it curl. The edges blackened and then the parchment trembled, Skotádi’s name vivid as the flame devoured the phantom’s request. When bits of ash danced up the chimney, he spat on the coals. He had no choice but to go, bound as if Skotádi had chained his ankles to the mountain.

Burning straw, wet and smoldering, filled his nostrils with the stink of ruin when he left the castle. The blaze spread quickly with the furious wind. Two roofs were alight, smoke from the sweltering thatching drew upward and coagulated into a cloud sealing out the night. Men and women formed a line with the soldiers—passing buckets one to the other, dipping into the village well—a chain of workers sweating, panic-stricken, dousing the fire.

But the Casdamians didn’t battle against fire alone. These simpletons were not familiar with their enemy. Moshere kept that secret in his heart, for he struck a rod against the anvil. He, the emperor, had already sealed their fate. Whatever peace they worked for, he had bartered away, and from that transaction came human sacrifice. The blood lay on Casdamian hands.

His groom waited with his horse as soon as he stepped into the courtyard. No one asked his destination. They shouldn’t want to know. He’d ridden to Casda de Moor and the caves of Demonte during a storm before, no doubt he will ride there again.

He knew one thing for sure, though. Skotádi’s demands tonight would generate the same penalties his grandfather had faced and would someday task his son. The curse would haunt the Casdamian empire for generations.