The Blood Acorn in Ashlynn's hand pulsed with a brighter and brighter light, cycling between emerald green, midnight blue, and deep crimson as the bond between the Ancient Oak and its seed grew even stronger.
Tears poured from Ashlynn's eyes as she found herself caught between the Ancient Oak in the Vale of Mists and the tortured, wounded remnants of the one that had been shaped into the Lothian throne.
The chandeliers swayed above her head, and the flames of hundreds of candles flickered and died, plunging the Great Hall into a darkness that was only broken by the flames in the great hearths and the multi-colored radiance of Ashlynn's ritual.
"I know it hurts," Ashlynn whispered as she found herself drowning in the Ancient Oak's grief and rage. "And I know that nothing, nothing can ever replace what you've lost or make up for all the pain."
