That night at the celebration feast in Castle Bermarc, Awlmys was instructed to call forth a goodly rain to end the drought and quench the parched ground. Candles flickered as Awlmys chanted. The wind swirled with great force and thunder boomed, shaking the walls. Soon, steady heavy patter was heard against the roof. A great and loud cheer echoed from the hall; musicians took up their instruments and the guests began to dance wildly. Strumalt could scarcely believe his good fortune. But his joy would last only for the briefest of moments.

A messenger raced into the hall and approached his lord. Reeking of smoke and looking as if his opponent had bested him, the man reported that a bolt of lightening had struck the royal orchard, which was now ablaze, and it was not rain, but hail the size of a man's fist that was falling from the dark clouds.

As Strumalt turned, a bellow forming deep in his belly, he received a blow across the shoulders from an unseen hand. From the nothingness stepped forth Lord Ardmore, fully armored and sword unsheathed. One of his knights then appeared—followed by another and yet another, until the whole hall was filled with fighting men.

And so it was that the House of Bermarc came to an end in one night. Strumalt escaped with his life, but little else. His castle, his lands, and most of his men were all lost. He sat in exile for some seasons, with but one purpose to live.