Sovereign of Wrath Interlude: Acyclical

A flash of pain. Darkness. Fire. Wrath.

Confusion.

Eyes snap open under a slate gray sky. Bleeding fingers dig furrows through ash-covered, half-frozen mud. mories of battle war with mories of ho, of expectations and… mistakes.

Lungs draw breath and sputter, choking on frigid, sulphurous air. Years of training kick in, then out. Clashing lives, spasming muscles, and a flash of flattened, de-barked trees. A desperate fight for air as face turns from sky to churned earth.

Strange weight, strange proportions. Familiar heavy heart filled with unfamiliar reasons. Half-rembered prayers to an uncertain god.

Unanswered.

The first damp patter of earth on a hollow coffin.

A surge, heat, and the sky again. Limbs splayed, jaw slack, heart racing. Light fades, clouds clear, and stars look down through the gaps between light snow that hisses against burning skin, stings at the edges of now-healed limbs, alights on cold weights attached to the head.

mories strengthen, mories fade. Identity erges.

And with it, recollection. Death—and no proper rebirth.

Sylvia Frost, forr High Priestess of Dhias, forr human, screams until her throat gives out.