The seat of Black Moon Draw had been abandoned for a thousand years, waiting for the Shadow Knight capable of ending the spell that held it in its grip.
The Shadow Knight was halfway to his hold when he noticed something that made him halt in the middle of a frozen crowd of his subjects. He turned all the way around to survey his surroundings, his gut twisting and chest constricting.
A hundred thousand people, his people, would perish in two days.
The cliff top hold had never been breached by an enemy, let alone taken. It was built to withstand years of attacks, needing only a small amount of men to hold the fortress. But there was only his sword - and the dangerous magic at the core of the hold that spewed out deadly fog.
The realm would be destroyed long before he had a chance to save even one life. A thousand years of fighting ended here, with the last Shadow Knight.
If his army were present, he would not hesitate to take the fight to his enemy. It would be over quickly, for the Desert Knight did not know Black Moon Draw the way his men did.
He turned his gaze to the heavens, shrouded by fog. The sensation he had experienced earlier in the day - hope - was gone. He was not long for this world and never meant to see the blue skies.
A thousand years and he was so close to saving everyone.
A thousand years and he was about to lose everyone.
Raw emotion pierced him and suddenly, too late, he knew what he wanted after the war and curse ceased to exist.
He also knew it no longer mattered, that the reason he never thought beyond the end of this era was because some part of him innately knew he would never see the dawning of the next.
His focus settled on the fortress at the center of the city, the source of fog and the heart of the curse. The witch was right. There was a time for battle and a time to try aught very different than battle. Failing to defeat his mortal enemy, he still had a chance to face the curse the way the Knights before him had tried.
As he strode towards his hold, he went over what he knew of the interior, especially the chamber at the bottom of the uppermost, highest tower, from whence the fog spouted. Sword sheathed, he shoved open the wooden doors of the fortress meant to be his home and broke into a run, sprinting through the castle before its deceptive walls and hallways could rearrange themselves.