Water Sleeps

The wind whines and howls; in its breath there’s bitterness. Thunder growls and barks; with savage force, lightning rips into the plateau of shining stones, frightening even the Shadows. The plateau, which once knew the age of grim flourishing, is carved with scars—the traces of a catastrophe. A winding fissure splits the ground—like a torn wound from a lash across a face. Here and there, tongues of mist crawl, tinted in a thousand shades of gray and black; only in a few places are miserable specks of other colors visible.

In the middle of the plateau stands a mysterious citadel. It is enormous, gray, and unimaginably ancient—older than the memory of human chronicles. One of its towers has collapsed right across the crevice. From the depths of the fortress, breaking the age-old silence, comes a rhythmic, slow, sleep-inducing knock—as if the heart of the world is beating there.

Death is eternity. Eternity is stone. Stone is silence. Stone cannot speak—but it remembers.

And so begins the next story, emerging from the pen of the Chronicler and Standard-Bearer of the Black Unit—Murgun.

The soldiers are busy with military preparations. Winter offensive is ahead. Soon the fighters will march south—toward the inevitable and possibly final clash with the forces of the Master of Shadows. Most of their strength has already been on the road, which promised to be long and difficult. And in front of them lies the plain of Charandapras… But then a new terrible power enters the game. And that means the Year of Skulls is near—and no one can predict the outcome of the battle.