PT2 of PT5 Elara's Lament

11-20-25
Part2 of Part 5
Elara's Lament
In the rite's cataclysm, as stakes pierced Elara's breast upon the cliffs—Alaric's hand steady, his eyes averted in shame's shadow—her final vision *erupted*: Isolde, unmade yet *remade*, her throne a beacon in eternal dusk, Thorne's hand in hers a bridge across the abyss. "Rise... my thorn," Elara *gurgled*, blood bubbling like prophetic foam, waves *claiming* her in a lover's violent embrace. "The stars... bow... but *you*... *endure*." Her prophecies, scattered to the tide like shattered opals, lingered as echoes in Isolde's veins—guiding her through centuries of carnage, a spectral hand steering toward the knight who would *mirror* her fractures. For in Elara's sight, power was no crown, but a *wound* eternal: a mother's lament woven into daughter's fate, whispering that even in the night's maw, a seeress's tears could forge a light too fierce to fade, binding queen and knight in prophecies fulfilled—not as curse, but as catharsis's crimson hymn.