Florence (Firenze), region of Tuscany, Italy
December, 1490

Jennifer sat down across from Teren.
“You sounded serious when you asked me to tea. Serious really isn’t your thing.”
Teren shook his head.
“Yeah, I know. I don’t like serious stuff, but this is kind of important.”
He cleared his throat.
“We both agree that we don’t feel romantically about each other, and don’t want to get married, right?”
“So far I’m with you, yes.”
“I think we should tell my father how we feel about it. And if he doesn’t know about Stuart and Jolie-”
“I’m not sure if Stuart and Jolie even know about Stuart and Jolie.”

Sioned was growing tired of the life she had chosen.

Four years had passed.
He had seen the trees change from white to green to red to black and all over again four times. He couldn’t believe how long it had been since the day the Yīnyǐng had separated them all. He had seen the change of what parts of the world they had travelled together, thoroughly worried by it all. Things changed so drastically wherever they turned that he was sure he woke up in a different world every morning.

The leader of the Dusks knew it would be easy to cause havoc in the paradisal scene, and that finding the Al-Izz boy would take no effort. Ten thousand rubies for a job well done.
The Yīnyǐng did nothing else better than an attack.
“Toula,” the leader said, his voice a maelstrom. “Over here.”
The Yīnyǐng turned and approached and pulled back her hood. Toula’s wavy black hair tumbled down her back and she stood at attention before Tai. “Yes, Father?” she said.

Prologue
He had known it would come and had prepared. There was nothing truly worrisome that they could do to him. Still, it was always good to take precautions. He was glad he did, as he looked down at the chaos below. It was chilling, seeing what the Scrubs were capable of. It was so defiant of what he had always been told, of what he always knew.

The wraiths took to the walls, melting with the shadows of the obsidian. They moved with the grain of the stone, with no one’s noticing them. They were clothed in what seemed to be shadow, as well. The soft black fabric of their suits had no seam, and their contrast with the walls was non-existent as they expertly and silently scaled the thick barricade that stood between them and their targets.
After all, the Yīnyǐng were known to be silent and invisible.

Wynne made it to the barracks of the keep. Warrior women jogged to and from the extensive and solid establishment. Marching girls with blonde braids swaying on their backs passed by her, their blue eyes gazing on her. They whispered behind their small, pale hands in the lilting yet hard language of Skuld. Wynne smiled and nodded to the squadron, who smirked shyly and went on their way.
She knocked on the barrack door, and a lady dressed in a soft buckskin tunic and palla answered.
“Úda’lugha?” she asked plainly.
“Gwceff,” answered Wynne as she entered.

Nóe ran down the hall.
He remembered last night as if it were a second ago. Every memory was vibrant as if it had just happened. Every single word, action, and gesture was crystal clear in his mind.
“Your brother is becoming quite destructive,” mused Lord Crofton, carelessly strolling across his throne room. “It’s become… peeving. And his dog, that mangy, rabid thing… that is a lot to take care of.” He stopped mid-step, then turned to Nóe. “Has he been this way for long?”

Wynne snapped awake and quickly pulled on a leather tunic and thick bragae trousers. She stuffed on wool boots and then proceeded to brush out her hair to the best of her ability, then she tied her waist-length locks in a high bun with her faded rose-colored silk ribbon. She sighed with nostalgia each time she laid eyes on it.