Days later the scattered trees of the Sea Forests of Mizine ended abruptly, leaving the five standing before rich, green grasslands, stretching over unending rolling hills. Here and there golden stalks of wheat lifted their buds to the warm, yellow sunlight. Sun rays danced over Marklus’ head as he took a tentative step into the green meadow, cautiously stepping through knee high grass.

            Ten years earlier he had turned back for one last glimpse of Zikeland, taking in the ripples of carpeted green, relentlessly holding tight to the dark secrets of the land. His vision had been fuzzy and blurred with tears he’d hastily attempted to wipe away, lest his mother and father see signs of his weakness. Home was ingrained deeply within, his very soul uni...

Please subscribe to keep reading.