A Magic of Nightfall

Epilogue: Nessantico

She was shattered. She was broken.

She had been scorched by fire and magic; she had been slashed with steel. She had been looted and ravaged. Her greatest treasures were damaged or gone. The buildings that had been her crown were tumbled ruins and piles of blackened stone. The jeweled necklace of the Avi a’Parete no longer glistened in the night. Now there were only stars in the sky above, gleaming mockingly down at her darkness.

Half her population was dead or had fled. She had felt for the first time in long centuries the tread of conquering soldiers along her streets: had felt them not once, but twice. A Kraljica sat on the Sun Throne, but she looked out on an empire that had withered and shrunk.

There was no denying the gauntness of the visage that stared back at the city from the filthy mirror of the A’Sele: the city’s face was a crone’s face, a blasted face, a face of scars and open wounds and pain. There was no beauty here, no glory, no wonder.

That was gone, as if it had never been.

When the rains came, as they did frequently that autumn, it was as if the entire world wept for her: the city, the woman. The storms washed away the soot and extinguished the fires, but they could not heal. They cooled and soothed, but they could not restore. They flushed away the bodies and garbage and soil that choked the river, but their thundering could not shatter the memories.

The memories would stay.

They would stay for a long, long time…