Fragments From The Tale of Synnova Aethewyn. A Different Sort of Battle. It had looked so much. The treat slanted downward in its plate, a result of not having quite enough dough left to press up against the side on one end. Synnova offered it quiet scorn, as though her disapproval might scare it into looking right. Everybody knows that the Harvestmath is for.

The story of an Orphan Firebrand. For her portrayal of the Mother Priestess! It was the end of a long, hot summer day at the Temple of Elmeleth. Out on its slender peninsula, the white stone of the Temple cooled quickly in the sea breeze, bringing relief from the stifling heat. Lalaith stood and bowed her head. She fluttered a hand at Lalaith.

Some memories are better left where they are made. But still they come, brushing gentle or sharp against the cheek, refusing to be forgotten in the shadows of time. But Oendir had turned his words into a lie.