Aria drifts through the Dungeon in a dreamlike haze, soft, almost ephemeral at the edges despite all her knowledge, all her power. She Sings, and they answer, each Sister called by the Voice of the Herd. There is no ending nor beginning for Aria; she seems not to recognize the passage of time, and her warnings have come both far too early and far too late. But then, such is the lot of the Voice, for she Sings not only the past but the future as well. Sometimes Omen wonders if Aria has finally gone blind, trapped in the visions that warp time and space.

They have followed the lone filly through the tunnels, just a whisper too far removed for her to hear them. She is like them, and not like them, a Courser but not a Sister. Hymn calls her an echo of legends told, of legends forgotten; Relic calls her a memory, a keystone. Requiem calls her nothing at all, but watches her as if she can see through the chestnut filly, all the way to the heart that flutters in her chest like a caged thing, desperate to escape. 

Aria called her a promise, an oath to keep. What oath, and to whom it is owed, they do not know. 

Persephone is lost, lost in the twisting turns of the Dungeon, and yet...she cannot bring herself to turn around. She must continue forward, as if compelled by some force beyond her, or rather, as if she is being drawn, dragged down into the Dungeon, to where she believes her memories must lie. The tunnel is dark, lit only by the flickering flame of her lantern; her own footsteps are all she can hear. It feels as if she has been wandering forever, as if she has been buried here, and always has been—

But no. She remembers what the surface is like. She remembers the warm sun on her face, the scent of green and growing things. They smell different, the plants in the sun, not soured by the stench of decay and rot. She remembers them, bright and green and full of life. She has not always been buried here.

She is not buried. 

This tomb is not hers. 

It is not...

Aria Sees a tomb covered in flowers, bright colors and dull, lush and withered, budding blooms and dying blossoms. She Sees a crystal crack, Sees a mirror shatter. She Sees a flame go out, the ghost of it curling through the air before the smoke dissipates.

She sees drops of blood scattered in the snow.

She approaches the skeleton, Hymn murmurs, nostrils flaring. Her own Song hums through the air, winding, twisting, but never touching; the Fragment does not know she is not alone. Someday, they may teach her. Someday, she may know. But not today.

The great skeleton, one of many, lies crumpled in what was once, Aria says, a Great Courtyard, outside a palace of gold, bright and gleaming, its gilded towers climbing impossibly high, until they reached the clouds. 

It fell, just like all the others. No amount of gold, real or false, will save you from death.

There is no gold left in the ruins, those spells crumbled away under the inexorable passage of Time. All that is left is slag and stones that have lost that fictional patina. Nothing but trash now, and in truth, trash it always was. Relic has always had a special affinity for these places, where forgotten memories lay thick, waiting to be rediscovered. She quickens her pace, drawing dangerously close to Persephone in her curiosity. 

This skeleton is not one of the Others, the False Ones, the Damned. Aria says it is too large, and surely the Others never had hollow, fluted bones and long, bony tails. It is a wyvern, or something like, fierce teeth dulled by death. This wyvern poses no danger to anyone.

Perhaps, Aria whispers, her Song finding them even here. 

Persephone approaches it cautiously, letting the lantern-light catch on the cavernous sockets, the sharp teeth...and the glint of polished metal, the gleam of a great ruby pommel. 

Omen watches with avid interest as Persephone examines the sword, buried deep in the skeleton's skull. Such a blow surely killed the thing, but swords of this age and make are often enchanted. If the child touches it—

Aria? she calls.

Let her, Aria commands. The Dungeon would Test her, as it Tests us all.

Persephone examines the bones, seeing the ribs where something has made and abandoned its nest, the delicate finger-bones of enormous wings, crushed by time and unknown feet. The sword, sunk hilt-deep into the thing's skull, gleams at the periphery of her vision, no matter where she turns. She returns to it, drawn like a moth to a flame.

The ruby, a deep, blood-dark red, twinkles at her. She knows this color, knows this sword. She must have it. She must. 

Persephone snakes her head out to seize the hilt between her teeth. She pulls, straining, and the skull shifts, grinding against the stones where it has lain for centuries untold, unwilling to give up its mortal enemy. The mares of the Herd gather close now, watching. Waiting.