Zym stands at the base of the Storm Spire, traces of winter rustling his mane. Once, he remembers vaguely, it housed the entombed body — soul — of his father, the resulting grave-statue as large as it was immovable. It has been gone for so long, though, that not even the grooves of the dirt remain, washed away by the wind and rain.
By his own footprints.
"King Azymondias!"
He turns his great head slightly to the side, his new mage, Asrita, touching down beside him his front paw. Her wings flutter as they stop moving, her hands still nervously adjusting her shawls. She hasn't been the mage representative at the Storm Spire long, but her predecessor had grown too old (again) and so another mage (again) had come to stay there, and—
"What—" She pants, a bit breathless. "What are you doing out here, Your Majesty?"
A hum rumbles through him. Zym turns his eyes to the horizon, where Katolis and Evrkynd stand, though the throne and city's governorship had changed hands more than a few times.
"Thinking, I suppose."
About the first boy to call him Zym; about how long it'd been since that same old man had bade him a temporary farewell.
Sometimes, his heart hurts with how many centuries have passed, knowing he's perhaps halfway through his lifetime, and Ezran is...
"You know, Asrita," he says, "there's no need to be so formal. You could start calling me Zym, for short."
Somebody still should. Memories are only heavy when carried alone.