Graver, The Reckoner

They found Arlen Emundus at the edge of a Dead Field, soaked in blood not his own. He said nothing as they bound his hands. Said nothing as they dragged him through the rusted roads of Mazander. Said nothing when they brought him before King Lundgren, seated high above the vaults of the Interior Court. He was tried for the murder of his own squad. The trial was swift. The sentence, certain. But the blade never touched him.

When the world twisted, he awoke in Eskadar—land of cold banners, feared steel, and the opposition Mazander had no answer for. He shouldn’t be alive.