This was a fun book to create, and truth be told, the one I was most excited to write. I began sketching it in note form long before the other two. Farilane heavily influenced each of the other books’ focus and direction, which I think would have pleased her. There was even a time when I considered skipping Nolyn altogether and revealing what had happened through commentary and discoveries in ancient texts. In the end, I decided that was cheating. I really couldn’t skip the first eighteen hundred years and claim to have covered the history of the empire. I’m glad I didn’t, as Nolyn helped provide vital foundations for what comes next.

For those of you who are curious, or concerned, or both, the draft of Esrahaddon has already been completed. It will be my twentieth published novel, and unless editors run rampant through its pages with bloody scalpels dripping with red ink, it will be my longest. If nothing unforeseen happens this year or the next, Esrahaddon should release in the early summer of 2023. And we all know that nothing unexpected is likely to occur in the 2020s. That’s just ridiculous.

My greatest hope at present is that everyone reading this Author’s Note will also be here to read the one in Esrahaddon. I don’t care if you buy or read the book. I’d just like for you to still be around.

Michael J. Sullivan
January 13th, 2022

Chapter 1: The Twelfth Night

Chapter One
The Twelfth Night

Another series of bright-white explosions erupted where sea met shore as Farilane stood on the rocky coast and scanned the darkening sky for the star that would guide them to the treasure. That was the hope. Being that this was the twelfth night she’d stood at the same spot, Farilane had her doubts.

On the first three evenings, it had rained. The next two, while dry, were frustratingly overcast. The sixth day dawned blue, but by late afternoon, the clouds had returned as if they’d forgotten something. Poor weather continued throughout the seventh and eighth days. The three after that were literal washouts, forcing a retreat to her field camp or risk being rinsed into the sea. Trapped in her leaky tent, Farilane had reread her notebooks, verifying the calculations for the hundredth time. She’d missed nothing. That shelf of stone partway down a rocky cliff was the correct place. Everything except the weather was perfect, but time was running out. She couldn’t bear to wait for another year.

Then on the twelfth night, she caught a break. A star appeared.

“Is that it?” Kolby asked, pointing at the singular pinprick of light on the darkening horizon. There was hope in his voice.