She was five years old.
Small. So impossibly small. Her body barely more than a collection of fragile bones and soft skin, breakable, destroyable. She lay on the altar, and the stone was cold against her back, cold enough to burn, cold enough to make her small body shake.
She couldn't move.
Chains bound her wrists and ankles, carved with runes that bit when she struggled, that sent pain lancing through her bones until she went still, gasping, tears streaming down her face.
The chamber was full of people. Robed figures, their faces hidden beneath hoods, their voices rising and falling in a chant that made her ears ring and her chest hurt. The language was old, older than Solmire, older than kingdoms, older than the memory of kingdoms.
And standing above her, looking down with eyes like winter itself, was her father.
"Papa..." Her voice was so small. So broken. "Papa, please..."
He didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't reach for her.
