Prologue

Jagason.

A planet of terrible beauty and haunting destruction. Scorching heat from the twin suns, whose hot rays permeated even the black clouds above, cracked ground that had once been green and fertile. The land cried out for water, but the dark and roiling sky above would not yield to the soils’ plea, withholding the rains the clouds rarely produced. Mountains, terrible in their deformed beauty lay in broken, scattered lines along the horizon. Once they had been whole and majestic. Once they had reached for the stars, proclaiming their strength, but now they struggled to rise above the land around them, greatly wounded with the craters that decorated their sides and left gaping holes in their strong defense.

Ghost ruins stood in stark contrast to the empty plains around them, places of strange gleaming steel and gray concrete. They gave testament to a time that had once been, a time that had failed and fallen into despair and chaos. Such ancient cities stood as warnings to the remaining inhabitants of this world to be wise in their decisions, to not make the same mistakes they had.

The white eyes that watched the silent land knew better than most to take that warning to heart. Those eyes knew better than most what the warning really meant, but no one wanted to listen to the owner of those white eyes. They were eyes that had seen too much, even at such a young age. They were eyes that saw more than they should and made others uncomfortable.

Anrar stood at the entrance to his temporary home with his feet parted in a sturdy stance and his arms crossed, as if he judged all the land he looked upon. His white eyes narrowed as they studied the ancient ruins and then moved on toward the south where the wind was journeying, howling in from the north and sweeping across the dry and barren red-brown soil without pause or hindrance.

The harsh and biting gusts caught the man’s black hair, whipping the long strands around his face and then back, wrapping around his neck as if to strangle him before being flung away again. He never took his eyes off the southern horizon, however, seeming to barely be aware of anything around him.

It was too quiet. His gift was too quiet, too settled. He didn't like it. He fought it daily, kept it at bay, but it was only when his power stopped trying to get loose that he worried. When it stopped trying to get loose he knew it was working on showing him something of great importance, something that usually meant great change….and not all of it was good.

Anrar frowned at the thought and even at only nineteen, the expression looked the most natural on his face, as if he didn't smile often, nor had reason to. The youth’s white eyes finally disengaged of their staring contest with the southern sky and Anrar turned toward the cavern at his back, finally noting the wind that had chilled his body and the oncoming storm the strong gales brought with them. He could almost taste the lightning in the air. An electric storm was brewing and he’d best not be caught outside when it came upon his home.

The youth sighed to himself as he entered the shelter of the cave. It wasn't all that deep, but it was adequate for his needs as he was the only one here - well, he was when his companion went out hunting. The rocks around him were yellow in color and they absorbed the little amount of light the shadowed sky allowed to reach the ground, casting it back into the cave when the sky grew even darker with the coming of night. They held in the heat from the day as well, something Anrar was always grateful for when the night came as the darkness of twilight was as harsh as the day’s heat as it neared freezing temperatures while the suns were away.

Such thoughts reminded him that he needed to build a fire and change out of his lighter, day-wear clothing. Tanisk skin-clothing was wonderful for the harsh sun as it came from a large lizard that roamed the desert-like landscape of Jagason, but for the winter-like nights it was almost next to useless and heavier clothing was needed. Anrar set about the task of building the fire first, using the substance called Lonik to do so. Large, rock-like pieces of fuel, Lonik was found every mountain range and was good for use in candle-making and camp-firing making. Wood was a precious and rare thing to find and grass even harder than wood unless it be by the dwindling rivers and lakes, so those who desired to live by fire in this land harvested and coveted Lonik.

Anrar did not have to fight for his, however, as he was alone in these yellow mountains and had been for a good many years. None dared settled in the jagged peaks and low valleys of the Nayhota range, nor the Iius plains for fear of the shadows the ancient ruins cast upon the land. Anrar was not spooked by such myths, though. He knew the truth about such tales. He knew the true stories behind the fearful legends and while the stories were no better than the myths, one could at least make sense of them.

No one listened to him, though. They said his ideas were sacrilege and would bring destruction down on them all. They had cursed his gift, claiming he was a greater trouble to them than even those that dwelt in the great domed-Cities and had sent him away. They’d said they’d rather deal with their enemies from the numerous domed-Cities that dotted Jagason than follow his advice or allow him to dwell among them. Harsh, but the young man had understood their fear. Oh, he’d not forgiven them for his exile, but he hadn't fought them either. Anrar had left as they wanted him to, but he’d not stopped knowing the truth and he’d been sure every year to let his people know he still lived.

He still lived and he still knew the truth while they lived among lies. Those in the Cities and those who lived by the harsh laws of Jagason - it did not matter who they claimed they were - all lived among lies. Anrar knew they were all being deceived.

He knew this just as he knew that something was stirring in the wind. Something was changing. His gift was quiet, too quiet and he knew it could only mean strange events were coming. Something was happening and while he could not pinpoint it now, it would come to him. It always came to him.

So it was that as the wind outside howled around him, Anrar sat still as any statue and the youth listened to the voices no one else could hear and watched the stories no one else could see.

He listened to what his power could tell him and he waited. He waited for those he’d known would find him for many years now. He waited patiently, but with an underlining emotion of anticipation for he knew the time for their meeting was drawing close. It had been drawing ever closer for years now and Anrar knew that when they all came together, he and these people his gift watched so closely, Jagason would be changed greatly.

After all, his power had gone quiet. Which was nice for him, but it was never a good thing for anyone else. It was doubly bad for anyone who did not want to see the changes his gift told him of, coming about.

Anrar knew it didn't matter what anyone else, thought, though. The pull between him and the others would not be stopped. It was too late for that even now.

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