Work Text
"Arha" breathed the still air of the Hall of the Throne, motes of dust gold in the shafts of light that streamed from the high windows. "Nameless One, Eaten One." Winter painted frost on the edges of step and column, glimmering ephemeral white over the red veins in the night-black stone. Frost returned each year like souls were reborn, new shapes in an eternal pattern. It was the day before the Long Night. She would begin the Great Dance at sundown. But for now, she was alone, in the doorway, between. The dry grass whispered, a dream sound, near-silent: "Tenar."