Only one being fit that description.
The Pale Devastation.
No one else.
As for the star-filled sky...
Frey could not determine what it truly represented.
He had his suspicions.
But he refused to acknowledge them.
Worst of all...
The monster had looked directly at him.
Drawing a slow breath, Frey entered the second prophecy.
This time...
He found himself seated within the ancient library of the Writers.
An old, weathered book rested open before him.
Holding a fountain pen in his right hand, Frey calmly wrote across the blank pages.
'Those were peaceful moments...'
'Moments I had missed more than I realized.'
'How long has it been since I last held a real pen?'
'Those simple days when Father taught my siblings and me how to write...'
'Before Mother later replaced those lessons with her own cold and uncompromising instruction.'
The prophecy drew Frey back into memories long buried.
For the first time in ages...
