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Her bleeding eyes didn’t alork as they should

“Speak,” she said, and the word caed throat, the sound a harsh whisper that nonetheless hoith screams

Raising his head from the floor, the nized that yellow hair down to the shoulders The Scribe placed his hands on his thighs and kept his head respectfully bowed as he began to speak

“I have finished my work on the prophecy, sire”

Her blood pulsed, her senses sharpening She re him this task in thethe prophecy in an old scroll when she’d been a otten it for an eon Then had co power, and with it, a faint whisper of memory that told her the scroll was important

It had taken her scholars and trackers almost a year to rediscover the ancient text, and since the moment of rediscovery, the words had become an echo at the back of her head, a drumbeat she couldn’t unhear

Archangel of Death Goddess of Nightmare Wraith without a shadow

Rise, rise, rise into your Reign of Death

For your end will come

Your end will come

At the hands of the new and of the old

An Archangel kissed by mortality

A silver-winged Sleeper akes before his Sleep is done

The broken dream with eyes of fire

Shatter Shatter Shatter

“Tell me,” she ordered the Scribe

The Scribe’s voice was crystalline as he said, “I have traced the origins of the prophecy to the Archangel Cassandra”

Lijuan’s hand curled over the ar into her flesh as the tiny hairs on her nape rose in a prione to Sleep so long ago that she wasAncients But one thing about her legend had never changed: that on her ascension, she had gained the great and terrible gift of seeing the future