Swarog’s head bows lower and lower under the weight of new crowns. But the clink of goblets and the beloved voices of women distract him from the bitterness of his losses. And the growing whispering—hissing, rustling, the noise of the neighboring pages—echoes once again of an ancient Storm, forcing him to take up his royal business. Through the gentle light dancing under the shadow of night, the Dryad, Swarog sees how delicate bands of piercing-blue light tear open from the heavens. Talar will soon drown in them… And against the new villain, an army has been assembled that is barely less frightening than the neighbors themselves. If only he knew where to strike!