It had been three winters since the fall of Lysaire.
Elira wandered through a nameless village, nestled between fog-covered hills and whispering trees. Here, no one knew she once ruled a crumbling throne. She went by Mira now, a name as soft and forgettable as the lives they lived. Her hands were rough from work, her shoulders stronger, but her eyes still carried a history too heavy to speak aloud.
Each night she dreamed of the fire. The crumbling palace. The throne room swallowed by ancient magic. And him—Ash—the man whose name had once been cursed and sacred in the same breath.
He had vanished the morning after. She searched the ruins for days, calling to stone and silence. Only the raven remained—its once-silver feathers dulled, its voice silent, mortal now. Yet somehow, it lingered. Like hope refused to die.
Then one frozen dawn, the raven took flight, northbound.
She packed only what she could carry.
And followed.