For just a moment, there was silence, as counsellors, guards and citizens alike watched in awe as the dishevelled figure of the court magician slowly emerged from the gaping hole in Gorm’s bloody gut.

And then, a scream.

Such a cry of fury and sorrow as could bring men to their knees and rent the very air in two came from Gorm’s leathery lips – the lonely, terrifying swan song of the great serpent.

Already, the gardens seemed to be regaining their former glory – flowers blooming into a rainbow of colours in an instant, emerald hedges once again resembling nobles of old.

In the eleven Sacred Plots, sparks of an arcane magic darted across soil, vine and leaf; revitalising, renewing.

Therys’ eyes sweeped the scene, shining with pride and power at every evil he, and he alone, had managed to revert. But then – a flash of panic – of fear.

“Gorm! What have you done?”

In it’s last moments, the serpent leant in close to it’s murderer and whispered:

“It’s too late!”

Gorm was dead, and Juno had disappeared.