CHAPTER 17: EPILOGUE

The air in Frostholm carried the crisp bite of winter’s end, a faint promise of spring stirring beneath the snow. The village, though battered and scarred, hummed with life and purpose. Stone walls were being patched, bone-reinforced watchtowers reinforced, and homes rebuilt with a determination that only grew stronger in the face of loss.

Freya stood at the edge of the village square, her gaze sweeping over the bustling scene. Her arm was still bound in fresh bandages, and her movements were slower than usual, but the fire in her eyes had only deepened. She adjusted the Shadow-Steel dagger at her hip and strode toward Bjorn, who was overseeing a team of villagers repairing the eastern wall.

“Bjorn,” she called, her voice carrying with an authority that seemed to surprise even her. “How are the reinforcements coming along?”

Bjorn turned, his weathered face splitting into a rare smile. “Better than expected,” he said. “The new bone spikes are stronger than before, and we’ve fortified the southern gate with the extra steel you had us salvage.”

Freya nodded, folding her arms. “Good. I want every inch of this village ready if something like the Warden ever comes back.”

Bjorn’s smile faded slightly as he studied her. “Freya,” he began cautiously, “we’ve driven the Warden’s shadow from this place. The villagers need hope now, not just preparation for another battle.”

Freya’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the weight of her new role flickered in her eyes. “Hope won’t rebuild the walls or protect us if another threat comes,” she said. “But… you’re right. They need to feel safe, too.” She glanced at the Nexus in the distance, its faint glow a constant reminder of what they had lost, and what they had gained.

Bjorn placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re doing well, Freya. John would’ve been proud.”

At the mention of his name, Freya’s expression tightened, but she nodded. “We’ll make sure his sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”

By midday, the villagers gathered near the Nexus, where a large stone slab had been set upright. Its surface was polished smooth, and skilled hands had etched runes and images into the stone, a skeletal figure holding a glowing staff stood at its center, surrounded by symbols of protection and unity. Beneath the figure, words in Old Norse script glowed faintly with the magic imbued into the memorial:

“To John, the Bone Caller: Protector of Frostholm, Defier of Shadows. May his legacy guide us always.”

Freya stood before the monument, the villagers behind her silent and reverent. She traced her fingers over the carved runes, her expression unreadable. The weight of leadership bore down on her shoulders, but she stood tall, her voice steady as she spoke.

“He came to us from a world far from here,” she began, her voice carrying across the square. “Not as the warrior we expected, but as the protector we needed. He didn’t ask for this fight. He didn’t owe us anything. And yet, he gave everything.”

The villagers murmured their agreement, some wiping tears from their faces.

Freya turned to face them, her gaze fierce and determined. “John believed in us, our strength, our resilience. He didn’t save Frostholm alone. We all stood together, and we’ll continue to stand together. For him. For each other. And for the future he gave us.”

A ripple of applause and cheers rose from the crowd, their spirits bolstered. Bjorn, standing nearby, placed a hand over his heart in a silent salute to the monument.

As the villagers began to disperse, returning to their work, Freya lingered by the stone. She knelt, her fingers brushing the base of the monument. “You should’ve stayed, Bone Caller,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “We needed you. I needed you.”

She stood after a moment, squaring her shoulders as she turned back toward the village. The faint light of the Nexus reflected in her eyes, its glow a quiet reminder of the man who had changed everything.

As the day faded into twilight, Frostholm’s people pressed on, their resolve unbroken. They rebuilt stronger walls, forged new weapons, and trained harder, all while carrying the memory of their Bone Caller in their hearts.

Stolen story; please report.

Far above the village, stars began to flicker in the evening sky, their light mingling with the faint hum of the Nexus. Though John was gone, his presence seemed to linger in the air, a whisper of assurance that Frostholm would endure.

And so, it did.

John opened his eyes, or at least, he thought he did. The concept of vision felt slippery, as though his surroundings existed outside the limits of human perception. He stood, or floated, in a vast, glowing expanse. Colors swirled and pulsed without pattern, each hue more vivid and indescribable than the last. There was no ground, no sky, no horizon, only an endless void that seemed alive with energy.

His body felt... different. He raised his hands, now translucent and faintly glowing, his form shimmering with residual traces of the artifacts’ power. The spear he had wielded in battle was gone, but the weight of purpose remained, heavy in his chest.

[System Notification: Awakening Complete]

Welcome, Summoned One.

The system’s familiar voice echoed in his mind, resonating more deeply than before, as if the void itself was speaking.

“Where am I?” John asked, his voice barely a whisper, yet it carried across the endless space.

You are in the Liminal Space, a nexus between realms, the system explained. The artifacts’ energy has altered your essence, detaching you from the mortal plane and elevating you to a new state of existence.

John’s breath caught, or would have, if he still needed to breathe. “Detached... so I’m dead?”

Not dead, the system replied, its tone calm yet tinged with gravity. Transformed. Your actions have destabilized the necromantic bridge, severing the Warden’s connection to the realms. However, the collapse of the bridge has echoed across the multiverse. Similar fractures threaten other worlds.

“What are you saying?” John asked, his tone sharp. “That this isn’t over?”

Your sacrifice has set off a chain reaction, the system said. You are no longer merely a Summoned. You are now a Guardian of Balance. Your task is to prevent other bridges from forming, to ensure no realm suffers the corruption you fought to end.

John stared into the void, his mind racing. The weight of the task pressed down on him, heavier even than the battle he had just survived. “I didn’t ask for this,” he said, his voice low.

No, but you chose it when you stood against the Warden. Now, you must choose again.

Before him, the swirling void shifted, coalescing into two distinct visions. On one side, a familiar scene appeared: his small apartment back on Earth. The faint hum of his computer, the clutter of takeout containers, the life he had left behind. The system’s voice accompanied the vision.

Option One: Return to your origin point. You will resume your life on Earth as if nothing had happened.

The other side of the void shifted into a scene of Frostholm, though it was different now. Rebuilt, stronger, thriving. Freya stood at the head of the villagers, her face lined with determination and a hint of sadness. The Nexus glowed faintly behind her, a silent beacon of what they had lost, and won.

Option Two: Return to Frostholm, reborn in a new form. You will retain your power, your purpose, and your bond with those you fought to protect.

John’s heart ached at the sight of Frostholm. Freya’s face lingered in his mind, the way her voice had cracked when she’d begged him to hold on. But the image of his apartment tugged at something deep within him, a life before all of this, before magic and war and sacrifice.

“Why me?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Why am I the one who has to make this choice?”

Because you are the Bone Caller, the system said simply. Your decision will shape not just your future, but the futures of countless others.

John stared at the two visions, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions. The void pulsed around him, waiting.

And then, the visions faded, leaving only darkness and the system’s final words.

Make your choice, Summoned One.

Far from Frostholm, in a world where golden sands stretched beneath a blood-red sky, a circle of robed figures chanted in unison. Their voices rose and fell in rhythmic harmony, their hands weaving glowing symbols into the air. At the center of their ritual, a shimmering portal opened, crackling with unstable energy.

From the portal, a figure emerged, a young man, his wide eyes filled with fear and awe. He clutched a staff that trembled in his hands, its bone-carved surface pulsing with faint light. The robed figures stepped back, their chants fading into silence as they gazed at their Summoned with a mix of reverence and trepidation.

“You are the one foretold,” one of them said, their voice trembling. “The Necromancer.”

The young man blinked, his grip tightening on the staff. “Necromancer? I don’t even know where I am…”

His words faltered as a spectral figure materialized behind him, barely visible in the flickering light of the portal. Cloaked in shadows, the figure radiated an aura of calm yet undeniable power. Though it did not speak, its presence steadied the young necromancer, a silent reassurance that he was not alone.

The portal crackled again, then winked out, leaving the desert silent save for the soft rustle of the wind. The spectral figure lingered for a moment longer, watching as the necromancer took his first tentative steps forward.

Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, the system’s voice echoed faintly across the realms.

The cycle begins anew.

End of book one.