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Rorn, Waste-Ranger of Nightwake, looks across a wreckage of utter unending night, unsullied by moons or stars, prowled by things suited to blindness and ruin. A realm where man clings to survival in impregnable noctilucent mansions, where only a few can and do step outside to take messages of possibility and comfort
"Waste-Ranger! The vat!"
Rorn turns. There's a stirring of light in the magma of the prophecy vat behind him. Not glowing but flickering. Not swirling but growing. Something on fire, or perhaps of fire, is swimming up through the blackness, about to burst out.
With four others, all of different realms, Rorn is transported to a new world.The last magician of a race of magicians; another possessing and possessed by a vampiric labrys; a towering swordsman whose blade sucks out the evil of those it slays; an assassin shape-shedder.
All five are plunged into a strangely black sea which ships sail across like dreams across obsidian – a sea of shadow. They find themselves in the midst of an uncanny war fought over generations but approaching a final apocalyptic battle where victory is to be won not by strength or strategy but by something far stranger.