There were memories of power, prestige, dominance, but the dirt in Isobel’s eyes made it hard to believe she was alive. Rising protectively over the graveyard, the moon pulled at Isobel’s body, pulled it up from the earth that had so long entombed her.
Dead? No, not dead. Narratives were coming back to her now. A rise to power, or at least the path to power. She once had summoned flames from her hands, a true paradox. How could the undead, whose flesh withered under the cleansing power of the flame, drop walls of fire on those who sought to eliminate her?
But life itself was paradox enough, why focus on the negative? What mattered was…she once possessed the power.
Her clothes were in the process of falling off of her emaciated frame, and then again, the worms of the earth hadn’t done the cloth any favors. Looking…
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