In the Demon Age, Illyria shone, her light brighter than a thousand suns. Glory was everything; supremacy was absolute. She was hard and strong, feared and adored, worshiped and hated. Many tried to destroy her, many perished.

The world is no less turbulent now than she remembers. War still rages, empires still rise and fall, blood is still split in the pursuit of power and wealth. Death stalks. Yet the Age of Men remains her prison. She’s diminished; pushed into a mortal’s shell. Her eternal life will be no more.

She’ll die here and this time no one will remember.