Thirteen Alfsigr Marfoir assassins surround Wynter, marching her through the Alfsigr capital city, the bizarrely stretched-out Elves gliding forward with disturbing uniformity. They clutch sharp, spiraling blades in long-fingered hands, their gray, insectile eyes pinned on the road ahead leading straight to the Alfsigr Monarchall.

Crowds of Alfsigr Elves line the road, their jeers spiking through Wynter, but not quite covering the sound of her boot heels scuffing against stone. Shamefacedly, she takes in the outraged throngs, their faces uncharacteristically animated as they snarl out invectives at the cursed Icaral in their midst.

A sword tip jabs into Wynter’s side, and she lets out a sharp cry. Her enraged bird-kindreds caw and screech in a chaotic cloud above her, diving down in an attempt to attack the Marfoir again and again, only to be heartbreakingly burned up in flashes of steely lightning as they collide with the translucent runic shield the Marfoir have cast around their party. But the Shadowfire-shield doesn’t stop the stones.

A large rock slams into the side of Wynter’s temple and she bleats out another cry of distress, flinching and almost losing her footing.

“Demon creature!” an Alfsigr woman cries out.

“Deargdul!” yells another.

“Cut off her wings!”

Wynter can’t hold back the choking tears as more stones batter her shoulders and head. She hunches and struggles to protect herself with her wings, the stones painfully raining down on her delicate, sensitive feathers. She is stunned by how worked up the normally placid Alfsigr crowd is. It’s like something communal has been unleashed.

Something seeping in from the Zalyn’ors.

Wynter can feel Shadow twisting into her mind through her Zalyn’or imprint. Intensifying her revulsion for her winged body. Part of her wants to cry out along with the crowd, Strip off her wings! The yearning to take a knife to her feathers and atone for her grotesque form rises to new heights, her very existence a vile stain on Erthia.

The Monarchall comes into view, its whorling lines of granite resembling a giant seashell. Wynter takes it in with gathering dread as she’s dragged forward, warm rivulets of blood trickling down her face. Dizzy and disoriented, she’s tugged up gleaming stairs, through a vaulted, bone-white entry, then back outside again into a white marble courtyard. Neck chafed raw, she’s forced toward a circle of runes marked in its center, a ring of Alfsigr soldiers surrounding it. And arcing around them, in a solemn semicircle, are the Monarch Iolrath Talonir, the Alfsigr high priestess, the Royal Council of Elves...

...and her parents.