Wyll stared up at the sky, wounds aching. At least he would die on a beautiful night. If this was the last he saw of Faerün, he’d be content.

His fight had not gone as planned. The monster had been far stronger than described to him—it was dead now. It seemed Wyll would be joining it soon.

He was going to die. And then Mizora was going to take his soul and make him a mindless blob on the front lines of the blood war.