"For those who have left us and those who mourn for their deaths."
In the broken base of the World Tree, the voice of an elderly elf echoed.
Her eyes closed as her hand moved over the faces of the dead Queen and King lying in their coffin.
She stood in the shattered heart of the World Tree, where roots once glowed, now blackened by the royal's resting place.
The elder elf who introduced herself as High Matron Selyra—hovered her wrinkled hand above their faces once again, then pressed it gently to her chest.
"May the spirits guide you to the stars," she murmured. "And may your light remain in the branches of the tree."
Around her, many elves knelt, with their heads bowed deeply.
Pasithea stood among them.
The crown on her head glinted faintly, but it didn't hold any power when she was blowing her eyes.
Pasithea didn't try to hide it.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked at her parents, but she didn't wipe them away.
