THE LONE figure knelt at the base of a cliff deep in the desert, staring at the small pack he’d carried for three weeks, one of two, the other containing the remains of his food supply.
It was nearly sundown. He didn’t like being in the wasteland after dark; terror lurked there, images of the Citadel’s dungeons, of battle.
The time had come—he’d waited too long already.
He unbuckled the pack and carefully dug out the metal box inside. Flicking open the latch, he withdrew a carefully wrapped parcel. Lifted a small scroll bound by a single leather twine.
With trembling hands, he removed the string, opened Corban’s scroll, and read the words written in the Dark Alchemist’s hand.
My dear Ammon,
You are the last vestige of Order as it was… as it was meant to become. Escape with your life. Establish an Order of Keepers. Guard this precious remnant for the Day of Reckoning.
The Dark Blood herein destroys or grants the power to live.
—Corban
Ammon carefully set down the note, tucked it inside, and then unwrapped the thing inside the box.
A vial of blood.