The Searing Cost of Rising Above

Ilyanas Tomb of Doom


Ilyana sat on the Throne of the East, deep within the chasm of the vampyre. Her hands grasped the bony faces of two skull knobs branching from the armrest of the off-white throne of bone. Long legs crossed, she reminded Isabella of a powerful maiden she had once known in the kingdom of Krilldonia, which like the caves of Vesper, bowing to a vampyric presence.

“Fits me, no?” Ilyana smiled, flashing her canines in a casual, “oh, was that me,” accidental manner.

“I agree,” Isabella said, looking into the gloom of the triple balconies that faced her, the parliament of Vesper, or so it was once called.

“You looking for the others? The other associates?”

“In an off-handed way,” Isabella said. “Seems like there should be more to your government and all.”

“I killed them all.”

“Killed them all?” Isabella sat cross-legged before the throne, wondering what the hell  happened…

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