By Madeline Howard
Greater than a century has handed because the powerful fight among the wizards and the mages resulted in their mutual destruction, and greater than 40 years because the Empress Ouriána grew to become the Divine Incarnation of the Devouring Moon. Appointing twelve lethal sorcerers as her clergymen, she principles the land in darkness never-ending. but there's a small likelihood for wish, if one foreordained princess can continue to exist. yet she has vanished at the back of enemy traces, or even a courageous band of heroes will not be capable of succeed in her in time. For Ouriána's darkish reign has woken the traditional terrors of legend, and their vengeance could be fast and all-consuming. . . .
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Greater than a century has handed because the robust fight among the wizards and the mages led to their mutual destruction, and greater than 40 years because the Empress Ouriána grew to become the Divine Incarnation of the Devouring Moon. Appointing twelve lethal sorcerers as her clergymen, she ideas the land in darkness endless.
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Outside the great wooden palisade, both camps were astir with activity. By the light of hundreds of lanterns and torches, tents were taken down, folded, and packed away, and men were milling about on a thousand last-minute errands: dowsing campfires, inspecting their gear, tightening girths and adjusting saddles, loading up wagons. It seemed like they would never be ready in time, yet Sindérian knew from experience that they probably would. It was all so familiar: the brassy glint of armor by firelight, the smell of horses, leather, sweat, and excitement.
At a sign from the King, horns blared, banners were raised, and the first troops set off. At the last moment, Faolein swooped down from a clear sky and established himself on his daughter’s saddlebow. Riding along on the elegant black mare the King had chosen for her, glancing back over her shoulder at the equally fine gelding that would carry her during the second leg of the journey, Sindérian felt an uncommon lift to her spirits. To be not only mounted but well mounted, to be riding out in the cool of the day— Then an idea that had troubled her during the night came back to plague her, and her high spirits tumbled abruptly.
As the old man walked, the air trembled and objects shifted. Sometimes he thought he could see right through the eroding stonework and into another, fairer Apharos, a city gracious with gardens and filled with birdsong. In that city there were many cats, too, but so sleek and well fed it was unlikely they ever bothered the fat grey mourning doves strutting on the roofs. And everywhere he looked there were statues: glorious winged figures in marble and alabaster, poised as if ready to leave their weight of stone behind, spring into the air, and take flight.
A Dark Sacrifice by Madeline Howard