Unlike the other legions, the Halfyr did not swear fealty to any one House. Their only allegiance had always been to each other and to the great beasts they rode into battle. It was whispered that one had to be half-mad to be a Halfyr, to bond so closely with the great black wyverns that its thoughts become yours. But the reward was controlling the wyvern's flight as if controlling the movement of your own fingers, and sharing the fierce joy of plunging, wings folded, to drop on prey and tear into it. Wherever the Halfyr joined the battle, victory was certain, as the wyverns wheeled and circled in the sky above the battlefield, and their riders rained down a constant stream of arrows that seemed never to miss their targets.

And so it went for a year, two years.. as the Tkovaeh slowly increased his foothold on the surface. His legend grew among the mardhrel and the Hidden alike. Warriors returning from battle told tales of watching him walk from the field after a victory, head bowed, of his orders to his men that the bodies of the slain enemy be treated with the same respect accorded their own dead, of him standing in prayer, paying his respects to his fallen enemies. His only consession was in allowing the Halfyr and their mounts to feed freely among the herds of the captured villages. Likewise, he treated those remaining alive with respect, neither enslaving nor shaming them, taking only what hostages he needed to ensure cooperation among the conquered.

It was in this way that he acquired the Lady Althea. Lithe and tall, with eyes the color of spring violets and a soft fall of silver hair that swirled to her ankles, Althea stood by her father when the Tkovaeh came to claim his fealty. Her eyes crackled with barely repressed anger, and she made no attempt to hide the fact that she despised the Raven Knight. When the time came to choose hostages, almost in spite of himself, he pointed to her, standing unmoving as his sergeants bound her and took her away. As they passed him, she struggled to turn her head, and spit on the ground at his feet, cursing his soul for all eternity. He whirled to glare at her, taking a step forward, arm raised. The young aelfen neither shrunk back nor flinched. She merely lifted her chin to glare defiantly at him. He stopped mid-stride, staring at her, then to the astonishment of all those assembled, he threw back his head and laughed. She maintained her pose, icy violet eyes flaring. When finally his gales of laughter subsided, he stepped toward her, reaching out one hand to touch her cheek.

"As spirited as you are beautiful," he said, looking down at her. "Do you not know that such a curse should only be uttered with your dying breath?"

Her father rose to his feet, shouting, "No!", but his way was blocked by the soldiers who stepped in front of him. Althea shook back her hair, and white-faced, exclaimed, "Kill me then, that I may curse you with my dying breath!"

For the second time that any of his men could recall, the dark knight threw back his head and laughed. Stepping so close that he hid her from view, he said, in a quiet, unmistakably amused voice, "Oh, no, young one. It's no test of your determination to curse me if I kill you..."

With that he nodded his head to the men who held her.

"Untie her," he snapped. Quickly they moved to comply. As the last of the ropes fell from around her, he unsheathed his dagger, and with a deft movement, tossed it at her feet. With a snarl, she dived for it, and snatched it up, the light in the room catching and glittering on the keen edge of the deadly blade. She whirled to her feet, dagger wielded. Time seemed to freeze around her, the air thick and heavy. As if in a dream, she watched his ebony hand descend from nowhere, catching her wrist and holding it above her head. So they stood for brief seconds frozen in time, then Althea burst into a flurry of struggles, kicking and tearing at him with her free hand. The knife slipped and twisted, biting into the side of her hand. The first drop of blood splashed against the cheek of the Raven Knight. With a muttered imprecation, he swiftly wrapped one arm around her flailing limbs, and with the other, twisted her wrist till she loosed the grip on the knife. He slipped it from her bleeding hand, motioning to the sergeants to take her again. His icy grey eyes glitered oddly as he smiled slowly at her.

"So be it, little one," he murmured softly. "You bind me to your curse with your blood.. but know this..."

He turned the dagger in one smooth movement and drew it across his own palm, then swiftly took up her hand in his, pressing the bleeding wounds together.

"...as you have bound my soul to your curse with your blood, so are you bound to my soul by mine. If I am damned throughout eternity, you shall be at my right hand every moment of it."

He turned to the sergeants who held her arms. "See to the binding of her wounds," he ordered. "Then take her to my own chambers." With that he turned and strode from the room.