Warlock Laerion emerged from the webway with his host of guardians. Miandrothe greeted him looming over the Farseer Ashetera. Her cohort of Warlocks stood as praetorian, their unease evident in their stiffened stances. Ashetera’s hair flowed in the wind that was not a wind. “Is it done?” Asheteras voiceless words asked. Laerion addressed her. “The prophecy is fulfilled. The Darkness will consume all it touches. Stars will burn black. Ashes raining on lifeless worlds. Everything ends. His strength will fail, then, he will become the Darkness. ” “We have betrayed the Night,” Farseer Ashetera spoke at last. “Dooming Mandragora to a thousand years of darkness. Yet, Miandrothe persists.” “Persist. Is that all we can do?” Laerion questioned. “Those that die are only humans. Miandrothe persists, the blood paid by noble savages. It is a price the blackborn have been honored with.” Laerion thought deeply on that. “Persist. Survive. We have. By betraying those we called allies. Is this fate truly noble?” Ashetera shared in his wisdom. “Survival demands no less than abandoning our nobility. We are long beyond such naiveties.”
