Chapter 1: Shadows in Deepwood

Heavy-sweet smelling clouds of perfume clung to every shrub and tree they’d passed on their way to the provincial border. They did not come here often. For the tavern in which they usually received their suitors was a generous distance away from Nathum’s settlements—secluded, near a weather-beaten hiking path, which was only used by those who knew what they were looking for. A few hours of fun, conviviality, secret information, sometimes just an open ear. It was a place to go for spies, spurned men, drunken hunters, lonely widowers and spoiled sons of the nobility alike. As different as the clientele in the outside world might have been, in the shebeen to the Red Raven, they were all the same. 

Mama Woodleg took good care of her ladies. She would never have allowed one to be forced to do something against their will. And when guests overstepped the mark in a frenzy, she knew how to throw them out of her establishment rather rudely. From time to time, there were problems with Nathum’s morals enforcers. They did not like to see a brothel with a shady reputation exist near the national border. But the city authorities also knew that the tavern offered shelter, work and food to destitute women, who otherwise would have loitered on the streets as beggars. A Rayan woman could not sink any lower. In a country where matriarchs held the sceptre of power, a homeless prostitute was worth even less than a man. Consequently, the bureaucratic inspections and nightly room clearances were mostly considered to be an uncomfortable formality, usually ending with the prostitutes having to give the tenth of their day's earnings to the guards as punishment. A toll to bear, most of them really didn't earn badly. The old woman always kept an eye on the profit she made with her estate being distributed fairly. Rare justice for someone with such a profession. Leaving the Red Raven voluntarily would therefore not have occurred to any of the pleasure girls. Today, however, three were forced to do so by a new customer’s request for a likely unusual home visit.

The graces could not remember ever been so finely dressed. Their robes had been delivered directly to the tavern, along with an invitation. A slender lad, judging by his blonde hair and fair skin a Rayonaigh, had given both to Mama Woodleg, with the order to select only the three most beautiful women with dark complexions and curly, snow-white hair for his master. Obviously, a small fetish of Mr. Unknown. Just like this regalia completely, which could only have been a product of Rubinburgh’s eccentric fashion industry since it was unsuitable for a walk in the woods.

With slight discomfort, the Nyeda sisters strutted towards their customer—squeezed into shoes that were way too small, and laced with corsets around their hips, the dimensions of which seemed to be tailored for an adolescent young damsel, but certainly not for full-grown ladies with natural curves. 

“Oh dear, these galoshes must have been made by a drunk cobbler,” complained Nyande. “How can one even walk with such heels?” Those dragon totties really had a funny taste. 

“Take them off and go barefoot if they don't suit you but stop moaning,” demanded Namya who couldn't stand the wailing that had been on her neck since leaving the tavern. Her patience was entirely occupied by fighting with the 'breath choker' around her chest. Again and again, her posture changed from a cat's hump to a hollow back to counteract the oppressive tightness of her bodice. 

A peevish growl escaped Nyande upon her older sister’s reprimand. “What's wrong with them in the North that they do something like this to themselves voluntarily?” Sure, there were hip braces, elegant shoes and the like in the South, too. However, their cuts were nowhere near as exaggeratedly narrow. 

“I don't know what you have to complain about all the time. I think these gifts are very pretty,” Nesya disagreed. She was the youngest of the three sisters and only seventeen years old, so her body fit wonderfully into the fabrics from Rubinburgh. Elatedly, she walked forward with her train skirt raised, while the two older ones could hardly walk upright with this textile sin of a garment. 

“With all my love Nesya, but once you have something like breasts and a sensible butt, I'll remind you of your words,” promised Namya, the eldest. 

Somehow, the brat constantly managed to have luck on her side. Since they had been abandoned in the forest as foundlings, the nestling never had to worry about anything. She let herself be fed with the hard-to-catch food, did not receive any scolding from the forest wardens for stealing their belongings, and was permanently carried around when her legs hurt from fleeing, hiding or climbing. When the three finally found refuge in the Red Raven, she also got the easier tasks, the softer bed and later even the more handsome men. And now? Now she was the only one who didn't have to torment herself in unfitting clothes for this perverted eccentric Namya suspected behind their anonymous patron. 

“Are you jealous of my youthful body, Namy,” Nesya inquired subtly, doing half a pirouette to grin right in her sister's face. 

“Me! Jealous! Of you greenhorn! Certainly not,” Namya snarled back. 

“Obviously, you are,” the younger one objected snippily and pranced provocatively backwards in front of the eldest. “Otherwise, you wouldn't react as irritably as you do right n...” A slide, a rustle and a rumble ended her sentence. She hadn't paid attention to where she was walking and promptly fallen down a small slope. With the extremely unpleasant cracking sound of a good dozen branches, she came to a standstill in a bush. Her clumsiness earned no sympathy, on the contrary. A roar of laughter rang from the hill down to Nesya, who was rubbing her buttocks in pain. 

“Look at this, Nya!” Namya shouted in amusement, staring down the hill into the bushes. “Our little bird of paradise is practicing the swoop!” 

Nyande, who seemed to have finally succeeded in freeing her feet from these cursed stilts while limping, came to a stop on one leg next to her big sister. When she saw the youngest sitting in the brush, she also joined in the cackling: “Well, at least you seem to have found our destination, carrier pigeon.” Gasping due to her acrobatic escape skills in regards to footwear, Nyande pointed to the root house directly behind the hedge. Like most Deepwood houses, it was embedded in a hill and towered over by a gnarly house tree—usually a maple. In terms of appearance, one root house resembled the other, so that only the door sign, sometimes also a rare ornamental plant next to the doorstep, gave more information about the owner. But in this case, it was an unusually inornate vault, with an uninviting location that lacked sunlight.

Look for the deserted quarters at the brookside, about three miles southwest from Nathum, the customer letter said. Great directions. Having to look for a punter in the undergrowth was definitely not included in the hourly price. The guy would have to add a few pennies to the bill before he could enjoy sisterly caresses. 

Namya registered the door crack standing open. Their customer had to be on site already. Good job. None of the ladies felt much desire to kick their heels after they had fought their way through the forest thicket for a good hour. “Come,” Namya hurried her sisters. “We don't want to keep our fashion czar waiting.” Passing by, the eldest helped the youngest out of the shrubbery and back on her feet with a nimble jerk. Freeing the nestling’s hair as well as her noble fumble from dirt and foliage, they made their way to the entrance. 

“I hope there is no stain anywhere,” a question was directed at Nyande by her younger sister..

“You look good enough,” Nyande replied, defusing Nesya’s aesthetic worries with a grin.

Surely three knocks were made at the house portal by Namya. “Hello?!” No reaction. The eldest was not exactly known for her patience. In her profession, time meant hard cash, which is why she honoured customers with the necessary attention but then finished the tête-à-tête quite quickly. “Hellohooo!” 

Finally, sounds from within. It was the same lad who had previously delivered message and presents to the tavern and now allowed them to enter the dwelling. “Excuse the delay, ladies,” he said meekly and anxiously. “My master is still in the bathing-room. I am to take you to him.” Making a servantly bow, he directed Nesya, Nyande and Namya into the entry parlour. 

“What a well-bred youth you are,” Nyande chirped.

“Truly, quite different from your master, who makes us wander about woods and meadows in torture clothes to find him,” Namya rumbled.

“What's your name, little fox,” inquired Nesya and boldly slid her fingertips over the page's cheeks while shoving her boobs past him through the door crack.

The young man seemed slightly nervous about the three women buzzing around him. “Ph... Phyron, my lady. My name is Phyron.” He rarely had anything to do with the fair sex and even more rarely with such charming specimens. Embarrassed, the prospective valet looked down and closed the door.

“I see, Phyron,” Nyande repeated. “He's a handsome fellow.”

Nesya giggled confirmingly. “Look at his cheeks. He's blushing!”

When Phyron looked up again, he found himself surrounded by the graces, who were, for his understanding, examining him in far too intimate proximity to his face. His detailed assessment of the floorboards was marred by three provocative cleavages. “I... I better bring you downstairs.” Abashed, he tried to evade their seductive advances. “Please, follow me.” 

Smiling, the sisters glanced at each other before complying with the request. They followed the boy down a richly decorated staircase. Every now and then, it branched off into a room or a chamber. They were bedrooms, cooking rooms or storage rooms as was customary for a Deepwood house below the ground. Once at its bottom, the three were led along a root corridor, at the end of which another vault was embedded. As Phyron opened the door, the sisters were offered an interesting sight. Ornate partitions of a room-divider they discovered, as well as a presumed sideboard over which a huge mirror hung from the wall. In the middle of the hall stood a large hot tub, filled with steaming water. Warm and humid haze fogged the entire bathing hall, which is why the man, who was obviously treating himself to a beauty session in the tub, was difficult to recognize. Examining the back of his head, as well as the noble interior, they entered. 

“Ah, my charming guests for tonight,” a voice broke out of the aromatic mist. “I hope you've had a pleasant journey.”

Neither did he turn around to them nor did he make any other attempts to grant them more attention, which upset Namya. “To be honest, it was an imposition, sir.” As official ringleader of the trio, she pulled the two younger ones to her side. “We don't usually make house calls. You're a real exception, you know?” She had a talent for driving up the price with sugar-sweet words. In fact, at her words, a throaty laugh broke out of the hot tub. 

“Don't worry about the payment, fair lady. You will be rewarded as you deserve.” With plenty of splashing, the customer rose from his bath. “Phyr, my young friend. Be so kind as to escort our visitors into the large bedchamber. I'll come right after you.” 

“Yes, master.” The supposed pageboy sprang immediately when his name was mentioned. He handed his master a towel, who received it intentionally slowly for the women to marvel at the naked man in detail. He looked good. Not overly muscular, but slightly defined and tall—a pleasant appearance for a suitor, which led to meaningful eye contact among the harlots. His behaviour though, left something to be desired. He offered them no proper introduction, let alone respectful eye contact. As soon as the three had arrived in one room, they were chased into the next. A wonderful one, admittedly. The furniture was uniformly made of dark chestnut. The four-poster bed was covered with burgundy silk. Each of them would have liked for such a generously sized sleeping place. And that wardrobe. Fifty robes would have easily found space in it. Just the right thing for a woman. Candlelight also bathed the windowless chamber in a romantic light, under which it was not difficult to get into the right mood. 

“I've never seen anything like it!” Nesya jumped straight towards the huge four-poster bed, closely followed by Nyande. Under the force with which they let themselves fall in, the frame creaked slightly. 

“Now, please don't behave like two unmannered children,” they immediately received a harsh admonition from Namya. “We want to make a professional impression.” 

As usual, her complaint was ignored. What's more, it was cheekily commented on.

“You're not our chaperone,” Nesya griped. “Stop always being so overly decent and unfunny.” Namya surely knew how to ruin every atmosphere with her grandma attitude.

“No, decency really is the last thing we are here for,” Nyande approved of her younger sister’s words.

Typical. Sometimes Namya thought she was dealing with naïve brats instead of two professional goddesses of love. “You shame me, do you know that?” The eldest crossed her arms, while her eyes got locked on them in a derogatory way that was all too familiar to the other two. 

“Listen to your sister,” murmured a man's voice behind Namya. “Decency and modesty are very important for such young ladies as yourselves.” 

In their distraction, none of the three had noticed how a freshly bathed host finally appeared behind the boy that had brought them here. 

“Although, I have to wonder why she leaves you to a man like me if she’s so concerned about your respectability.” The handsome customer hadn't dressed much. Some light silk trousers of dark red colour and a few slippers was all he wore. At last, the sisters enjoyed a clear view on his upper body and face. His prominent features were framed by a dark grey mane. In addition, he obviously had a thing for noble goatees. The facial hair gave his otherwise youthful looks a mysterious touch. “You can go,” he dismissed his extremely submissive henchman, who was only too happy to leave the room. Phyron hastily closed the door behind him and disappeared. His master, on the other hand, approached Namya's shoulders. With outstretched claws he embraced her and stroked his nose along her carotid artery, right up to her delicately downy wild-elf ears. “So, I've caught myself three Nemesian kittens, ha?” 

There was a conspicuous giggle on the bed. The big sister had just been made taciturn by a guy. A rare sight. 

“She's certainly not a kitten, sir,” Nyande disagreed.

“More of a big unruly cat,” added Nesya.

The man glanced over at the two. “Really? Is she?” he asked incredulously. “I can hardly believe that. After all, she puts her head aside more than obedient.”

Namya wasn't quite comfortable with the guy. Although she didn't let her sisters notice, his sarcastic manner made her uneasy.

“You know, I find Nemesava’s females very interesting.” He talked quite casually with the two younger ones, while he got up close and personal with the older sister.

“We thought so.” Nyande smiled and leaned back on the bed in a charming pose.

“It was hard to miss when you sent your request,” Nesya emphasized with sass, and did her best to imitate Nyande's poses. 

Men like him often came to the establishment of the Red Raven when they were out and about at the border. They all had a soft spot for the exotic. Usually, however, those lovers of the forest's own beauty were content with one of the girls. 

Nyande seductively leaned against the pillows. “We also like to play with foxes,” she chirped. 

A common pet name for the rangers of the neighbouring country. Most of them, who lived that close to the border belonged to the Sion, an old fox clan from the southwest of Rayan.

"Ha, no,” the man grinned mischievously. “I'm not a fox. I'm a dragon.”

The two sisters on the bed giggled as he exposed his fangs to them, clutching their sister's neck a little tighter.

“Do tell, what fascinates you so much about us?” Nyande inquired. Attentively, she and Nesya crawled to the foot of the bed like two curious little girls. Entertained, they watched the stranger as he ensnared their otherwise unruly sister. 

“Oh, you know, that's not so easy to explain.” Slowly, their host began to loosen the straps of Namya's corsage and playfully bit into her neck.

Tension was crawling up her body. Not that there hadn’t been customers before him, who enjoyed a sanguine kiss, but this one alerted her like none before. 

“First of all, there is the taste of your blood,” he confessed. “It's sweeter than that of our women. Which is probably because you eat plenty of forest fruits!” 

At his explanation, the two frowned. Their reaction was excitingly absorbed by their customer, like a theatre play taking its inevitable course.

“The same is true for your flesh,” he continued. “It's tender and can be torn exquisitely easily from the bones.” 

Nyande and Nesya looked at each other in shock. Was he making a macabre joke or was he serious? Namya meant to break free from his hold, but he rudely pulled her arm back and fixed it behind her hips.

“And last but not least, you shriek so beautifully when pierced whilst your throes of death.” 

There was a brutal jolt that gripped Namya's whole body. A sharp blade flashed bloody through her chest, forcing a terrifying screech from her dying breath. Then, all the candles in the room went out. Complete darkness engulfed the chamber, split only by the screams of two horrified women. 

“What is the matter? Don't you like darkness?” Two blood-red irises lit up in the dark.

“You wear it like a skin on your body.” 

A dull thud told Nesya and Nyande that their sister had slumped to the ground. 

“Namya!!” Nyande cried, as she realised what just had happened. 

The two maidens huddled anxiously next to each other on top of the bed, screaming heartbreakingly for their big sister. They heard stings, tearing fabrics, and what sounded like a panicked suffocating gurgle from the throat of their beloved pack leader. 

“Stop it! Stop hurting her!” Nesya squealed through the black nothingness of the room. Her eyes burned ice-blue with hysteria as she watched the azure glow of Nyande's eye lights fade on the ground and finally become one with the shadows in which they disappeared. In their place, two scarlet poles flared up, staring bloodthirstily at the helpless victims in front of them. 

“What, kitten?” a maniac’s voice echoed through the room. “Didn't you just want to play with me?” The wick of a candle in the candelabra near the door caught fire again. In a pale light, it revealed the full extent of the atrocity. Two empty eye sockets stared lifelessly towards the bed, seeking help. With her mouth wide open as if to scream, Namya laid dead on her back. Her throat, torn apart, her heart, torn out and in the hands of a man who sucked it out with relish, staring like a madman at his remaining prey. Their horrified expression made him grin ecstatically. “Well? Which of you will dance with me next?” 

Nyande reflexively pulled Nesya behind her. To defend the youngest, she summoned the power of the rune panther. Her gaze became wilder, the fur of her pointed ears thicker. Hissing menacingly, she extended her claws and drew the monster's attention onto herself.

“Yes, YES!” the brutal guy laughed frantically, full of anticipation. 

Nyande attacked her sister's murderer with deadly speed. He carelessly pushed the corpse in front of him aside with his foot, not even once giving thought to swerving. With ease, he fended off the claw blows, kicks and also the hidden dagger from Nyande's hindquarters, even mockingly circling around the blade. At a negligent stab attempt of his opponent, he finally intercepted her wrist. “Your dance isn’t bad, little panther. But it's not quite sufficient for a ball in the city.” As soon as he had finished his sentence, he hit her in the pit of her stomach with such a powerful blow that she flew back onto the bed sheet. Holding her athame in his claw, he sprung after Nyande, leaped on top of her, and thrusted the blade through the middle of her corset. He slashed not only her bodice, but also the woman's abdominal wall from top to bottom. 

Nesya, who in the meantime had fled half-desperately along the wall to the chamber door, tried to open it in panic. But it was locked from the outside. “Phyron!” she yelled in panic. “Open the door, now!” The boy had to be out there somewhere. How could he have failed to hear the gruesome ongoings? 

Well, he didn't. Distraught, he crouched on the floor at the other end of the door with the key in his hand, buried his head between his pulled-up legs and rocked back and forth apathetically. Occasionally, he flinched when Nyande groaned in pain or Nesya hammered against the closed wooden obstacle in front of her. But Phyron wouldn't open. If he did, he knew it would be the same fate for him as for these women. What his master was capable of, he had experienced on his own body. Under his elegant shirt slumbered at least ten fresh and forty half-healed wounds, the most unpleasant of them in the area of his buttocks. He could hardly sit on it, which is why he released himself from his position after a while and ran to the bathing hall in a daze. He locked himself in, undressed and stepped into the still lukewarm bath water. With monotonous, hasty movements, he scrubbed his skin sore for a good ten minutes. Then he sank into the tub up to his ears. He would stay here until the whole thing was over. For which he could wait quite a while, because his master had just made it to the main course. 

Almost tenderly did the perpetrator stroke Nyande’s intestines after he had exposed them. They soaked the covers beneath completely in damp, sticky secretions. A slaughterhouse on downs. The butcher was just about to take in the sweet scent of the innards when a shoe hit him angrily on the back of his head. Nesya didn't know what else to do. She barely was of age and knew neither how to summon her animalis nor how to use it in combat. 

Her provocation merely woke the cruel killer from his sick trance. He let go of his prey, whose breathing was getting weaker and weaker, then turned to the youngest. “I'll take a lot of time with you, little one, I promise.” His bloodied body began to deform. The skin on his arms gathered into hard scales. Not that he needed this transformational shape right now. He just wanted to stir up the scent of fear in the girl, who again shook the door in vain. “Don't be afraid, kitten. I won’t take more from you than your beloved sisters. Except for one thing.” He came to a halt close to her chest. 

A violent slap forced Nesya to the ground where she fainted for a moment. When she gained her conscience back, she found herself on the bed. Her blurred gaze searched anxiously for orientation and found it staring up a back covered in dark lizard skin, leaning against the open bedroom closet. There were no beautiful clothes in it. Polished steel, sharp and pointed, it kept instead. Her tormentor was making his selection. It fell on a scalpel, which laid neatly sorted on a small tray of the cupboard shelf next to clamps, scissors and other torture tools. The sadist strolled calmly towards Nesya. “Do you want to look at me one last time, kitten?” 

The last thing Nesya would ever see in her life was the shabby grin of her alleged suitor and a sharp blade tip that approached her eyes menacingly. After that, it became dark around her.

Meanwhile, Phyron toyed with the idea of simply drowning himself in the tub. Then, this horror would have finally been over. His mother had placed him with a wealthy noble family said to richly reward their pages. They wore the finest clothes, ate the most expensive food, and slept in sumptuous sheets. That was more than most other boys his age had in prospect. If only he had known back then, what was really going on behind the walls of Dragovaste Mansion. 

He gradually ran out of air under water. A few air bubbles rose to the surface, reflecting his frightened and ashamed face. Torn between life and death, he looked at his features in the liquid image. All of a sudden, it seemed to change drastically. His eyes turned black, as did his sunny yellow hair. Deep shock took hold of him when his face abruptly blinked in the water’s mirror. It watched the young servant contemptuously. A relentless gaze penetrated his soul and dragged every disgusting detail he had ever witnessed to the surface of the water. The walk through the boutiques of Rubinburgh with his master, during which the nobleman let the boy choose the robes for the three sisters. The candlelit evening when he was summoned to the desk in the large tearoom to write his master's mendacious words in a letter. The carriage ride to Nathum in the dead of night on the back of an old cart that, apart from the two men, had only loaded corpses. 

Phyron felt like losing himself in the soul-searching that was happening to him. He wasn't the one in control of his mind anymore. Was he still in the root house at all? It seemed to him as if the water was suffocating all candlelights in the bathing hall. Like black smoke or... ink?

The silent observer had seen enough. As if from a cold grasp, he released the servant's soul and severed the connection. Gasping for air, Phyron jumped out of the water and sought hold on the edge of the tub. He felt caught, persecuted. A feeling that should not let go of him, even when he had long left, riding all the way back to Rubinburgh with his sinister master.

— Deepwood, a few Sundowns later —

It took nights for Nathum's guards to finally get active and to the bottom of the crime. Mama Woodleg had alerted them after her girls had not returned to the Red Raven the day after their unusual home visit. Tracing lost wenches certainly wasn’t on top of the guards’ priority list. Luckily, the old woman possessed a good memory and remembered the approximate direction in which her three harlots were ordered. About half a mile from where the bodies were to be found, they picked up a distraught, emaciated young maiden, whose eyes had been brutally peeled out of her head. Her bloody tears, which drew a tightly encrusted trickle on her cheeks, were to be a dark omen of what the local law enforcers found at the scene of the crime. They were hopelessly overwhelmed by the situation, so they sent for the only officer of the Blood Blades currently on site: Zakane Sion.

His special unit had once dealt with ritual murders of that kind, when Rayan’s society was drowning in a civil war. Besides, this incident had to be reported to the capital, and this better was done by a high ranked official.

When Zakane arrived at the scene, an unmistakable, acrid smell rose to his nose at the front door immediately. No wonder that a few of the less hard-boiled city guards in front of the house had to vomit. With exception of his routine inspections at the country border, the broad-shouldered half-blood no longer had much to do with his Nemesian compatriots. The sight that presented itself to him in the deep vaults of the root house, however, made even him think of revenge for the desecrated bodies of his former clan sisters. 

All four walls of the bedroom where the horrific act had taken place were littered with warlock runes, marked with the victims’ blood. One of them had been dismantled on the bed in such a bestial way that the guards had covered her with a sheet to preserve at least the last remnant of her dignity in death. The other one was not so easy to conceal. Each of her extremities was tied to a bedpost at quite some height, so that her disembowelled body towered like a morbid angel over her younger sister's torso. Zakane didn't dare to touch anything in that room until his superior had seen this demonic offense for himself. “Get me the commander. AT ONCE!” He yelled at the good-for-nothing guards as if he held them personally accountable for this heinous deed. Where the hell were they while something like this was happening in their forest? Fury raged within him as he pushed them all out of the room and slammed the door shut with such force that it was almost lifted off its hinges.

This desecration would strain relations between Rayan and Nemesava. All the more so if the case wasn’t resolved quickly. Bad blood between the clans there had been plenty already. Two things only maintained the fragile pact between the North and the South; ancient rites and friendly ties between the matriarchs of both countries, which went deeper than any sword thrust. For this reason, anyone involved in the investigation of this case had to take an oath of silence on the same day—even the old Woodleg, who cried her heart out in front of the house because of her three dearest girls.

Even more discretion was demanded due to a theft that occurred the same night as the ritual murder. The priesthood of the temple at Zakuray had failed to fulfil their duty. Zakane and his officers found several lifeless bodies in the temple halls the day before he travelled to Nathum. They had taken their own lives after discovering that one of the three Stones of Power had been stolen from the temple vaults. A sacrilege that could be perpetrated by none but a corrupt temple servant. No one else had access to the sealed chests where the stones had been stored since the fall of the Witcher Kings. Disquieting. Roxana’s priestesses had served the Rayan throne for hundreds of years. Should they have gone renegade, the empire would face greater dangers than a blood-obsessed murderer with perfidious tendencies.

The Raji’Draq knelt down before the slain maidens and recited the old prayers for them. With his forehead on the ground, he asked the goddess for forgiveness over the failure of men, who had sworn to protect every woman of Gardyan with their own lives. Then, he straightened up and took position in front of the door. No one should get past him and step over this threshold until his superior had arrived. 

Commander Arayon would not take the news well. His special connections to the neighbouring country regularly caused his temper to boil over when he had to deal with a crime directed against Rayan's sister matriarchy. It was thanks to him that a large part of the xenophobic rebels preferred to keep their mouths shut instead of messing with a son of the dragon blood. Araq's heirs were considered the most capable among the Raji'Draq, not least because it was their bloodline from which the Rayan martial art originated. However, the fact that it was not the dragon stone, but the raven stone the thieves had stolen from the temple, made Zakane more uncomfortable than he wanted to admit to himself.