The citizens of Mazwar took shelter in their homes and businesses, closed their doors, and braced them against the weather. Some said it was the worst storm in ten years. Old men said it was the worst since they were small children, though in truth, none could ever remember worse.
Only one man braved the storm. Hunched over, Father Enek leaned on his walking stick as he crossed the street, holding a large Alkosch before him. A circular medallion with spiraling lines flowing outwards from the center, the iron Alkosch was the holy symbol of the Maklese Church. Between claps of thunder, the old priest shouted his warnings to any who would listen.
“—lord of darkness is upon us. Repent your evil ways oh citizens of Mazwar! Repent your vile thoughts oh sons and daughters of Castle Malroy! Repent your sins, for the darkness is upon us and soon God will judge your deeds.”
Another giant bolt of lightning lit up the sky, giving the rolling clouds a fiery accent. The priest had to shield his eyes from the brightness for a moment before thrusting the Alkosch back towards the sky. “Repent your wicked ways oh ye--”
A large spear of lightning struck the Alkosch, sending sparks clear across the brick paved road. For an eternal second the priest stood, outlined in a bluish white glow before the bolt of lightning was gone and the old man collapsed to the street. The Alkosch had melted the flesh of his hand and forged its wilted structure to his bones.
No one saw the priest lying there in the street. Nobody noticed the downpour of rain pelting his lifeless eyes, for the citizens of Mazwar were keeping to themselves, hunkered down in the safety of their homes. Safe from the worst storm that has ever laid waste in the country of Shayle. The worst ever seen in the land of the Three Kings.
Deep within the castle’s dungeons, there was another storm loose. There was no thunder and not a hint of lightning. There was no rain or wind. Yet, this storm could unleash a darkness upon mankind, the likes of which the world has never imagined.
King Harren Malroy sat in the high backed oak chair, staring at himself in the mirror created entirely from shadows where a dark figure stood holding it. However he tried, the King of Shayle could not make out any features of the one hidden in the darkness and had long since given up trying. Now it was as if the ghostly image did not even exist. All King Harren could look at was his own reflection.