"The mages are opening doors they can’t close, Lark," Fjall rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. "I’ve seen the flickers in the air. Rifts. Something is looking back at us from the other side."
Eile struck a dissonant chord. "Then let it look. Maybe the world needs a monster to remind us why we used to be heroes."
The age of Elven supremacy was ending. The age of the Conjunction—and the bloody birth of the first Witcher—was about to begin.
In the shadows of the corner, Fjall of the Dog Clan watched her. They were supposed to be enemies—their clans had been locked in a blood feud for generations. But a shared exile makes for strange bedfellows.
Eile, once a elite Guard of the Raven, sat in a low-lit tavern far from the golden spires. She wasn’t holding a blade; she was holding a lute. To the patrons, she was "The Lark," a nomad with a voice that could soothe a wyvern. But her eyes stayed fixed on the door. She knew the golden age was a thin veneer. The kingdoms were rotting from within, fueled by the ego of mages who played with the fabric of reality.