The Lost King

The dying embers of the fire made a pool of ruddy warmth in the deep blue night. The trees beyond its light were threatening ebony shadows. A man stared into the glowing embers. The lines on his face were sad, but he was a young man. His waving black hair was a shade too long, and a stubble of beard shaded his jaw. The firelight flickered in his eyes, their changing depths touched by his swiftly moving thoughts. They were incomprehensible facts and figures, a catalogue of destruction he could not escape. Yet Marc Dynteryx, rightful king of Dynt, could not accept it.

What was the answer? Could he survive? Protect his friends? Win?

Logic firmly answered. “No,” but his heart hammered at him, demanding a solution. For all he held dear, he knew he must find it.