-

-Sovereig

of standing bone and obsidian, arranged like a dead forest frozen mid-sway. Her throne is grown, not carv

s not s

ts wit

loak when she speaks. Her eyes remain black, her skin pale, but her hair is streaked

not a

a lis

ven three words: "Spe

, the court listen

k pain, the

n flesh, but form: a new shade, born of memory

-

urt of

nts of Velmoria's frac

king Elirya. Now a flickering shadow with a candle in his ches

turer, reborn as a figure of smoke and silk wh

s of those forgotten by history. Their song

ot fear death, but walks beside it. A plac

-

Ret

s ol

filled with echoes. But time wears even stone. He had buried the urn. Buried his blade. Walked the

dreams c

her

el

ot ride.

ere once rot and silence ruled, he now sees strange growths-tomb-blooms, flo

e failed to save, cryi

sn't f

-

m-Sovere

ch. She does not send gua

him c

um, he sees her-not young, not old, bu

ys. "You ended her. You

ng closer. "And now I se

pprove?"

ingdom of the dead that no longer moans or

says. "But I didn

en speak. Rem

kne

irst time, of

tle. Not o

he willow, long before qu

une

m the ground behind her-a young girl with a

oks at

ls him

-

irth of

longer

nd that gro

dral of

here death is not the end

ules with

guardian of the storie

and ash, the dead whis

unders