Prologue

Drake’s sword sliced through the man’s body like a ship through the sea. But instead of bleeding and falling to his knees, as he had all those years ago, the mercenary simply glanced down at the groove across his chest and then looked back up to smile at Drake. Then the man dissipated and was gone.

In his place, mist swirled. A thick fog re-formed, coalescing until Drake was once more surrounded by the soup of it, dense and barely breathable.

This had happened a thousand times. Maybe a million. He knew it was the way of the land. He knew, deep down, that none of it was real. But this place – this nightmare of a realm – was a double-edged sword. If you believed its dreams, the Witherlands slowly broke you down, exhausted you, and made you go mad. If you didn’t believe however, those dreams would begin to become more and more real. Soon, you would have little choice but to believe, as swords began to draw real blood and fires began to burn.

Either way led to misery.

Drake slowly turned in place, his silver eyes looking somewhat duller than they had all of those years ago, when he had first stepped through the portal into this realm. There were no mirrors here. He did not know that his black hair curled, damp in the cloying mists and that it framed a face now pale and more gaunt. He was cold. He’d always been susceptible to cold, but here in the Witherlands, cold was of the kind that slid its sharp, icy fingers along your soul and set your spirit to shivering. It was the kind of cold that accompanied despair.

And Drake was almost there.

But then she laughed. He turned to find himself in an elegant ballroom. Men and women in evening dress and masks twirled across the floor in each others’ arms. They danced to the music of a small orchestra that played on a stage against one ornately decorated wall. Chandeliers of delicate crystal graced the tall arched ceiling, as did paintings of angels and demons in full, bright color.

Drake followed the sound of her laughter, his footsteps carrying him further into the massive dance hall. Men and women moved around him, dancing just outside of his reach as if he was not even there.

And he saw her. At the top of the stairs. She was a vision of other-worldly beauty in pure, snow-white. Her hair was braided and curled in a complicated fashion and poured over her shoulders and down her back like a waterfall of blue black silk. Crystalline snowflakes sparkled where they were twined, here and there, with iridescent, sheer silk ribbons in her long, thick raven locks.

Her dress was constructed of the finest white satins and silks. Her neck and collarbone were bare, the sleeves of the gown long, but off the shoulders. She stood alone, a blushing, mesmerizing angel, her dark eyes sparkling beneath the light of the chandeliers.

Drake’s breath caught in his throat. His chest ached. He longed to touch her. And then someone separated from the crowd and began to climb the steps. He was dressed in black, a stark contrast to her purity. His long white hair was instantly recognizable and Drake’s blood burned in his veins.

His dulled metal eyes cleared and began to glow like melted silver as he watched the elf prince climb the steps to stand directly before Raven. He whispered something that Drake could not hear. Raven smiled again, a pure and perfect smile of genuine joy. Astriel said something else, and Raven laughed.

Her laughter echoed off of the walls, seeping into Drake’s body like liquid magic.

Magic…

Drake knew it was not real. He knew! He was aware that he was losing focus.

But he didn’t care. This wicked dream held him in thrall, despite its obvious game of painful envy. There was nothing he could do; he was lost in it.

Drake moved forward until he stood at the foot of the stairs.

And then he stopped, unable to go any farther as Astriel cupped Raven’s face in his hands and leaned in for a kiss. His lips descended upon hers gently, lovingly, and Drake began to growl.

The growl emanated from deep within his throat, grew, and echoed just as her laughter had. The world turned red around him, the sword clutched so tightly in his right hand that he thought he might crush its hilt between his fingers. He snarled, baring fully elongated fangs, sharp and white, and then lunged toward his target with full intent to kill.

The image disappeared.

The staircase disintegrated, the castle walls turned to swirling motes of vapor, and Raven’s form was gone.

Again.