The wind in the Bck Garden carried a scent of ash and roses, a paradox that clung to the senses and muddled reality. Deep in her sanctum, Lilliana stood at the edge of the terrace, overlooking the writhing field of blooming corpses. Her throne loomed behind her, carved of bone and obsidian, but she remained unmoving, gaze locked on nothing in particur.

  Something was wrong.

  The Death Bloom at her feet—one of her oldest, most grotesque creations—shuddered with a twitch that wasn’t from the wind. Its core, a bulbous collection of half-living heads, shifted. One face, pale and misshapen, suddenly spoke.

  "Still pretending to be clever?"

  Lilliana’s eyes snapped to the thing.

  Another head spoke, in a new voice, softer.

  "You want something."

  The voices overpped, and she staggered back, eyes wide, breath shallow.

  “No,” she whispered. “No, that’s not—”

  She turned sharply, stumbling into the inner sanctum. Her fingers trembled. The illusion around her faltered for a moment—the throne flickered, the corpses quieted. A hush fell.

  The chamber seemed to change. Just for a moment, it wasn’t a throne room of a lich queen. It was marble, white and soft with sun. The scent of vender and parchment filled the air.

  There was a breeze.

  And a voice.

  “I got a contract.”

  She turned.

  He was there.

  Zeek.

  Not the broken, bloodstained version from her fragmented hate-filled memories. Not the coward that left her. But him.

  She reached out, unsure, and saw the glint of silver in her palm. The ring. The same ring.

  Her hand trembled. Her breath hitched.

  “You’ll come back?” she asked the illusion.

  The shadow of him smiled. The memory held her, wrapped her in the warmth she thought long dead.

  “I believe in you,” she whispered to the vision.

  But the light began to rot.

  The sanctum shattered. The breeze became a scream. The marble floor cracked and bckened. The scent of vender burned into ichor and sulfur. The ring in her hand grew cold.

  She looked down.

  Blood now streaked her fingers. The ring was still there, but the warmth had vanished. Her hand clenched around it as if to shield it from the corruption eating away at everything she was.

  A sob cwed its way from her throat, but it came out as a snarl.

  “No more lies,” she hissed.

  The Death Bloom shrieked in response, echoing the torment in her soul. The terrace trembled.

  She looked again at the ring.

  Just for a moment, her eyes softened.

  “Don’t forget me,” she whispered, as if to the memory.

  Then she turned, cloak of bck mist swirling around her, and vanished into the shadows of the Bck Garden, the silver ring clenched in her hand like a final piece of her soul she refused to let go.