To forget her was to give up, to abandon everything; his work, his life, his meaning, his— his love— and that would never be an option, not here, not now, not ever, no matter what the cost or who the casualty.

As Cabal looked upon her coffin— a tomb of glass, straight out of a fairytale, years developing, years perfecting— not even a soul as shriveld as his could suppress grief once more.

The necromancer collapsed at the foot of his lost love's resting place and wept.