Where the rivers of colored glass stream upwards, there stands tall and proud the city of Caelus Alces, brightly lit amongst the warmth of the heavens. The streets dance with marble, their sidewalks adorned with stone statues of ancestors long departed. Above it all loomed the monument to the White Elk, standing ten figures tall, her urn pouring water eternally, graciously feeding the aqueduct.

Deep in the pits of a shadowed hall rested a single knight, his name lost even to himself. He was the armor that shaped him, yet no hammer ever lay touch, nor did any flesh slumber within. Where blood should flow, there was only the slow lament of rust. Upon his brow were antlers, like those of a deer, vast and branching, the proud insignia of his house; a burden of ancestry he could not carry, for the decay that gnawed was far heavier.

He, too, had marched once, not alone, but among a thousand.

He heard again the thunder of their feet, beating together as if one vast heart. He saw again the endless ranks, as faceless and as hollow as himself, stomping beneath skies not wholly of this world. He smelled again the smoke of razed cities, bitter yet sweet victories, the moon feasting on their offerings.

The visions of glory were undone by a crack as one antler gave way, finally surrendering to the slow hunger. The sound climbed the walls, the echo lingering, threading through statue and spire as if a needle, until even silence itself bowed before it.

Beyond the hall, the city hummed and glowed, unheeding; The streets continued to shimmer, the White Elk continued to pour, and no footfall paused.

What once gleamed like ivory now lay among the dust that birthed it.