The narrow road was anything but well traveled. The wild grass had readily imposed itself on it, making it disappear every so often. Josephine was not concerned with being lost. She had been able to see her destination for the past two days, making the path more or less merely symbolic. The sand made travel miserable. The wind blew it into every nook and cranny she didn’t cover completely, rubbing against her skin as she walked. The plains were bare; there was no relief from what weather there was. She simply trod on. On the horizon stood her destination, the Wall of Anamur—black against the sun and wider than the eye could see. It was engineered from the beginning to intimidate. Large metal spikes, polished to a sheen, could be seen for miles, disappearing into the black mass of rock the made the rest of the wall. One ancient road shot windingly toward its only opening, the Anamur Gate. This was the road she was attempting to follow. It was hard to admit it herself, but she was afraid. Attempting to enter Anamur was almost certainly suicide. All she had to present was a name; one she knew little about and who’s bearer she was uncertain was still among the living. Nonetheless, it was the only answer she had—and she’d rather die by her own actions. read part two...