Prologue

Qualtendra,

I never told you who you used to be.

Perhaps it was guilt that stayed my hand. Guilt—for inviting you to a fate I never understood. For refusing to set you free, long after the cost was written in your suffering.

Perhaps it was shame—for letting the world burn, knowing only I could end the flames. The Vulmarian wars, even now, rage on while I cower. And in ending the age of gods, I left no defense against them.

But Sentinel came to me today, and for a moment, I dared hope atonement was possible— a hope that died when he turned his back on me, making Streacresh’s disappointment clear.

I can bear the pain of your memory, because only there can I see your face clearly. But Streacresh’s disappointment is something I cannot endure.

This is my confession:

It began in a small town called Appledale, when I was just a boy.