“Zaurahel always wore a black robe, and he had black lilies tattooed on his forearms.” Layala’s insides cramped at the realization of the connection. A cold sweat broke out over her skin. She was born marked with black lilies. The very nature of her magic was so relatable to the Black Mage’s chair that it now felt encroaching as she stared at it. The serpents resembled her vines, her dark purple lilies uncanny in relation to the carvings.
