Excerpt from the Prologue of The Call of the Horn

“It is time,” said the strange voice.

Harold of Norr realized it was a dream, but different from his usual dreams. He saw himself through the eyes of another, his form perfectly vivid. This was a dreamweaving dream – the kind that showed only those of the Brightstar lineage visions of what was to come.

He saw his hand on the hilt of his sword. His double stood strong and ready, facing an elderly man who sat upon a throne of ice that showed no sign of melting. The old king’s white hair and beard flowed past his feet, and atop his head sat a crown of gold streaked with ancient bloodstains. His long fingers curled along the frozen armrests like pale spiders.

The king’s mouth twisted into a snarl, revealing teeth blackened with rot. His cataract-clouded eyes, though nearly blind, fixed not on Harold’s double but directly into the eyes of Harold’s dream-self. With deliberate slowness, he lifted one arthritic finger and pointed at Harold of Norr, the last of the Brightstars.

“It is time,” the king repeated.

Harold tried to speak through his dream form, but no sound emerged. He tried again, remaining silent.

The pointing finger stayed fixed upon him. “The Brightstars are needed, Sir Harold.

The time has come for the prophecy to be fulfilled. You are to bring the line that was broken to his rightful place. It is time.”

“Time for whom?” Harold’s voice boomed.

The timbre of his words resonated throughout the icy throne room. The ice panes in the windows shook violently. As his voice faded to a whisper, the old king’s laugh crackled like winter flames.

“You know of whom I speak. His father dwells in Fallenfell. The boy, Othren. He will reunite the races of men and scourge the tyranny of the Lothlani. But he is in grave danger, Harold of Norr. Go forth to Fallenfell, find the boy king, and take him to Erathor. The Lord of Erathor will help in this matter.” The old king settled back against his throne.

“How will I find him?” Harold’s voice shook the walls again.

“He will find you.”

“But where?”

The king only laughed.

“WHERE?” His voice exploded a final time.

Harold crashed to the floor beside his bed, the morning sun streaming through open shutters. His mind still echoed with the ice king’s words and the weight of the dreamweaving vision.

“I don’t know why you talk in your sleep,” Frieda said from above. “I can’t get a proper night’s rest with you either chattering away or snoring so loudly the miller’s wife keeps asking if you’re sawing furniture for the tavern.” Despite her words, affection warmed her tone.

“Frieda, my darling, my love, why do you abuse me so?”

In the dim light, he caught her smirk. “Because my father warned you before you asked for my hand.”

She crossed to the windows and threw the shutters wide. Sunlight flooded the room with warmth, carrying the first crisp hints of autumn on the breeze. As she left to prepare their morning meal, Harold rose, mind still clouded with the dream’s portent. He needed to reach Fallenfell. The coastal village lay two days’ ride from Havenswood.

He packed a small satchel and retrieved his sword from the foot chest. His Brightstar armor waited in Erathor, under Lord Brewyn’s protection. Harold hoped it still fit.

As Harold strapped on his sword, its familiar weight carried the burden of generations. Every Brightstar before him had answered similar calls – his father to the Battle of Broken Crowns, his grandfather to the Lothlani Uprising. Some had returned. Many hadn’t. The sword’s worn grip bore the marks of every hand that had carried it to victory or death.

The dreams were their blessing and their curse. His father had once told him that a Brightstar’s true test wasn’t in receiving the visions, but in having the courage to follow them even when they led down dark paths. Harold remembered asking his father how to know if a path was worth following. “When the price of ignoring the dream,” his father had said, “outweighs the price of following it.”

With his satchel strapped to his back and sword at his hip, he descended to the tavern where Frieda had set his breakfast at the head table – eggs and bacon still sizzling on the plate.

The morning bustle of Havenswood filtered through the tavern’s windows – the clatter of the miller’s cart, the calls of early merchants, the perpetual argument between the baker and the butcher about whose shop drew more flies. The tavern sat at the heart of it all, its oak doors worn smooth by generations of hands.

Inside, the familiar scents of last night’s ale mingled with Frieda’s cooking – bacon crackling in the pan, fresh bread from the ovens, and the herbs she insisted on hanging from every beam. “A tavern should smell like life,” she always said, “not just its vices.” The morning sun caught the polished surface of the bar where Harold had served stories alongside drinks for three decades, each ring and stain on the wood holding a tale of its own.

She turned at his entrance, hands finding her hips. “Where do you think you’re off to?”

He couldn’t help smiling at her stern look. “Have I told you lately you’re the most beautiful woman in all of Lothlyn?”

“Yes, many times when you need to go off on one of your little adventures. What happened this time? Who sent the message?”

He sighed in defeat. “I had a dream.”

“I have loads of those, Harold. But you don’t see me running off into the sunset with Prince Lamrick, do you?”

“It was a dreamweaving dream,” he said. “I was told to go to Fallenfell. It’s— What kind of dreams do you have about Prince Lamrick?”

“Doesn’t matter. What did the dream tell you?”

“The time has come. I must find the future king of Nolden. He’s hidden somewhere in Fallenfell.”

She set down her cast iron pan with a thud. “The King that was Promised?”

“The one and the same.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. The other dreams had been different – dark ones invading Edrith, rogue wizards tormenting the innocent. This time, she felt the shadow of fear fall over their household. Her husband might not return.

“You must go then, and leave me to tend the tavern.” She embraced him tightly.

“Don’t be gone long. Pass through town before heading to Erathor. I wish to see the face of the man you owe your allegiance to.” Tears welled in her eyes.

“I’ll bring the boy here first. We’ll stay the night before the three days’ journey to Erathor.”

“And you’ll return home to me soon after?”

“I must go where the king leads me. I seek a boy of seventeen named Othren. I wish I could promise a swift return, but the gods alone know when I’ll see your sweet face again, my love.”

“Do you promise to return?”

“Frieda, you know as a Brightstar, I make no promise I cannot keep. But I shall return in a week with the King that was Promised.”

He kissed her long and hard, knowing their next meeting was uncertain. The ways of kings were perilous.

Harold glanced at the worn tavern walls, each wooden beam holding thirty years of memories. More than his home, it was their legacy – the life he and Frieda had built when he’d chosen love over the constant wandering of his Brightstar ancestors. Now that choice would be tested. The prophecy didn’t just threaten to separate him from Frieda; it risked everything they’d built together.

“The tavern…” he started.

“Will still be here,” Frieda finished, but her fingers twisted her apron – a nervous habit she’d had since their wedding day. They both knew that unattended businesses in Havenswood had a way of becoming someone else’s property, especially when their owners served ancient prophecies instead of ale.

At the stables, he readied his old white gelding and set off toward the east, toward Fallenfell. His father’s words about the dreamweaving visions echoed in his memory – warnings of strange sights and grave portents. His father had not been wrong.

If he rode hard, he would reach Fallenfell by tomorrow afternoon and return home within the week. That was, unless trouble found him first.