The Fall of the Circle of Ash: The Sinister Minister chronicles(3 The Sinister Minister Chronicles)

Prologue The year was 1880, and the Highlands were cloaked in the golden haze of autumn. Michel Hawthorne stood on the porch of his countryside home, his gaze drifting toward the rolling hills. The years had been kind to him in some ways and harsh in others. Though the battles against the Void and the Circle of Ash were long behind him, the weight of those memories lingered like a shadow on the edge of his thoughts. Behind him, laughter echoed from the house-a sound that had become his solace in this new chapter of life. Isolde, his wife of many years, called out from the kitchen, her voice carrying a gentle authority that brought warmth to the old stone walls. Their eldest, sixteen-year-old Robert, was showing his younger brother, Henry, how to whittle wood into the shape of a bird. At ten years old, Henry was a dreamer, always asking questions about the adventures Michel had once lived. And then there was Abigail, their youngest. At just six years old, her curiosity was boundless, her golden hair always in a tangle from running through the fields. She often sat at Michel's feet, listening with wide eyes as he recounted stories of banshees, wraiths, and the creatures of the Nexus. Though life seemed peaceful now, Michel couldn't shake the unease that had taken root deep within him. The world had changed-hadn't it? Yet, whispers from travelers and letters from old allies spoke of strange happenings in far-off places. Disappearances, unnatural storms, and a darkness that reminded him too much of the Void's corruption. One letter, in particular, lay unopened on the desk in his study. It bore the seal of Bram, the eccentric hermit who had once been their unlikely ally. Michel had been avoiding it for weeks, unwilling to disturb the life he had built here. But the truth was inevitable: peace had always felt like a fleeting illusion. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Michel's hand rested instinctively on the hilt of the old sword he no longer carried. It had been years since he'd wielded it, but the weight of responsibility never left him. He glanced toward the window, where Isolde caught his eye with a knowing look. "Michel," she said softly, stepping outside and folding her arms. "You've been restless lately. What's troubling you?" He hesitated, then gestured toward the horizon. "It's quiet here, Isolde. Almost too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before a storm." Isolde stepped closer, her presence grounding him. "Whatever it is, we'll face it together. We always have." Michel nodded, his gaze shifting toward the house where his children's laughter carried on the wind. He prayed that whatever storm was coming, it wouldn't reach them here. But deep down, he knew the past had a way of catching up, and this time, it wouldn't be just him and Isolde who were caught in its grasp. The shadows stretched long across the land as the first stars appeared in the sky. Far away, in the untamed corners of the world, the echoes of a new threat began to stir. And Michel, though he didn't know it yet, would soon be called upon again-not as a lone swordsman, but as a father and protector of a new legacy.