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After centuries of indifference and dismissal, the children of Shadow were beginning to hunger. They watched millennia after millennia as humanity turned to the Light, bestowing upon them limitless praise and affection.

Yet when they offered their own gifts, children ran crying to their mothers and door after door slammed shut in their faces.

They raged and gnashed their teeth with envy. For their gifts were of the mind and spirit, and what moves in the dark and the depths of the soul will always come second to the warmth of a fire and a fertile harvest that fills the belly of a child.

And man will always fear that which they cannot see, and do not understand.

The bright colors of the art start to change as dark, misty tendrils of shadow creep in from the edge of the pages, reaching toward the glowing kingdoms in the distance.

Clearing my throat, I flip the page.

At last, the Shadow struck out—as those drowning in pain oft do when they’re ignored. Perhaps, if pain and dismissal had not been left to fester, there may still have been room and time for compassion. If the wound had not been left to rot and fester until its poison began to rot all that surrounded it.

But that is not this story.

The hand that may have been extended in brotherhood, reached for steel and drew first blood instead/

Weapons were drawn. First blood fell.

War arrived like a thief in the night. It crept over the land and into the skies. It entered sleeping chambers on the silent feet of assassins and the finest golden goblets filled from jugs of poisoned wine. It was fought with fists and blades, treacherous whispers past ear-to-ear and legions of marching armies that left once beautiful flowered meadows in bloody ruins.

And through it all, the most dangerous and deadliest weapon of all.

Magic.

For generations, Light and the Shadow turned their gifts upon each other, and the Breath bore every strike.

Until eventually… it could take no more.

For the Breath was never meant to wage a war upon itself.

It started small, as so many catastrophic events in history do. For centuries, both sides ignored every sign their world was dying. What is a single failed harvest when there is war to be won?

What are ten failed harvests in the face of battle? Even a dozen are easily dismissed when the reaper of death is breathing down your neck.

Millenia passed with eyes trained on the threat beneath the enemy’s banner.

All the while, the Earth was unraveling. And as history has shown time and again, those who suffer most for the sins of the powerful are those without power.

Humanity watched year after year as their crops died, their rivers and lakes dried up, and their loved ones fell to famine and disease.

Feeling helpless, a shocking number of humans took up swords. They stood with the Light, whose gifts their stories remembered with love and stood against the Shadow—and the destruction it wrought.

Below the text, shadowy figures loom over beds as the occupants writhe in fear—locked in a nightmare inside their own minds. Rows upon rows of humans, each sporting an injury that makes it clear this is some kind of field hospital.

Fates… the lack of control…trapped in your own head but unable to escape? The thought of it makes me nauseous. It’s not something I ever considered. Abilities that extreme don’t exist outside of movies and books, but now…

I turn the page, unwilling to linger on the image any longer.

A woman stands at the head of an army, hundreds of soldiers—male and female alike—lined up in a now-familiar pose. Arms extended, hands out, balls of fire explode from their palms, soaring in an arc across the empty stretch of sky.

Across the battlefield, a second enemy army, dressed head to toe in black and charging straight for them, is another now-familiar sight.

Most rush forward on foot, gripping spears and swords. Some, however, lead the charge on ebony warhorses who, like their riders, snarl and bare their teeth in fury.

For a moment, I swear I can hear the sounds of battle. The screams of dying males and females and the pounding of heavy hooves along a muddy bank. Someone—a female—barks orders in the recognizable tone of a seasoned commander. Her voice sounds amplified, but it doesn’t sound like a megaphone; it sounds like⁠—

“Fates,” Riven whispers, “What battle is that?”