It rises there still, on that pillar carved by nature just offshore. The lens of fresh water that once maintained its garrison still exists, and the walls, though old, show no signs of collapse.

Mirria herself has not been seen since the day after the fatal banquet; she was seen by villagers on the shoreline the next day on the battlements, still dressed in her motley harlequinade from the masque.

Most believe she died there, a prisoner of her family’s machinations to the end. The villages that had sprung up nearby gradually faded away as well, though food is still left on the island’s docks as per the old tenant’s agreements by the few who remain, mostly fishermen.

But there are some who point to the food that disappears from the docks as proof that Lady Mirria lives on, in self-imposed exile now rather than the former decadent cloister. No one has ever seen her in the twenty years since, nor has anyone noticed any lights at night, but it may just be possible.

If she yet lives, the island and its tower do provide one gift. With no nearby nearby lights, at night the sky above is awash with stars, and those points of light are enough to comfort even the loneliest of souls.

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