Griah Sandwysper stood in the center of a defeated camp, windblown sand buffeting her face; the wind always followed her where ever she went--a sun-warmed breezy reminder of her connection to the Great Worm. Bodies lay swollen in the desert sun, picked by vultures and a feast for the lesser worms. Many of them were half-buried in sweeping sand. Sandstone bricks were scattered, crumbled and burned. Whatever--or whoever--had passed through here surely had a great source of power. The Stormcaller and her followers--cultists of the Great Worm--began to search the bodies, but all of them had been looted. Only the rotting bodies themselves served as testament to their struggle. 

She covered her mouth with a light linen scarf. "Create a funeral pyre for the bodies. Offer them up to the Great Worm."

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Brom had already supped his fill. He was drunk and over-full, and the young prince had grown tired of listening to his brother flirt with Seralle, his brother’s bride-to-be. His drunken haze had affected his manners, and Brom propped his head up on his hand, both of his elbows resting on the table. 

“Mmfph, I thought the Southerners were supposed to be great entertainers,” Brom Arten muttered to himself. “But I’m tired of their songs and I’m sick of their honeyed foods.” He pushed his plate away and stood up. Brom bowed to Seralle, and then to Brogan. “I’ve grown tired from all this merriment… I think I’ll test out the craftsmanship of these Southern beds!” He laughed drunkenly at his own joke before excusing himself from the feast. 

The younger son of the Kingbreaker stumbled through the castle, lost in his thoughts. ‘[i]I can’t believe Seralle actually likes my brother![/i]’ He sulked. ‘[i]The way she laughed at his jokes… And she finds him smart?! Unbelievable! …If only I had the chance to spend time with her alone… I could convince her-… Convince her-…[/i]’ Brom shook his head, appalled with himself. ‘[i]What am I saying? Brogan is rightfully king—my family, my brother! He deserves to marry Seralle…[/i]’ The sounds of hushed voices roused him from his lovesickness. 

‘[i]Is that… Grey the Stolen? Who is he talking to?[/i]’ The northern prince stopped and leaned against the wall, eavesdropping. He could barely make out what they were saying. 

“You know as well as I do that he’s not fit to rule. Something has to be done. Talking to him isn’t enough; he’s far too thickheaded for that… You know how royalty is. So sure of themselves… So positive they’re right… He needs someone to… [i]Remind him what the important things are[/i].”