In the witch realm, Elara was jolted from her sleep by a sudden gasp, her black robes falling over her legs as she sat up. The divination wards in her private chambers flickered with lingering energy, and beads of sweat cooled on her skin. Her eyes were wide and unfocused as she gazed at the stone ceiling. "The end is coming," she murmured against her palms, the words rasping past her throat in jagged edges. "The end is coming. The age of new progenitors is coming." Her fingers dug into her palms as she held the words inside her skull, a terrible knowledge pressing against the backs of her eyelids. She kept them there, still, for a long while, until the echoes in her mind dulled to an insistent murmur. Whatever it was, whatever she had seen, it did not leave behind images but feelings, a certainty clinging to her bones.
