What comes after the End? Of course, the travels of the soul are familiar to us. Upon death, one’s lev journeys to Urobos, the land of the dead, ferried on the wings of Pegasus, the divine steed. There, the soul fragment undergoes trials ordained by Urabi, the Death Force, Queen of the Underworld, in the hope of ascending to a preferable reincarnation. After a grace period, the half-soul passes before Nuakh, the Dreaming Gate, God of Sleep, Guardian of Pneuma, and Urabi’s Consort, to be gifted a new rua and sent off to begin a fresh existence, unburdened by the weight of memories and past attachments.

It is our divinely given task on this Earth to use this new chance, this clean slate, as a renewed opportunity for self-betterment and spiritual growth, in preparation for our next karmic trial in Urobos.

But what of the somatic? Of the body? Indeed, what of it? Some proud kings of old had their spiritless mortal shells preserved and entombed behind arcane seals, hoping mayhap to return to rule their domain after their sojourn in the underworld. The People of the Waves, in the western ocean, entrust their dead to the dark waters on which they sail their entire lives. The Dahathri tribes encase theirs in ice and let them sink under the shifting glaciers of the far south. And yet, no amount of magical or physical defences can forever shield remains from the depredations of the necromancer vermin, who, above all, seek to desecrate any part of life that is holy.

The solution, then? Fire. Kol’s cleansing Breath purifies physical remnants and any spiritual echoes left behind, denying the sacrilegious their ill-coveted prize. Burning the bodies of the departed is the only way, so burn them we must. Burn them. Burn them all.

—author unknown, text recovered from a temple of Whesi after its destruction by an army of undead, later cited in “A History of Cremation,” by Notan Hecro, published 307 AK.

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Remembrance 1, 2497 AK, Radiant Empire, Cleft Isles, Greyport.

Kaydence brusquely shoved her way through the suffocating crowd, heading back towards the performers’ courtyard. How did he know? How could he know? Echoes of the merchant’s parting words reverberated in her mind. “Your mother will love the gift,” he said.

Or did he?

Lately, Kaydence had begun to fear she might not be able to trust her senses anymore. She had been seeing and hearing things—more than was usual to her, at any rate. It was the whole reason she escaped the puppeteer’s tent in the first place. Now, she questioned how far her sanity had slipped. She had almost struck Lenril. What if there was no “almost” next time?

What if she attacked Annet?

Her treacherous mind whispered back it was only a matter of time.

A woman’s shrill laughter nearly made her jump out of her skin. Kaydence swore and stepped away. She needed to relax. She was far too tense. Her first instinct had been to run back to her mother’s side, but in her current state, she was liable to cause problems rather than solve any—real or imaginary. A fistfight with Erza seemed inevitable, given how easily the abrasive, freckled redhead got on Kaydence’s nerves, even on the best of days. Fundamentally, nothing had changed from when Kaydence chose to entrust Annet to the Southeys, a few hours ago.

She found herself fiddling with the Dragon scale in her pocket. She considered throwing it away, severing any connection to that suspicious merchant, but could not bring herself to. The act would be too weighted in symbolism—the kind the world seemed to care about—and Kaydence could hardly afford any more bad karma.

Needless to say, her attempt to clear her mind with some fresh air was an utter failure, and she reentered the courtyard in an even fouler mood than she had left with. Escaping the viscous stream of humanity on Main Street was a minor relief, but one that got turned around the moment she spotted familiar faces roaming between the fair acts.

Thomas Burtin and his cronies sauntered around as if they owned the place, moving about in a loud and rude manner. Their boisterous voices cut through the din of music and chatter, and people gave them a wide berth—since the sparser crowd here allowed it. The young thug appeared no happier than Kaydence felt, his round face contorted into a scowl rivalling her own. But whereas Kaydence preferred to deal with her demons in solitude, retreating to the shadows to brood, Thomas seemed intent on making his anger everyone else’s problem.

School was his usual hunting ground, over which he ruled as a little tyrant, but tonight, he had turned to heckling every performer he saw. His crew of immature troublemakers egged him on with cheers and jeers, adding fuel to his fire, their tankards raised high as they revelled in their own obnoxiousness. From their reddened complexion and unrestrained demeanour, Kaydence suspected they had been drinking copiously since sundown.

Now, the people in this era were generally more educated than in Seifer’s time. Most understood, in the vaguest sense, the adverse effects of mind-altering substances on the development of young minds. But on festive occasions, it was still not rare to allow even the young ones to indulge in alcohol and tobacco. This particular group, however, had long surpassed the stage of mild indulgence. Not that it surprised Kaydence, as these kids were sorely lacking in role models or authority figures either willing or capable of teaching them moderation. Thomas’s father, though a priest of the Light, could often be found lost deeper in a bottle than in divine contemplation.

Kaydence pitied the stilt-mounted jester the teens were harassing. His unfunny jokes did not deserve that level of verbal abuse. But ultimately, she cared not enough to intervene. She also regretted breaking the boy’s hand yesterday, and the guilt surely affected her decision.

She stood by her reasons: magic was not a benign tool to be wielded lightly. It had a mind of its own—in a manner of speaking—and could end up using its caster as much as the other way around. However, she deplored losing herself to blind rage. Her outburst was only half about the young Thomas’s actions, and the kid undoubtedly saw it as a gratuitous act of aggression more than a sincere and valuable warning.

Therefore, Kaydence planned on ignoring the unruly gang of drunk twelve-year-olds.

Unfortunately, they appeared disinclined to extend to her the same consideration.

Kaydence had just reached the puppeteer’s tent, and was about to peek inside to check how close the play was to its conclusion, when a pebble narrowly missed her head, bouncing harmlessly off the beige canvas.

“How… dare! How dare you… show u-hiccup here, demon?! It’s a shac… a sacred cle... ceble… celebe… We don’t want you here!” Thomas slurred. He staggered forward, pointing a shaky finger in Kaydence’s direction, his face burning in alcohol-fuelled rage. His other hand clutched a half-full tankard. “No one wants you here!”

Kaydence sighed, slowly turning around. “I’m not here by choice. Let me reassure you.” She caught movement in her peripheral vision and snatched the flying tankard in mid-air. Unfortunately, the content splashed over the rim, dousing her face and shoulder, much to the group’s hilarity. “Thank you,” she deadpanned. “But I’m not one for ale much.”

Her nonchalant reaction only inflamed the inebriated teens. Thomas’s face edged dangerously close to purple, quite resembling his father’s in that moment. From up close, his black eye looked noticeably worse than yesterday, and his left cheek appeared swollen. “You watch your… damn mouth… demon!” he spat angrily.

“Or what? You’ll barf on my shoes?” Kaydence sighed, noting the boy’s unsteady stance. “Go home, Thomas, unless you’re looking for bruises you won’t need to falsely pin on me.”

Thomas flinched as if she had actually struck him. Kaydence was not proud of herself. It was a low blow, she knew. And she did sympathise. She really did. He was just a kid. However, being young and having a difficult home life did not justify making everyone else’s lives miserable, and Kaydence lacked the patience and insight to educate him. Her experience with children was sorely limited—Sarmin being the exception—and oddly specific. It was utterly unhelpful in this situation.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Bitch, I’ll­–”

“Tom! Stop!” Thankfully, one of Thomas’s companions, perhaps more sober or sensible than the rest, intervened just in time. He grabbed his fuming friend around the shoulders, just in time to prevent him from leaping towards Kaydence and an inevitably painful conclusion. Granted, his success in holding back the larger boy was likely due mainly to Thomas’s impaired coordination. “Don’t listen to her, Tom. She’s messing with your head with her evil demon powers!”

So maybe not that sober… But listen to your friend, Tommy Boy. Kaydence rolled her eyes but kept her thoughts to herself, conscious she would only aggravate the situation.

Eventually, Thomas’s agitation subsided. Once he ceased his attempts to reach Kaydence, he pushed his friend away with a frustrated huff. “Come on. This place is lame anyway,” he grumbled, falling back on his usual excuse. He walked away, and the rest of the group trailed after him, heading for the courtyard’s gates. One of the girls shot Kaydence a venomous glare in parting, as if blaming her for the entire altercation.

“...ungrateful twerps.” Kaydence bent over to pick up the spilt tankard, sniffed inside, and grimaced. She walked over to the unpleasant food vendor from earlier, flashing him a smirk. “Hey. I found this on the ground. That should earn me a free cup of clean water, at least?”

* * *

“The First Emperor was so great!” Sarmin’s green eyes were sparkling as he and his father exited the puppeteer’s tent at the end of the show. “Woosh! Woosh! The day is saved!” Sarmin cheered, his empty hands slashing the air as if holding a sword. Lenril gazed at his son fondly and ruffled his hair despite the short boy’s protest.

Tales of Kayden the Hero always fascinated Sarmin. In fact, he adored any tale of adventure and daring, but especially whose protagonists rose up against insurmountable odds and fearlessly struck down evil to protect the weak and the innocent, with names like Calmera the Fierce, Sarenos the Liberator, or the warrior god Tsebek. Sarmin’s dearest treasure was a book of heroic legends from his father’s homeland, penned in elegant traditional Elvish by Lenril himself, which the Half-Elf kept preciously hidden behind a closet at home.

Kaydence was waiting for them outside. The tall girl was scraping her shirt with a broken piece of melting stalactite she had snapped off a rooftop. The remains of a crushed mug lay at her feet. “Don’t ask,” she said gruffly, pressing the piece of ice to her forehead. “Is the thing over? Can we call it a night?”

Sarmin’s smile fell. “B-B-But the b-bonfire?”

“Do you really need to see that?” Kaydence grumbled sullenly. “It’s the same every year.” The midnight bonfire was one of the Festival’s most significant traditions, to be held at midnight on the opening night. Kaydence had witnessed it once, from her mother’s side at age three, and had sworn to herself never to attend again.

Her rebuttal filled Sarmin’s eyes with tears. Lenril rested a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder and fixed Kaydence with a soft, pleading stare. Her crimson glare flitted between the two, her annoyance mounting, before she finally relented. “Ugh. Fine! But we’re heading straight back afterwards.” Although her entire being revolted against it, she saw here a golden opportunity to cut the night short. Otherwise, Sarmin was likely to drag them from stall to stall til dawn broke. His enabling father would do nothing to stop him.

Kaydence threw the piece of ice aside and walked away in a huff, anxious to hide the unease squirming beneath her scowl. Sarmin cheered and hurried after her, followed by his father, quietly smiling.

On Main Street, the throng that once whirled chaotically from countless competing currents had settled into a single flow, laboriously oozing upstreet under a canopy of lanterns. The ambient cheer had subsided to a contemplative hum. Idle chatter had made way for muttered prayers, the bards’ mirthful tunes replaced by haunting melodies and pious chants. Even the children knew to play their games in hushed tones. The trio merged seamlessly into the ambling mass, as did more and more people, pouring out of every building and tortuous alley to join the slow procession that headed for the city’s heart.

Members of the Guard were parting the crowd at the entrance of the central square, directing the townsfolk to the periphery and preventing congestion along the main axes. As soon as she emerged from the cramped streets, Kaydence found her gaze shifting skyward. The low-hanging clouds that had choked the heavens for weeks had vanished, allowing the waning gibbous moon to cast its silver light upon the square below—the Earth God Shu’s Lost Eye peering down at the mortal ants treading on his back.

The shadow of the grand temple loomed ever-present in the background, sending a cold shiver down Kaydence’s spine. Caught in the ebb and flow of people, she, Lenril and Sarmin were pushed into a corner at the rear of the audience, their backs to a wall. Above them, windows teemed with onlookers, friends and family invited over, privileged to spectate from their elevated vantage points. Lenril hoisted his son onto his shoulders. Kaydence did not need to see to know what stood in the open space at the square’s centre.

For over a week, the thirty-foot monolithic structure had stood sentinel in the gallows’ place, cloaked in protective canvas akin to a shroud. Beside it, a makeshift stage hosted a sinuous brazier and a gathering of cowled clergy, their forms obscured by moving shadows cast by the flame. As the ambient music waned, a cadence of heavy drums rose gradually over the din of the crowd, low at first, then gaining in power, until everyone fell into a tense silence pervaded with febrile anticipation.

The drums reached a crescendo, their frenzied tempo echoing through the square before abruptly falling silent. Above the stage, the moon’s silver shine coalesced into a towering projection of the cowled celebrants, their faceless masks bearing the Mark of the Twelve. The shortest figure among them stepped faintly forth, his stooped back crooked by years of devout prostrations.

“People of Greyport!” His aged voice boomed in the void left behind, fragile and creaking but amplified with magic. “Friends from across the Split Isles! Sons and daughters of the empire! Today is the first night of the Founder’s Festival.” The words echoed over the silenced crowd.

“Tonight, the hearts of the faithful throughout the world turn to our Eternal Emperor and Saviour, Kayden the Bright. He who fought for us, bled for us, died for us. The Chosen of the Twelve stood tall at the Plains of Twelve Heavens and One Hell before the great evils of the world and proclaimed, ‘Nevermore! Nevermore will pain be the reward of the just. Nevermore will the humble be forgotten. Nevermore shall the deserving receive less than their due.’

“Those words spoken in defiance of all injustices are also spoken to us: a promise to build a nation unlike any the world had seen since the Fall of the Jaldehim. Tonight, we are full of hope and trust as we realise that the First Emperor, the Chosen One, has proclaimed to us the Heavens’ Love, that the Twelve’s Eternal Will is for their children to thrive and prosper within their everlasting Creation.”

The drums returned, beating to the rhythm of a slow heartbeat.

“Brothers and sisters, there was a time when deep shadows threatened to devour the land.”

Cloaked figures hastened to the base of the monolith under the cover of darkness. With deft hands, they unfastened the canvas, allowing it to cascade to the ground.

Below emerged a crude assembly of reeds and wood wrapped in painted cloth. Exaggerated features were rendered in broad strokes of colour: jagged lines suggesting scales and claws, the face a gnarled mask of menace, its mouth agape in a silent roar, oversized crimson eyes, twisted horns protruded from its head, and crooked wings hanging from its back. The very clumsiness of the design made the effigy only more grotesque, like a nightmare given corporeal form to infiltrate the waking world. It loomed over the crowd, swathed in shadows, illuminated only by the distant moon and the lone brazier.

The drum picked up a more sinister pace.

“Evil rampaged throughout our homes, leaving only blood and ash, sorrow and silence. Yet it was then, by the Twelve’s Will, that an undying flame was lighted.”

In a bright flash, another figure joined the priests, both in the projection and on the stage below. The man was clad in full-plate armour of immaculate white, his face obscured by his helmet. He raised his alabaster sword, and the silver moonlight seemed to condense in a heavenly beam shining upon him.

The drums shifted back to a glorious crescendo.

“They chose their representative among humanity to enact their design. This is the good news that changed the course of history! Today, the world’s evil has been overcome by the Heavens’ Light!”

The immaculate knight plunged his sword into the brazier, setting it ablaze. He then charged at the snarling creature of wood and cloth with slow, deliberated steps and impaled the nightmare. Coated in flammable oil, the effigy caught on fire with blazing speed. The flames lit up the square, and the townspeople cheered as the Dragon Demon King burned.

At the rear of the crowd, her back against the wall, Kaydence stared at the display without blinking. The orange lights of the flames reflected in her crimson eyes.

“Death to Evil!” the priest shouted.

“Death to Evil!” the throng echoed.

“Death to Evil!” Sarmin cheered atop his father’s shoulders.

The drums reached a feverish pitch.

“Sons and daughters of our Radiant Empire, let us exult in this gift of grace! Rejoice, you who have lost your confidence, for you are not alone. Rejoice, you who have abandoned all hope, for the Twelve offer you their outstretched hand in Kayden. Rejoice, you who find no peace of heart, for the Eternal Emperor vanquished the Great Evil for your sake! Tonight, and for eleven more nights, we celebrate in trust that his peace, his empire, will have no end! Glory to the Holy Radiant Empire!”

“Glory to the Empire!” countless voices echoed across the imperial lands.

“Death to Evil!” the priest repeated.

“Death to Evil!” People thrust their fists into the air.

“Let it be known to all who seek to sow discord or disrupt the peace of the realm: the gods watch over us! Let no Void or malice prevail, for Kayden’s righteousness shall guide our path! In abundance or dearth, our Eternal Emperor shields us from harm. Let us remain steadfast in our devotion, unwavering in our resolve, and united in our hearts, with the strength to overcome all obstacles and fulfil the glorious destiny bestowed upon us by the divine hand of Kayden the Bright!”

The drums and the people went wild.

“Glory to Kayden!”

“Death to Evil!”

“Glory to the Radiant Empire!”

“Everlasting Glory to Kayden!”

“Death to Evil!”

“Glory to the Empire!”

Sarmin kept on cheering with everyone as the Demon’s effigy burned. When he ran out of breath, he turned around to beam at Kaydence, eager to share with his friend the joy he felt on this unique day.

But Kaydence was nowhere to be seen.

* * * * *