The channel conveyed desperate word back to Anzbek, that the emperor’s Grand Vizier had perished while striving to fashion a pattern to guard Tuinvardia’s threatened north border. The tribe’s dreamer garnered more in his wandering sleep: of cedar fires burning an unconscionably foul spell line, and a fair-haired princess’s tears. The warrior still lived, enveloped in the silver-edged shadows no scryer’s talent could pierce. When the shaman’s circle had shared these grim tidings, Anzbek spoke. ‘The signs all converge. Hope lies in the warrior’s wardings. He carries the songs to secure our salvation. This princess, by blood, holds the key to alliance that can bind Sessalie’s ground under Tuinvardia’s protection. Our future now hangs on the thread of two lives. Sing for mercy and strength, that they might survive…’