Vivian drifted through the mortal throng like an ethereal fairy gracing a gathering of the mundane. Her eyes wandered over the battlefield, capturing every detail with a quiet, almost otherworldly grace.
Inevitably, her thoughts strayed to the death method of her parents, yet, deep down, she knew that memory was a fabrication of her own longing mind.
The only truth she had ever been told, back when she was but an orphan, was that her parents had been slain by demons in connection with the Forsaken Cult.
Since then, her mind had conjured countless versions of their demise, fantasies born from grief, reshaped with every passing year. At times, dreams would stir in the depths of her slumber, carrying visions where their love still enfolded her, warm and cozy, as though death had never claimed them.
It was this enduring memory, real or imagined, that urged her forward, even when her talent had proven futile upon awakening.
