yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
her purest of crystal and brightest of green

The years slide together for Isilya, but that is not something she minds in the slightest - not when they have become pleasant again. No lasting darkness, no reign of nightmares, no reason for her to root herself to a single spot to provide light to those she loves - all the rest that call this kingdom home. Her tenure as queen feels like a hazy dream, a pleasant interlude, and she is so glad to see Tephra doing well with Savior and Casimira.

There’s no young tree bearing a foal this year for her to care for this spring, nothing requiring her magic except the small trick of playing with the flowers that grow along her spine. They change colours as she walks beneath the dense jungle canopy. Each petal alternates between soft purple to rich grey to a bright white in time with the sound of the rain falling on the thick waxy leaves. A storm is rolling in but the sound of thunder is still distant and soft still.

Nature’s storms bring no fear for Isilya - it’s the ones caused by dark hearts that bother her. And right now those thoughts are nowhere near her mind. It has never been difficult for Isilya to focus on the lighter things.

One of her lantern birds, one of just a handful that she's kept up all these years later, swoops over her head - its golden light soon disappearing into the false-dusk that the oncoming storm has brought to Tephra.

Isilya follows it leisurely, humming softly to herself, and when the shadows deepen further the flowers that drape down her body begin to glow as well.

’twas not her soft magic of streamlet or rill
oh! no, it was something more exquisite still