The priestess grips the Zalyn’or and yanks it outward, breaking the chain.

A violent vertigo assaults Wynter the moment the Zalyn’or breaks, the world seeming to tilt hard on its axis as the Marfoir release her wings. The multi-eyed Shadow snaps out of sight and she falls hard to her side, slamming against stone as her vision painfully brightens.

“Wynter Eirllyn,” Monarch Talonir booms out as the world spins around her. “You are a cursed Deargdul, reviled by the Blessed Shining Ones. A stain on the blessed, sunlit soil of High Elkin—the unblemished Elfdom. You are evil and corrupted beyond redemption and a mortal danger to Alfsigroth’s existence and to its very soul.” He straightens, his prismatic eyes flashing sunlight. “I sentence you, Deargdul demon, to banishment in the sublands. The Realm of the Demonic. Where you belong.”

Before Wynter can draw in her wings, the high priestess takes hold of her sleeve-covered arm and forces Wynter to her feet, a sick dizziness overtaking her.

“You seek to consort with heathens?” the high priestess sneers. “Then so be it. We will send you into the depths with the vilest of them. They will tear you apart, limb from limb.” The priestess points her stylus at the circle of runes before Wynter and a hole appears in its center, dark as the depths of Erthia.

Wynter steps back, fright rising, as the Marfoir grab her arms, drag her forward...and hurl her in.

Wynter screams as she hurtles down through the darkness, her wound-riddled wings desperately flapping. She collides with hard stone, the air punched from her lungs as she crumples, one hip and leg wrenched sideways. The hole far above closes and all light snuffs out.

Terror swooping through her, she struggles to find her bearings, vertigo making it difficult to discern up from down in the all-encompassing dark. Slowly, she pulls her bruised body into an unsteady sitting position, the sound of water trickling beside her, but otherwise...

Silence.

A faint puff of green light pierces the abyss.

Wynter turns toward its source to find a small stream flowing through a high-ceilinged cave, something near the stream’s bank suffusing the water with a luminescent green glow.

Desperate to not be left in the frightening darkness, Wynter crawls toward the light.

Surprise stirs. There, caught on some rocks, is something long and spiraling. A shape she’s seen before, glowing as if lit from within by verdant starlight. Her heartbeat quickening, Wynter reaches into the ice-cold water and wraps her hand around the Wand.

She gasps as a sizzling energy flies up her arm, through her body, and into her wings, silver runes lighting in her vision, the veins of Shadow gone from her alabaster skin. A translucent flock of Watchers appear, white-glowing and perched on the stone ridges of the cave.

Wynter’s eyes widen as she takes them in.