Your father taught you little, child. You have lived on this island, blissfully ignorant of the world beyond the sea and the happenings wherein. But there are things waking up under the rising sun… Things that started to wake up before you were even born. Every day, more and more, they stir, slow and quiet, just as you sometimes delay getting out of bed, fighting sleep’s haze with morning’s unhurried laziness.
— The words of Treia the hermit, at the dawning of the last year of Black Ice, as recorded in
These beings – monsters, spirits, creatures, gods, whatever you wish to call them – have slept for generations. Their awakening was slow. It was slow, but it is coming to a head. And we poor, small, fragile humans… We’re going to have to learn to live in this new world.
diaryof Helena, the first Arch-sorceress.