He was used to the dreams and their horrors. He dreamed of his people’s destruction, his own death, his wife’s; and here in Mythris, he dreamed of the land’s demise as well.

The Visitor had failed his own kin just the same as Francis had. And the consequences for that failure had echoed throughout history until it reverberated through the entire continent now, threatened every wolf’s life.

He’d failed too many, too often. Francis could not choose the Third Door. The Second called to him instead, and he stepped through into a battle painfully reminiscent of the final hours of his life and kingdom, once upon a time. The cure for the parasite - it had to be protected, for even if the others of Mythris managed to save them from the Moving Isle’s wrath, many more would die from the parasite if the tree fell. The prince surged forward to throw himself into the fray alongside nameless strangers - in that moment, they all became his brothers and even sisters-in-arms.