“Maybe those gods weren’t lost and you were right to be wary. Just as you’re right to question your conversations with the dead and whether they’ve left the mortal plane. I worry for you,” the man said adding another log to the fire, “I’ve seen revenants form out of mists in your wake. Gliding close as if to taste your essence. There’s something in you that drives the hunger of those left beyond the pale.”

The frozen reaches of Malton stretched out before the pair. The man had pushed the boy as hard as the road allowed. Getting out of Invelkin had been a mistake. Nearly as much as taking the boy along with him had been. The man’s gnarled hands ached something fierce in the winter night. They hadn’t been right since the Ranian campaign against Karcan.

“Others have called them omens. These dreams you’ve had. The soft steps of that which trails you. But those are no omens, boy. They are there in truth. Waiting. Hoping. They have a desperate need of you. To tear the space between worlds open. Yours is a potent force— one not seen since the last weaver. I pray you find no need of your gifts— only to realize they are a curse.”