The night had fallen upon the White City, casting a solemn hush over its alleys and spires. In the garden of his secluded home, Valdren sat in silence, a glass of wine held loosely in his hand. The crimson liquid swayed gently, catching the dim starlight like a forgotten memory. His gaze was distant, his thoughts wandering in a realm far darker than the night that surrounded him.
He had pieced it all together.
After reading the thoughts of Mousan, Liseria, and even glimpses of Elmyra's fading mind before her passing, Valdren understood everything. The puzzle that had haunted him since her death now stood cruelly complete.
Back when she was a child—when the tragedy struck her and her family—everyone had believed that Elmyra had merely been left alive to be tortured. That she had survived by chance, a remnant spared by the madness of the cultists who worshipped the Great Demoness.
But it had never been mere madness. It had been a plan.
