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fading Eastern winter, and the chill seeped down to her very core.
    Rianna Avareen, the reigning Monarch over the Danaan people in her husband’s absence, wrestled her cape back down and pulled it tight about her body, instinctively shielding her full belly and the unborn child within. She felt the baby kick inside her, as if in protest against the rush of cold air.
    Soon,
she thought,
very soon.
    Would her husband be home to see the birth of their firstborn child? Would the King ever return home again?
    â€œMy Queen, you will catch a chill.”
    She didn’t need to turn to know who spoke; she recognized Drake’s voice as well as her own. They had known each other almost twenty years, sharing their childhood: she a prophet and princess, betrothed to Llewellyn Avareen, firstborn son of the noble House of Avareen and heir to the Danaan throne; he the son of a decorated general who served in her father’s armies, destined to one day lead the Queen’s Personal Guard.
    A chill is the least of my fears,
she thought. Unbidden, her eyes turned up to the blood-red moon that hung in the sky above them.
The Burning Moon, a portent of Chaos.
    â€œThere is no word from your scouts, Drake?” she asked, stubbornly pulling her gaze down to once more stare out over the castle walls.
    â€œNone, my Queen. Nor from the hawks.”
    Drake stepped forward to stand at her side and share her vigil … and to partly shield her from the wind, she noted. She wondered if it was intentional, or if he had done it simply on instinct bred from a lifetime of protecting and watching over her.
    He was a tall man, thin but with broad shoulders. Like the Queen, he wore a cape to ward off the chill: a deep, rich green; the color of House Avareen. The garment set off the hue of his skin; like all the Danaan people, his greenish brown complexion reflected the blood of the forest that ran in his veins. His dark, shoulder-length hair flew out behind him with every gust of wind, wild and untamed.
    Rianna’s ladies-in-waiting often talked about how handsome Drake was, though she had known him far too long to think of him as anything but a friend. But she was glad to have a friend with her in this blackest of nights; she took some small comfort in his mere presence.
    â€œWe shouldn’t worry,” he assured her after a few moments of silence. “It’s too soon to expect an answer from the King’s party yet.”
    She nodded in mute acceptance. He was right, of course. The King and his company had left a full week ago. They had a large lead over the messenger hawks that had been sent after them three nights earlier in response to the Queen’s dream.
    The King is surrounded by nearly twenty mounted men, half armed with long, thin blades, the others with short but powerful bows. On either side rides a court sorcerer—one male, one female. A small army, all hunting a single foe.
    The horses shy and rear, but are brought under control with soft yet firm words of command. The King signals to his wizards, and they begin to scan the forest for the beast. Their expressions fade to blank stares as they channel their power and cast out with their minds. Suddenly their faces twist into masks of terrible pain. The woman slumps forward in her saddle; the man cries out and falls from his mount.
    The creature explodes from the nearby undergrowth with a terrible roar, a brutish monstrosity unfit to dwell in the natural world. The massive feline head spits searing venom, burning the flesh of rider and horse alike. The animals panic and several riders are thrown. In the carnage a volley of arrows are released only to shatter harmlessly against the thick, scaled hide of the monster’s body.
    And then the beast is upon them, battering them with bat-like wings, tearing at them with a lion’s claws, savaging them with the jagged spikes of its twin tails as the vision is lost in an orgy of blood and