In the end, Aetherion died a miserable death—stripped of dignity, stripped of legacy, and crushed beneath the very symbol his people worshipped. There were no songs for him. No elegies. Only whispers, quickly buried beneath ritual and awe.
The Regent did not fare any better.
He was captured in the chaos that followed, dragged away in chains while the court still reeled from shock. Officially, he was imprisoned.
Unofficially—quietly—Chiron killed him.
No spectacle. No witnesses.
His body was dissolved, his memories extracted, and a clone was put in his place—one obedient enough to run the affairs of the Elven nation from within, signing decrees, steering policies, and hollowing the kingdom out from the inside on Chiron's orders of course.
After that night, everything changed.
Each dawn, elves gathered before the Mother Tree.
Each dusk, they bowed again.
