Not Nevanine

I can see the whisperings you make amongst yourselves. Like puffs of ash, I can smell your words, sly and doubtful. ‘She cannot be the heir of Nevanine,’ you murmur. She cannot be Nevanine come again. She has none of Nevanine’s glory, none of her grace. This Aohne, she is fierce; she is savage. Dark. She does not burn bright, as did Nevanine. She has not her brilliance. Nevanine fought for justice, for the sake of the people. Aohne, she cares nothing for the people, cares not for their fate. She can be no shield to them, to us. She sparks no fiery hope, does not light the heart of us. No, she is not, cannot be, the one.’

Yet, you mistake, thinking thus. True, she does not burn with the clean, gold-lit flame of Nevanine. She does dance with the crackle of hope. No, she is not a glorious torch, as was Nevanine. Instead, she is as a bed of embers, glowing only dimly, but smoldering, pulsing with exceeding heat. ‘This’Aohne comes not with victory, but with vengeance. For she was not kindled by Nevanine’s bright triumph. Indeed, it was that moment before Nevanine’s last despair that lit the burning of Aohne’s soul. Take heed. It needs only a breath and she will flare into an inferno of blue and white.