"This is everything that woman had prophesied?"
Arzhen Vasiliev stared at the pitiful stack of files on his desk. It was a meager, dog-eared pile that looked less like the accumulated wisdom of a seventeen-year reign and more like the forgotten paperwork of a minor clerk who had died mid-shift and been left to mummify in the archives.
"No, my Prince." The aide said, face downcast, apologetic and terrified all at once. "Most of the prophecy records have been lost. Or destroyed. It was Lord Delanivis and Lord Nikolas's orders."
Of course it was.
Arzhen almost laughed. The Delanivis family had been thorough, he had to give them that.
They had successfully erased her, wiped the record clean, made sure that whatever predictions she had made, whatever disasters she had prevented, whatever lives she had saved, would vanish into the same obscurity as her body.
