The chill autumn wind from the Scablands was a familiar companion in Alderholt. For two centuries, as the embers of the War of Solitude cooled to ash, its mournful sighs had carried little more than the scent of snow and the promise of harsh winters. But tonight, a different dread rode with the wind, burrowing deep in Marta’s bones. A dread she hadn't known since she was a girl listening to her grandmother's tales. Tales of the Chained Races. Tales softened over generations into little more than bogeyman stories. Tonight, the bogeymen felt real.

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