The sky above Nethervale was a bruised purple, soft and forgiving. The air didn't taste of ash here; it tasted of rain and sweet nectar.

  "Elbow up, Caldreth. You're holding it like a butcher's cleaver."

  Caldreth looked down. His hands were small, unscarred. He was holding a wooden training sword, the weight clumsy in his grip.

  Morvain stood above him. Not the haggard, terrified man who had died in the crypt, but a tower of Sangrathi strength. His armor was polished silver, the Crimson Veil insignia gleaming on his pauldrons. He smelled of leather oil and pipe tobacco, a scent that meant protection.

  "A butcher hacks," Morvain said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Caldreth's chest. He reached out, his large, calloused hand adjusting Caldreth's grip with surprising gentleness. "A Sangrathi severs. We do not waste energy on anger. Try again."

  Caldreth swung. It was cleaner this time. Morvain nodded, a rare, crinkling smile touching his eyes. "Better. Again."

  Across the courtyard, laughter rang out like silver bells.

  Serintha was kneeling in the grass, holding a small bow. Beside her was a girl with raven hair woven with teardrops of red blood-glass. The girl was laughing; her terrible aim had sent an arrow into a decorative hedge.

  "It is not funny," Serintha scolded, though her tone was warm, devoid of the military stiffness she would carry later. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind the girl's ear. "If you cannot hit the target, how will you hunt?"

  "I won't need to hunt," the girl said, grinning at Caldreth. "Caldreth will do it for me."

  Caldreth felt a surge of warmth so intense it hurt. He knew this girl. He knew her name, though his tongue couldn't form it. She was the other half of his soul, the anchor that kept his feet on the ground.

  The scene blurred. The light shifted from soft purple to the harsh, bright crimson of high noon.

  They were older now. The wooden swords were gone, replaced by dull steel.

  Caldreth lunged, his movements a blur of speed. The girl met him, her blade ringing against his. They weren't children anymore; they were young predators. They moved with the terrifying, arrogant grace of the Sangrathi.

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  She swept his leg. He jumped over the strike, using the momentum to spin and bring his blade to her throat. She didn't flinch. She just smirked and pointed her off-hand dagger at his stomach.

  "Draw," Morvain's voice barked from the balcony.

  Morvain and Serintha stood watching, leaning against the marble railing. Lines of worry etched into their faces that hadn't been there before.

  Caldreth sheathed his blade, flashing a grin at the girl. "When can we ride out? The Wild Hunt leaves at dusk. I'm tired of sparring. I want a real kill. I want to face the demons."

  "Patience," Serintha warned. "Demons are unpredictable and dangerous. The Wastes are not a playground, Caldreth."

  "They are to us," Caldreth scoffed.

  The sky shattered.

  There was no warning. One moment, he was laughing; the next, the purple sky was torn open. The soulorchids withered, turning to black ash.

  "TO THE SANCTUARY!" Morvain was screaming, shoving Caldreth forward.

  The pristine courtyard was a slaughterhouse. Demons, thousands of them, poured into Nethervale. Not the feral scavengers of the Wastes that Caldreth was taught about, but organized, armored legions.

  Caldreth reached for the girl. "Run!"

  She was right beside him, her bow singing as she loosed arrow after arrow into the horde. But there were too many.

  A massive, hulking demon crashed through a nearby wall.

  "Go!" Serintha shrieked. She threw herself at the beast, sending out a powerful shockwave that forced the creature backwards.

  Caldreth hesitated. He wanted to fight. He wanted to be the hero.

  Morvain grabbed him by the collar, dragging him back with strength born of desperation. "Not today, boy! Today you survive!"

  They ran. They ran until their lungs burned and their boots were slick with the blood of their kin. They ran down, past the cellars, past the foundations of their world, plunging into the deep, dark bowels of the earth where the light of Nethervale had never touched.

  The Sanctuary. A bunker. Cold and silent.

  Rows of sarcophagi lined the walls.

  "Get in," Morvain ordered, his voice cracking. He pushed Caldreth toward an open pod.

  "Where is she?" Caldreth spun around, panic clawing at his throat. "Where is she!"

  The hallway behind them was empty. The girl was gone.

  "There is no time!" Serintha pulled a heavy lever on the wall. The thick doors ground shut, muffling the screams above in Nethervale. "She... she was right behind me."

  "No!" Caldreth lunged for the door.

  Morvain caught him, pinning his arms. The man's eyes were wet, tears gathering in the corners, refusing to fall. "Please, Caldreth. Do not make her sacrifice meaningless. Get in, now!"

  Caldreth went limp. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a cold, numbing horror.

  He climbed into the cold stone box. Serintha leaned over him and grabbed his wrist. Her grip was iron-hard. She tapped a familiar rhythm against his racing pulse.

  "Steel your heart, Cal," she said, her voice cutting through the panic, fierce and maternal. "Fear is just wind. We will be right here when you open your eyes."

  The lid slid shut, sealing Caldreth from the outside world. Darkness took him.