The powerful voice that echoed through the throne hall made Agost's blood run cold. It wasn't the same melodious voice he remembered – this one carried raw power that made his spine tingle with fear.
Agost wasn't ready to believe it could be Alora. 'Impossible... She had no pulse. She was cold as death.' He thought to himself.
His body refused to move out of pure fear but he forced himself to slowly turn around to face the source of that voice. His eyes went wide. The sight before him made him stumble back, his throat constricting as beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
There she was – Alora Roosevelt – slowly levitating up in the air, right above the coffin, surrounded by dancing flames that seemed to have a life of their own. Her ceremonial gown fluttered in an invisible wind, the golden fabric catching the firelight like molten metal.
