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Three vines grow up between the statues, in the Valley of Graves.
Sometimes the king's children wander. Sometimes they beg for stories.
The three vines spread and twist, around the statues and each other. Two of them bear flowers in red and gold.
"What about this one?" the eldest asks, pointing to the vine with purple flowers, streaked with midnight black. "Why are the thorns so big and sharp?"
The High Mage is ancient, and fearsome, and wise. When she answers, it's wistful, and bitter, and fond.
"Oh," she says, "If you knew him, you'd understand."
Sometimes the king's children wander. Sometimes they beg for stories.
The three vines spread and twist, around the statues and each other. Two of them bear flowers in red and gold.
"What about this one?" the eldest asks, pointing to the vine with purple flowers, streaked with midnight black. "Why are the thorns so big and sharp?"
The High Mage is ancient, and fearsome, and wise. When she answers, it's wistful, and bitter, and fond.
"Oh," she says, "If you knew him, you'd understand."
