A Poisoned Feast and an Uninvited Guest

Three hundred years after the Great Wars ended.

“Guards! Open the gates! Guards, I need the king—the danger, the danger!”

A man of the jinn repeated the cry, exhaustion heavy upon him. Terror showed plainly on his face, and an arrow had pierced his right shoulder.

His white armored uniform was stained with blood and dust until it looked like thin, bloodied ice trampled beneath horses. His pale face, like that of all jinn, had become even more drained and gaunt. Fear danced inside his eyes, as though it had stolen the last of his color.

The guards upon the wall aimed their arrows at the shouting jinn and came fully alert. One of them quickly blew the great horn beside the gate, and its song rolled across the fortress.

Dozens of guards left their quarters at the sound, moving in disciplined ranks to the nearest wooden stairs and taking their positions along the walls.

One guard descended, mounted a brown horse, and rode to inform Zarkon, commander of the Middle Fortress. The horn had sounded only once: a warning, not yet a visible threat. That was what Zarkon told himself as he mounted his massive grey horse.

“My lord, one of the jinn is at the gates. He appears wounded. He keeps shouting: open the gates, I need the king—the danger, the danger.”

Zarkon barely heard the last word before driving his heels into his horse and racing toward the gate like an avalanche.