Now man conducts its wars only faintly emulating the glory of the past. Men and women throw themselves against each other, dying without ceremony in mud and dirt to scraps of metal flying too fast to see. Those few with the power burn bright and are snuffed out for it. The end of Magic's time on this world approaches, but no one is willing to see it. It could be prevented, perhaps, they race towards the possibility: the soldier, the prince, the spy, and the debutant. I pray they do not, though I doubt the Highlord will listen. I'll need to ask him when I meet him on the mount.
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