Mourning Embers...

Princess Istrabell straddled the mangled corpse of her late betrothed in her arms, moving away from the waning chaos that had consumed her home.

She gazed ahead with absolute calm; her molten silver eyes were devoid of emotion. The blood drenching her gown was thick, dark, and reeking of death, but it did not register in her mind.

The burden in her heart was nonexistent, making it impossible to get a perfect read on her.

Soon, she reached a secluded field, hidden away from the world, untouched by the horrors of the surge.

Red blades of grass swayed in the wind, their movements eerily hypnotic. Soft rain patterned against the earth, soaking the soil in nature's quiet embrace. 

The air was rich with the scent of fresh, wild earth, exuding a peace that seemed almost unnatural.

This was where she would bury Sebastian's mangled corpse.

Just as she had buried all her previous betrothals.

The grass shifted like reeds beneath an unseen current, filling the space with a surreal atmosphere. 

How could she see this place?

How had this field remained untouched by the darkness that had drowned Astrea in chaos?

Why had the monsters of the Surge overlooked it?

Mysteries of such depth were never meant to be unraveled that easily.

And yet the mysteries did not end there.

As the field seemed to recognize her presence.

The blades of grass swayed widely in a meaningless rhythm, whispering and mourning as though grieving on her behalf. The sound was haunting—an elegy for the dead, an ode to their mistress.

Istrabell walked to what should have been the field's edge, or was its center?

There she stood in silence, staring into the churning darkness she had left behind.

The mourning intensified, shifting into something intoxicating—no longer pure sorrow, but something caught between lament, reverence, and something in between. 

Yet, she remained unmoved.

Her silver eyes smoldered in the requiem's embrace. Her milky brown skin with silvered undertones only grew softer beneath the glow of the living grass. The blades stretched towards her petite frame, curling around her in a bid to swallow her.

She did not flinch.

The grass climbed her body, stroking every inch with an intimacy that bordered on longing. Every inch of her was touched except the most scared of most places.

And when she failed to react, the field grew restless.

In its frustration, the grass lashed out, slicing into her flesh with invisible blades. Causing minute and almost imperceptible lacerations that may never have been visible if not for the pearly ruby drops of blood that welled in their wake, flashing silver in the dimness.

Then, without warning, the corpse in her arms was ruthlessly torn apart.

The blades of grass swallowed its pieces, dragging them into the soil, leaving no trace.

Only for new grass to sprout in its place.

And just when it seemed that everything had returned to silence, the ground trembled

From the field's heart, an obsidian altar emerged, towering over Istrabell, asserting its dominance.

Yet, Istrabell was unmoved.

Still like a lake.

Unshaken. Uncaring. Unbothered by anything.

The earth roared beneath her feet; waves of red grass rolled like a storm-filled sea. The sky above though was unmoved.

And the altar before her bled Aether—silver and luminous with a hidden corruption she seemed to take no heed of. Lacing it with tendrils of abyssal corruption.

The land bowed, forming a dome over her, containing the leaking Aether.

It poured over her.

Even as her skin melted off her bones, she did not falter, and the silver in her eyes only deepened, becoming unfathomable in their intensity as they solidified into a mineral-like quality.

And then- 

She was elsewhere. Beyond knowing reality, or maybe simply within the recesses of her cold mind. She did not know... For it was always a mystery where the Legacy Gates were.

For none could truly tell, as they were the secrets of the Heavens, but now with the Heavens gone, the trials to access their legacy had become even more demanding.

A void of burning silver surrounded her, familiar on an intimate scale and yet... wrong.

Before her stood a looming gate twisted and defiled

She did not need to approach it to know of the foulness that seeped from it.

This was her Legacy Gate.

And yet, it was utterly, horrifically wrong. Nothing about it was natural.

It was corrupted and she knew it. Someone or something had messed with their Lineage Leagcy, but there was nothing she could do; without it, she was nothing but a pawn to her family's schemes.

It looked as though something had bitten into it, tearing away its essence. In its place, an amalgamation of flesh had been stitched together, festering a deep and substantial corruption. 

The legacy had been tainted, transformed into something akin to an abomination,

If it were anyone else, they may have been averse or even terrified of what they were seeing, but not her.

She did not react at all. Simply gazing at her tainted Legacy in mild interest.

She simply stepped forward, her expression unreadable.

For Lady Istrabell was far more than what she would seem on the surface.

Without hesitation, she crossed the threshold-

into the maw of her legacy

To awaken what was rightfully hers. Mere corruption was not going to stop Istrabell Silverflame.

She had sacrificed so much to be here, and she would not be giving up here.

Whatever the outcome was... she would face it in stride. In the end, all that mattered was her will. 

Her pride was not something that could just be infringed upon.

She would take on this corruption and would grow stronger through it. She was something beyond fate and destiny.

And her name would make the whole of Astrea quake in fear.

She would take the mantle of a widow with the pride it deserved; who was fate to say that all she would ever amount to was being a widow?