A few steps away from me, on a black stallion, sat a rider in a black cloak, with the hood pulled over his face. As soon as he raised his head, a long, uneven scar crossed the right side of his face, stretching from the temple to the chin, and lips curved in a contemptuous grin caught his eye. The gaze of cold, blue eyes closely followed the slightest movement, expressing only slight interest. This is how they look at a small insect, wondering whether to play with it a little more or crush it on the spot. Lord Carsten Rogen. Black sorcerer. Monster. The owner of the Cursed Castle, located on the Shadow Pass. A ruthless killer, whose name made even the bravest warriors shake with fear. “It would be better if the Wriggles tore me to pieces.” — I muttered and lost consciousness.