He came from the north wind.
A god of memory. Cloaked in winter.
One of the oldest. One of the kindest.
The one who once held a small child born of nothing
and whispered:
"Even a mistake can be loved."
Liss remembered him.
He had raised her for six days.
Then offered her up to the Twelve as a failed experiment.
Now, he stood before her again.
"You were my daughter," he said.
"You were supposed to be still. Silent. Contained."
"I'm none of those things," Liss replied.
"And I never was yours."
He attacked.
Thessaly blocked.
Korrin screamed.
Liss raised her hand.
"Forget."
And the god who once fed her was gone.
Not dead.
Unwritten.