Rise of the Seventh Moon

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Tristam climbed atop the shattered tower, puffed out his chest, and attempted to look impressive. He was a skinny youth, so this was a difficult task. At least his long coat flapped dramatically in the chill autumn wind.

Beneath him, only a few paces away, the four men were digging through the rubble. They took no notice of him just yet, sifting out metal scraps and tossing them in a wagon. They wore faded uniforms, worn and bloodstained but recognizable as those of Brelish soldiers. Each had a large sword lying within easy reach. Tristam’s shoulders slumped and his courage faltered; he had thought there were only two. He considered retreating to rethink his plan. He glanced around for a quiet path back down the rubble heap. One of the soldiers turned to add a large scrap to their haul and paused to stare blankly at the strange boy standing above them.

“Who in Khyber is that?” the man said, dropping the metal in the wagon.

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