Izobella had grown quiet after Ilyana’s induction to the power of the blood. Three months had passed. Three months gone, and in those days, Ilyana rose into power, gaining more skill day by day in the dark art of necromancy.
The girl was a lot like herself, full of vinegar, full of pluck. But Ilyana was a tad more rational, and Izobella attributed that to Ilyana’s situation. She was ignorant of the goddess Izobella served. Ilyana had no idea.
But it was best that way, Izobella thought. How many times had see been drawn out into the open to guide some misbegotten cult or sub-cult in the name of Ravnora, whom she once saw in the form of Tzeentch, the deity of mutation.
Even now, watching from the depths of her tower via a crystal, Izobella smiled, recognizing the dagger and shield combinations she had taught Ilyana only days before…
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