"That's..."
"Troublesome?" The Silver Moon tree cut Adam off. "I think not. Take what I'm about to tell you as conjectures based on the priestess's stories about Lady Mortis. I believe Decarabia was the cure. Not his bones, but his mind and dominion over nature. She left him to rot in the Silver Moon elves' prison, making him feel his power set like a dying sun, while his own energy tried to consume what was left of his sanity. Grum'Thal said it: only a stroke of luck could birth the cure, and Decarabia found it in the purging enchantment he carved into his bones. The Silver Moon elves went extinct, and his prison was shattered. Yet, he remained saner than ever fifteen thousand years later."
Adam pressed his fist beneath his nose, the light pulsing from the tree's bark accentuating the shadows around his frown. He had nothing to refute the tree's reasoning. It even felt logical with what he knew himself.
But it meant more. So much more.
