?nnywella finds herself standing on the mantel of the hearth in the main hall of Herst Castle, the hall is cold and almost entirely shrouded in darkness; and if it were not for the placement of Kaladrae and a faint glow coming from the kitchen pass-through window to her left, she would not have known where she was; so she steps away from Kaladrae and begins to walk along the mantel; hoping to see or find something—anything—that will explain to her what is going on; the thick slab of stained maple has more than enough width for her to stand comfortably and walk along it without having to be concerned with falling off; and after walking all the way to the end in both directions, she determines there is nothing on the mantel beside her and Kaladrae; so she turns back to Kaladrae, and touches the blade once more—but it is now solid, and the patterning in the steel no longer sways and ripples, so she checks her person for jewelry—something she can drop into the darkness below—just to make sure the ground is solid beneath her, but she finds nothing aside from the white gown, and then a light begins to shine from above, it is soft at first, faint blue beams coming from four cracks in the darkness, then it grows as fingers uncurl around it, illuminating the sky above and then the area below, the hand pulls away, leaving Luhnylla's Great Moon alone in the starless sky, and a faint giggle comes from above, echoing its way down the stone walls, so ?nnywella follows the sound with her eyes, the moonlight now illuminating the hall before her—it is different, newer, yet older at the same time: most of the paintings are now gone, with no portraits of monarchs after Tyes Herst II present; four large clocks hang on the wall across from her: the one in the center is a standard twenty-four-hour clock—it reads 00:08; the three other clocks are placed above it in the shape of an arch—and from what ?nnywella can see—each displays the phase of one of the three moons; there are guards present; standing at attention with their backs against the walls, they are dressed in the typical checkered red and cream tunics of the Queen's Guard, but besides this, they are different from the dress of the Queen's Guard now; they are heavily armored by comparison, of a different design, and bearing an older version of the Herst Coat of Arms—some seem to look around, but none notice her; the three columns of large wooden tables she is used to are not present, replaced with three smaller rows of tables topped with black marble, all are desolate except for the center table, which has seven seats and each spot is set for a feast, with plates sitting on golden runners flanked by silver utensils with ebon handles and tall wine glasses with gilded rims, while three men on each side and one at the head; she quickly recognizes the men: to her right, Siwert Kantzyl, Gerkyn Fyan, and Ludox Byrnth; to her left, Captain Mazen Brywyl, Kort H?shagyn, and Drewer Koeh-Styer, ?thalrykk VI sits at the head, facing her: he is limp and slid down the back of the chair; his head leans on his right shoulder, with his eyes wide and unblinking and jaw hanging slack—dead—this sight disquiets her greatly—she looks to the center of the table and finds herself, wearing the same simple red day dress she was wearing the day her father had died, bound in chains as if she were to be drawn-and-quartered by horses; she watches herself thrash and pull against the chains, face contorted into a silent scream; all the men seem to ignore her, not caring that she is there; they are all engaged in their own discussions—unfortunately, ?nnywella cannot hear what they are saying; except for Drewer Koeh-Styer—who has long silver threads attached to his limbs and head, which extend infinitely into the starless sky; Drewer picks up a knife and fork with the grace of a marionette, sinking the blade deep into her wrist, he begins sawing; ?nnywella watches from the mantel when her hand, right where Drewer had begun to cut, starts to sting, and she raises it to her face, watching as the lesion on her wrist grows deeper and the wound gets larger, blood pouring down her arm staining the gown red, she starts to see the bone as gravity pulls the hand away from the stump; soon there is nothing left but a thin strip of flesh and gravity takes control—her hand falls to the floor below, tearing the strip of skin from her arm and taking it with it; with a wet, fleshy thud, the world goes black.

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