Blood stained the walls and floor. Doors hung limp on their hinges. Ice covered every surface. The tower stood abandoned. The atrium was burnt out, and without a roof. The catacombs had been looted, yet the loot, and the bones of the looters, was scattered around the tower. Massive rents and gashes marred the walls of the tower, leaving the rooms inside open to the harsh, cold winds. The top of the tower was rent apart, the pinnacles and spires attached to it either missing, having fallen of, or bent at obscure angles. Anyone could see that a battle had been fought here.
Looking within the uppermost room of the tower, a throne stood upon a dais. Made from black steel, adorned with purple and black crystals, it was encrusted with ice. Bones lay all around it, many more lay by the door, as if they had fallen trying to gain entrance to the throne room. Innumerable artifacts and treasures lay scattered about, but no one had come to steal them. Turning and looking out across the Atmos, all that could be seen for a mile was barren, ice-covered devastation. No life lived there. Yet beyond that mile stood terras bristling with wildlife and culture. Towns and forests covered them. But none dared enter the cursed zone.
Upon the terras, when conversation turned to the accursed place, the room would quieten. More often than not, the subject would be changed quickly. No one talked about the Tower. No one would talk about its last days. No one would dare mention its last owners.
Upon terra Atmos, a memorial stood. A plain pillar of white stone, carved into it was written May those who died that fateful day, Be forever remembered. May the voices of those they slew be forever silent. But in the Tower, from the throne, two voices could still be heard whispering. Whispering soft words. Whispering a warning. Whispering Vengeance!
Cyclonis awoke and screamed. Ice cold sweat poured off her. Her Kashmir nightgown was drenched. Tears dripped from her eyes. She breathed heavily. After calming down, she quickly got up and showered. Putting on a loosely fitting silk gown, she grabbed bottle of Port, poured herself a large glass, and walked over to her balcony.
Slowly drinking the Port, she pondered the nightmare. She had seen her own tower, in the future. Was it a prophecy? Impossible. She did not have the capability to prophesize things. Pondering the dream, she stalked over to her mirror. She looked long into it, wondering about her own demise. Would it be heroic? Improbable. Would it be soon. Possible.
Quickly finishing the remaining half glass of port in a single gulp, she walked over to her desk and unlocked her diary. Within it was written everything she had ever felt or done. Her first crush. Her first heartbreak. Her coronation. Her addiction to chocolate. Everything was written down. Grabbing a pen, she quickly began to record her dream in the pages of the book. Would the dream come true? She wondered. And would she survive, or perish?