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One summer afternoon in 1462, a storm gathered in Velakia.

In the shadow of the southern Carpathian Mountains, the air smelled of approaching rain,

and the coppery tang of blood, and rotting flesh, and the sulfur of burnt gunpowder.

If you paid close enough attention, you could catch a whiff of rank raw fear.

As the storm crept over the mountains, the sky'd darkened.

Soon, only thin rays of sunlight penetrated steel gray clouds.

One ray caught the naked blade of a sword returning to its sheep.

Scarred and calloused hands gripped the hill, flexing the bands of white scarred tissue against hand skin.

This man hardly seemed to notice the storm.

He wasn't especially tall, but he was strong.

His broad shoulders, powerful arms, and thick bull neck jutted out from his red silk tunic.

He was in his early 30s and looked like a prince should.

He had cascades of dark, wavy hair, a perfect aqualine nose, and a thick mustache on an otherwise clean shaven face.

But it was his eyes that stood out the most.

They were a deep and unsettling shade of green.

They moved dreadfully slow.

They deliberately sought out targets, as if his look would burn holes into whatever caught his focus.

Behind those eyes was intention.

This man possessed an iron will, anger, and casual cruelty in spades.

He smiled to himself as he looked up at today's work.

...