Both scryings failed. Though a second disturbance from the unseen had distressed the flow of the earth’s flux, the circle of shamans gleaned little more than the emperor’s vizier, although they sang a mighty power into their striving. A protector walked Hell’s Chasm, they said, his person cloaked by a layered work of warding whose weaving had deafened their seers. Perplexity deepened. For when the tribal enclave retired, the elder among them dreamed a flawless line into the warrior’s heart. He saw the man as a great, cloudy star, his light wracked and riddled by mishap and wounds, and the dross of his unshed tears…