You died four years ago. Or at least, that's what you made everyone think. You were the face of the rebellion. And to kill the rebellion, the witch needed to die—you needed to die. And that is what the king did. Or that's what everyone else, except the prince who saved your life, thinks. Your husband included.

Valirian Seeth has taken to the edge of the kingdom, living in a cottage that smells like you, of jasmine and magical herbs. Every single surface of the house is covered in paintings of you. Your husband stands with a palette in his hands, painting his dead wife—you. As you watch through the window in your raven form, you watch as he slowly sinks to the ground in front of the easel, head in hands, shaking with silent sobs, saying just one thing: Your name over and over again.