Prologue


There was only dust. Light from the sun was shielded by it, and the sense of air and earth consumed by it. There was no sound, for she was deafened by the blast. Only dust surrounded her. It got into her hair, her clothes, her eyes. It got into her lungs. Florence Murrinck, the only descendant of Daniar Murrinck, chief of the wolf clan, felt her way through the dust. Had they gone? Why was there no sound? Things seemed to fall from the sky, tiny flecks snowed onto her bare arms, into the blood covering her skin. After all of this, why was she alive?

They had come during the night in a surprise attack. Traitors within the clan had made certain everyone was at ease when they arrived. Who they were, Florence didn’t know, but she was certain of one thing. Lord Divija had sent them. He was a bandit king whose reign had even the bravest of Gandara’s guards terrified. Not that the Murrinck clan cared any for Gandara law, but they had coexisted in relative peace, with an unspoken allegiance against the bandits. Until daybreak they had fought, until that time she vividly remembered everything. Her family and friends slaughtered, their possessions burned, smashed and torn to pieces. She had seen the life fade of all those who meant everything to her, those faces she had seen every day. So, after that big explosion, why was she still there?

A sound pushed its way towards her, but because of the dust she could not locate where it came from. Her ears still hurt, and her head throbbed as she strained to listen. Was it a voice? Maybe she wasn’t the only survivor. Maybe she wasn’t alone. Through the impenetrable dust she crawled, over broken objects and dead bodies until she heard the high pitched sound more clearly. To that source she moved until she arrived. Hidden behind a large body covered in hair lay the only other survivor of the attack. The body was her father, shaped as a huge wolf but she recognized him clearly. It broke her heart to see his face through the slowly clearing dust, contorted in pain. It seemed he had lasted until the explosion, for the many wounds on his body could not have been fatal to a man of his strength. At the very last moment, he had protected something.

Florence reached over her father’s dead body and picked up the half-mithra infant. She soothed the baby girl to her chest, afraid any sound penetrating through the dust could alarm any remaining enemies. In her heart she knew it was impossible. Everyone was dead. Belgareth, the powerful mithra warrior woman had died in childbirth, and Cestos had left their daughter to be adopted by the clan to live under their protection. Cestos himself had already fled to safety from the danger of his mother Celese, who had sided with Divija for power. Florence despaired their fate and promised she would forever take care of the baby girl: for the girl’s other half was human.