But in the end, she never came back.
Murphy looked down at Eleanor, who was sobbing uncontrollably in his arms.
His thirty-six-year-old daughter was curled up in his arms like a child who had just lost her mother, her sobs gut-wrenching.
'No, she *has* lost her mother.'
Thirty-one years ago, Margaret had been trapped in the Sanctuary, only able to meet with her through a puppet.
That separation, though painful, at least held a sliver of hope.
At least through that shell, they could still hear her voice, see her smile.
'But now...'
'...even that shell can no longer move.'
'Margaret is truly dead.'
Murphy's hand slowly lowered, gently resting on Eleanor's back.
He didn't know what to say.
He didn't know how to comfort her.
He could sunder the void with a single slash, kill the Ironspine Duke—a Third-Level Wizard—and change the very order of the Continent.
But he didn't know how to tell his daughter that her mother, the woman named Margaret, was truly gone.
