When Alarielle fled the ruin of Ghyran and cocooned herself in the deep glades to be reborn, the goddess did not wake unarmed. From her heartwood she grew the Everqueen's Talon, a spear that is no dead thing of iron but a living branch, forever budding and blossoming, its point sheathed in petals sharper than any forged edge.
In the Everqueen's hand the talon is the paradox of her domain made manifest: it kills to make the land live. Where its blooms burst against the corruption of Nurgle, the rot recoils and green shoots climb through the ruin. The Sylvaneth follow it into battle as they follow the turning of the seasons, for where the talon is raised, the wilds themselves rise with it, roots cracking stone and thorns drinking the blood of the foe.
Yet the spear carries the goddess's grief as well as her wrath. Every flower it sheds is a life spent, and Alarielle mourns each even as she wields the weapon to defend the greater whole. The talon is a reminder woven into her very grip: that spring is bought with winter, that the garden is defended with the pruning-knife, and that even a goddess of life must deal in death to keep her realm from rot.
The reliquary continues
