Beneath the remains of the Burning City, nameless and forgotten in a dying world, the undergrowth has become sentient.
To say that this event was feared would be an understatement - would be - had not fear been purged in the flames of the earth long ago, and with it, the promise of this world. All had disappeared under the light of a red moon, soon blotted out behind clouds of smoke, on a night that never saw its morning.
Never.
The price of arrogance is higher than anyone can imagine.
But the dead do not profit from lessons in irony. Only the survivors have that curse. When, in this night, the undergrowth learns to speak, they will tell stories of the burning, and the night. But they will not learn. They will forget, as it is the nature - and the doom - of all beings to forget. Their death sentence was issued even before their names.