Doomfire Warlocks range ahead of the war-covens on shadow-eyed steeds, harrying flanks with curved blades and volleys of sorcery. Their signature doomfire gutters from their hands in bolts of violet flame that unravel whatever they touch, and they cast it at the gallop with a fluency no orderly college of magic teaches. As scouts, screens, and sudden hammer-blows they are indispensable — which is precisely the word their mistresses use instead of trusted.
Every warlock rides in bondage. Morathi holds a measure of each coven's souls in her keeping, and their service to the Daughters is the interest paid on that captivity; the sisterhood makes little effort to spend their lives carefully. The warlocks know it, bank their resentment like coals, and dream — quietly, and never twice in the same camp — of a day when the debt is either repaid or collected.
Order of battle
