Nettle Lilygrave kneels in the mud beside a broken mask, her fingers tracing the painted lines like a lullaby. The mist clings to her like old grief. Bones clatter from her belt as she stands, eyes lifting toward the forest where no birds sing. She murmurs in an ancient tongue, voice hollow but steady. A fire lights in her palm, blue as mourning. They remember, she breathes, and walks into the fog, bare feet silent, but never alone.
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