Winter howled off the Great Ice Sea. The Road of the Sun, leading from the Royal Colonnade in Winterkeep to the Isle of Witness, could not withstand the onslaught of wind and wave. The wooden bridges fell, their stone supports crumbling. But in their ruin, five shapes, each swathed in a cloak the color of cold ash, emerged from the storm.

Death came to Winterkeep.

Screams still filled the night when Arantar returned to Winterkeep. Too late to save the royal city, he knew, but not too late to save those lives that remained. He found Isenith just inside the South Wall. She was leading survivors out of the city-servants mostly, but also a few guards, their eyes no less fearful than the others'.

Isenith held the baby in one arm while she used the other to issue orders. "Where is he?" said Arantar. "Where is Khasoreth?" "I don't know!" said Isenith. Tears streaked her face and froze upon her cheeks. "My brother said-" "Where is the emperor?" "Dead!" she shrieked, the first hint of hysteria entering her voice. "Oh, Arantar, they're all dead." "I must find Khasoreth. Together, perhaps he and I can put an end to this." "Don't leave me! Arantar, the baby-!" "Lead the people west. Get them to safety. Trathenik should be headed this way with his cavalry. Tell him what has happened. Tell him to shun Winterkeep until I send word. Allow no one to come near." "But, Aran-"

A great crash cut her off as the Tower of the Sun toppled into the city, crushing buildings and people beneath it. So great was the storm that even Arantar could no longer distinguish the howling of the wind from the cries of the damned. "Go, Isenith! Go! Take our child to safety." He gave her a last embrace, placed a tender hand on the bundle of his son, and pushed them out the gate. The others followed, the guards last. Arantar grabbed the final soldier, stopping him. He turned him and looked down into his eyes. "See them away. Should any harm befall my wife and son…" "My life for theirs, Honored One," said the soldier, and he bowed. Arantar pushed him after the others and turned into the city. She watched as if from a great height, seeing and hearing everything, even feeling the cold, though it did her no harm. People fled in every direction, dragging children and carrying what few possessions they could. The Royal Guard and City Watch offered some resistance, but the five creatures in the ash-gray cloaks froze them where they stood, destroyed buildings, and summoned the winds of winter to topple the last of the towers of Winterkeep.

Following the sounds of slaughter, Arantar at last came to face the destroyers of the capital of Raumathar. They stood before him, the wind whipping their cloaks like banners. One stood foremost. Upon seeing Arantar, he stopped and lowered his cowl. Arantar stopped and stared, his mouth hanging open. "Khasoreth? What… I-" The thing that had been Khasoreth laughed and struck, sending shards of ice at his former master. Arantar rebuffed the attack, then another and another.

After repelling the fourth, he struck back, but the five sorcerers absorbed the force he sent against them and used it to fuel their own strength. Spells flew faster than the snows driven by the gale, and shields of magic shattered and reformed themselves. Again and again the five struck at Arantar and he struck back. Their battle raged throughout the city, neither side gaining the upper hand, but Arantar's stand allowed the last of the survivors to escape onto the steppe. The five sorcerers called forth beings from the darkest planes to fight for them, but Arantar bound them and sent them back. He in turn sent fire and lightning upon his foes, but they blocked every strike. Their battle took them into the skies themselves as the combatants rode the winds of winter and magic. She watched as Arantar alighted upon the Isle of Witness, now an island in truth since the bridges joining it to the city lay beneath the waves. There, under the winter-bare boughs of the Witness Tree, Arantar made his last stand.

His eyes shone forth bright, but with each strike their light was growing dimmer. His foes surrounded him, and she watched as he leaned in weariness against the trunk of the great tree. His hand shook, and his staff fell from his hands to clatter down the stone steps. Seeing his foes approaching, Arantar smiled, closed his eyes, raised his face to the heavens, and called out, "Father!" The fabric of creation seemed to vibrate, as if a great bell had been struck or clarion sounded. The gait of the five sorcerers faltered, and when Arantar opened his eyes, they shone a white purer than the noonday sun. Again she looked, and it was as if two beings stood in Arantar's frame, one a man of Raumathar, wanderer of the steppes, and councilor of kings, and the other… beyond all that, one who looked down on the petty bickerings of kings and laughed. The five sorcerers howled in fury and struck, calling upon every spell they knew as they charged up the hill. Arantar and the Other struck back, and it was as if she could see beyond reality, see every note and harmony within the song of reality. The five were darkness and shadow infusing the bodies of Khasoreth and his four apprentices, and they drank in all warmth and corrupted all life around them. The attack from Arantar and the Other did not strengthen that disharmony, but rather fed it, pouring holy light and life into the never-ending hunger. The five screamed, and four fell to the ground. The dark infusion, the thousands of tendrils of unlife burrowed into their souls, twisted, frayed, and broke. The thing that had been Khasoreth fell to his hands and knees upon the ice-slick steps and looked up at Arantar. In the light cast by Arantar's countenance, the shadow lifted from Khasoreth's face, and his eyes cleared. "Master… please. Remember. Remember… mercy."

The exultant smile upon Arantar's face faltered, and his countenance deepened to what she could only call a profound pity. The light dimmed-and Khasoreth struck, sending a thick arm of darkness crashing into his former master. The thing within him shrieked in unholy delight. Arantar stumbled against the tree, and the thing that had been Khasoreth leaped, falling upon his former master with fist, tooth, and spell. She watched as the Other within Arantar gathered and concentrated his strength to strike. No! said Arantar, though his lips did not move. Mercy. The pure light in Arantar's eyes evaporated, and the Other began to lift away-but the thing that had been Khasoreth struck, its great arm of darkness seizing the Other, tearing at him.

For an instant-she knew it was no more than that, though it seemed to stretch for an eternity-darkness warred with light, then light surrendered. Arantar breathed his last, a small smile upon his lips, and the Other fell. The five creatures of darkness seized it, and she watched as they battered and tore at it. Again and again they tried, but to no avail. The Other sought the last bit of warmth, the last living thing upon the island-the Witness Tree-and fell into it. With a cry of triumph, the five struck, unable to destroy the now-hallowed tree, but sealing it with their darkest spells so that the Other could escape to oppose them no more.

Her vision followed them throughout the years. Winterkeep lay fallen and shunned by all people, but true victory had been taken from the five devils. The last attack by Arantar and the Other had warped their spell. Not only were they trapped within the bodies of the five sorcerers, but much to their dismay the bodies of Khasoreth's apprentices grew old, weak, and approached death as all men do. Filled with the dark powers, their bodies lasted many generations, but die they did. In their desperation the five devils refined their spells and sought the ancient magics of the people of the world in which they found themselves. Try as they might, they could find no way to free themselves from their imprisonment nor stop the decay of their mortal homes. But they did find a way for their fell spirits to seize other mortal forms. But only a chosen few. She watched as the years passed and the ruins of Winterkeep blew away with each passing winter or were buried beneath soil and snow. Powerful as the dark arts of the five were, they could not overcome one flaw. No mere mortal could contain them, but only those in whom the blood of Arantar and Isenith flowed.