I shall speak now of a future, of the end of the isle of Mystics, which came to be known as Faerieland.

Let the innocent return. Here stands the queen’s unknowable castle.

It falls. It falls. Like rain. Like ash. It vanishes. It vanishes. Like snow. Like lies.

Our desires languish, deferred. Even now, we dance in the palm of the queen’s hand.

We require now only a little more patience. After two thousand years, the dawn shall bring the child who will be our salvation.

She shall be the child who saves the world, who binds both peoples together.

Even if her light begins as but an ember, even should no one see it, she will become as a flame to draw moths.

A city of iron. A sea of soot. When the calamity recedes, her pilgrimage begins.

The harbor shall return to empty shore, but the calamity shall vanish into the distant sky.

Chosen by the Staff of Selection, the savior, guarded by travelers from afar, shall reach the throne.

The round fortress shall burn, and the bell of water shall appear.

The true king shall arrive at the throne. Accept now this bloodied crown.

Confessed sinners shall make the acquaintance of the guillotine.

Ring. Ring. Like raging thunder. Like weeping flame. Let us harken to the six bells ringing. Blaze the path of the true king.

Ere the red calamity catches us. Ere the black calamity devours us.

Having fulfilled her role, the Child of Prophecy shall say farewell to her home.

Indolent and derelict though we may be, we are the scions of the free fae.

Never have we wished for anything. But still we desire a shining future.