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The mountains were jagged, looming spires of cold metal and twisted rock. They towered over the foothills, but only the tallest peaks breeched the clouds. As the tops grew closer in rings, there were valleys. With villages. Towns. Cities. Palaces. The largest valley was a whole palace town. The only accessible point was through a treacherous pass that made tall, jag-ended waterfalls look soft and gentle.

The palace was made of marble. Rich, cream colored marble harvested from the mountains. The mountains were rich in marble. They could almost be called marble mountains, but there was rock buffering each side of the mountains. But the palace was warm. There were towers that loomed over some of the smaller mountain tops, and long corridors and walls with arrow slits and murder holes.

It could have been called a fairytale castle. Only it wasn't. But on one of the balconies on a high wall stood a woman. She was of middle height. And her long auburn waves set off the form-fitting red gown she wore. Her eyes were like almonds, shape and color. Her name was Majira. Just Majira. But just Majira had a title. Majira, Star of the Day, Princess of Krolm, the third largest country to inhabit the mountains of the Daemon world. Majira. Her familiar, Rogan. A large spectral winged wolf with slavering fangs and claws to make daggers dull. And by her familiar, it could be told that Majira was a Maje. A studier of the Majicks. And Majira didn't want to be where she was.