Six weeks ago I posted a cover and told you a world was coming. Today I'm showing you the first six pages together for the first time. If this is your first time here, let me tell you where this world came from and why it took fifteen years to arrive.

This story doesn't begin with kings or conquerors or chosen ones. It begins with six young men on a doomed errand, riding east toward a forest the kingdom has learned to fear. None who trespass its paths return unchanged. Or at al

The most powerful moments in a story aren't the explosions. They're the quiet signals that most people miss. This page is built entirely on that principle. A bird. An ancient city. Something waking up that was never supposed to wake.

In Orvieto I walked into a dovecote carved into an ancient stone wall. It was quiet in a way that felt intentional. Dark in a way that felt old. I've been trying to put that feeling on a page for fifteen years. This is the closest I've come.

In Siena I watched the Contrade march into the Piazza del Campo, each one carrying a creature as its identity, its blood, its centuries of rivalry. I never forgot what that felt like. This page is why.

When I was living in Umbria I would drive through medieval hill towns and just stop. Not because I planned to. Because the architecture demanded it. This is the city that grew out of that feeling.

Fifteen years ago I was standing inside the Palio in Siena, surrounded by thousands of Italians whose rivalries go back centuries, feeling something so ancient and alive it was almost too much to hold. I didn't have words for it. So I started drawing. This is what came out.

A teacher, a professor, a mentor. Someone with authority who looked at you and made a decision about what you were capable of before you ever had the chance to prove it.

When they announced that I had been selected for the Society of Illustrators national student competition, a classmate turned around, looked at me, and said you're so lucky.

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