The elf Tarathiel waited patiently within the throne room of the floating fortress looming over Tolspire. The blood of the so-called Prophet was still smeared across his blade. Valmark had served his purpose perfectly but had become nothing more than an annoyance upon Tarathiel's sudden arrival. The silence of these corrupted halls was welcome before his guest arrived.

Mythandur would come. Tarathiel's benefactor had assured him of it, but more importantly, Tarathiel could sense it. Of all the disgusting humans he had encountered in his lifetime, there were none who had proven themselves so...obstructive to Tarathiel's designs.

A ferocious sound echoed through the tower as the hallway doors of the throne room burst open. Tarathiel stood slowly, at ease with his fate. Regardless of who won, he knew they would both die this day, as would the wretches of Tolspire below.