Prologue
Revera crackled as tension spread through his body, the stone pillar he stood on rising just above the cliff’s edge – bringing devastation into view. Lightning split the overcast sky, illuminating the cadaverous and broken land that lay before him.
Volleys of thick, grey ash drifted down from above while rivers of lava- constantly spewing from Mount Myapoth – blanketed the land in streaks of blood.
The series of cataclysmic earthquakes – mixed with the devastating Shiftstorm of Fire a few days earlier – were no doubt the culprits of such a disastrous eruption. Revera felt a pang of sorrow as he inspected the small island.
Once, the land was home to a beautiful forest – one he would often visit for peace and tranquility. Now he watched Myapoth boil, devoid of all life; be it the birds, the bees or the trees.
He leapt from his rock pillar, releasing it back under the sea as his feet landed on the edge of the cliff. Last he recalled, the cliff had been much further away from Mount Myapoth, indicating that the natural disasters had already begun to dismantle the island.
He treaded carefully across the burning land, only stepping on the small, cooled pieces of rock he unearthed from deep below, the stones just big enough to hold the balls of his feet as he cut a path through the lava. He bent the stone as little as possible – fearful that even a small tremor would destabilize Myapoth, causing the entire island to sink or the volcano to erupt again. It wouldn’t damage him – but it would make finding Gav difficult.
Lightning fell again, illuminating a small portion of the forest that some remained unscathed in the violence – the only indication that life once existed in the baren wasteland before him.
Friend, stay your soul where it may; safer there than here. The message was soft, as was the tremor he sent with it – barely a whisper – but he felt the mountain’s rumble in response.
Revera continued slowly, his only illumination granted by the lightning that fell overhead and the lava that flowed all around – which was surprisingly dim – illuminating what little remained. As he rounded a rocky ridge, concern wrenched his mind. Bolting forward – towards the bodies of half a dozen massive beasts scatted about – he searched about for his friend.
The creatures lay long – around seven meters or so – and wide – around two meters – clearly killed though manmade actions rather than natural causes. Lava stripped three bodies of distinct identity – save for their shape – although judging from the gaping wounds each featured, the lava was clearly immaterial to their demise.
The remaining three featured a variety of injuries. One had a crushed jaw – evidently used as a weapon to dig out its brain. Another seemed to be alive, standing on the smoldering remains of thick, stumpy legs – until further inspection revealed thousands of tiny cuts.
Death from blood loss. Probably didn’t even realize it happened.
The final one was a few paces away from the others – body intact but head nowhere to be seen, this one was clearly beheaded.
Searching again – he questioned who could’ve felled such beasts.
Is another person here? Certainly, a possibility. Gav shouldn’t have this much power, although the years between us could certainly have given him the space to develop further.
Relief washed over Revera for a brief moment as he finished examining the surrounding area. The boy lives or at least died somewhere else. Mind at ease, Revera began to scrupulously examine the bodies of the fallen beasts.
Thick, grey scales covered their flesh – matte and rugged to the touch.
The creature was also muscular, carrying no-eyes but instead, a prominent twin-finned tail on its rear and two separate mouths.
On either side were four thick stumps – presumably once legs – and just above its skull were three horns, silver and jagged – arranged in small circle. Aliso touched it – surprised to feel the distinctive texture of copper, despite their silvery appearance.
Clearly an amphibious animal, of some sort. Revera concluded, as he rounded over to the creatures eye-less face. Bending over, he pried both snouts open – each structurally different from the other but still covered by the same grey scales.
The first mouth was like an elongated beak – and while both snouts were long this was a fair bit longer, thinner and pointer – carrying with it a set of curved, rounded, green teeth and long, highly retractable tongue.
The second jaw was tougher to open – thicker than its sibling, this mouth was far more muscular – stockier in appearance as well. Inside ran two rows of long, sharp canines – all coated in a weird liquid.
Kazaraks, he realized, placing the dual mouthed creature. Alien to the local biomes, however. Interesting. Revera kicked at one of them – turning it over to reveal a soft, pink underbelly. Although whether that was natural, or the ground simply scorched the creature’s skin was hard to say.
Thrown off course from the quakes and storms? Possible – but possessed by what to shelter here, island aflame? He touched at the skin – warm to the touch, not the warmth of heat – but the warmth of life.
Recently passed, by which time only the most foolish – or driven – would find shelter among the burning trees. No – purpose is what secerns them from others, for indeed they came with purpose. He moved closer – touching the odd liquid between his fingers.
Poison. He concluded, rubbing it off his fingers. He closed his eyes – trying to remember if had venomous teeth. Unable to do so, he continued on with his investigations – although his gut feeling told him they didn’t.
Their arrival is no coincidence.
Revera moved away, trying to piece together who sent them. The GCA? Troubling thought. Their actions have been out of character as of late, some I would even consider downright bizarre. But this? No. There is scant - if any - evidence that they have broken their vow of passivity. And if they have truly figured out how to control Kazaraks, then establishing bounties f–
The rumblings of the volcano broke Rivera's train of thought – like the grumbling stomach of a pampered child – as it expelled another layer of ash and gas. He berated himself. Fool. Gav first, escape second, detective work last.
The Istra of Stone spent another half-hour searching, the lack of consistent lighting and footholds – due to the ever-present flowing lava - considerably slowing his progress. He pondered the feasibility of sending light vibration waves through the earth to find his friend but concluded there was too great a risk – best to avoid any scenario that resulted in more eruptions.
Unfortunately, the sweltering heat was beginning to sear even his skin – which raised a point of concern for Revera. Even with all the lava – there shouldn’t be enough heat for me to sweat, he thought, despite the accompanying sweat causing his soaked ceremonial suit to stick vigorously to his skin. He wondered if this was how an animal would feel – as they cooked over an open spit roast.
Straightening his jacket, he felt a twinge of guilt for having stormed off in the middle of his great-great-great goddaughter’s wedding ceremony. He hoped she would forgive him, although he supposed even she would understand – give the signal’s urgency and desperation.
The adrenaline and urgency had kept him awake for the past week as he sprinted across the ocean, but the monotonous work combined with the thick poisonous air, lack of light and the unbearable heat was beginning to replace the adrenaline with fatigue and sleepiness.
He spent another two hours searching – beginning to lose hope the man was even here – before he caught a glimpse of light escaping from what seemed to be a small cave indented by the side of the volcano. As he approached the entrance, he could hear the ramblings of a dissonant voice grow louder and louder. Who is that? Doesn’t sound like Gav.
As he closed in on the cave, the voices grew clearer and clearer. They seemed to be a chant of some sort, moving with such an overwhelming cadence that it caused Revera’s knees to buckle beneath him for a second.
This music is producing Ura, or some other energy! Strong too! He realized, walking towards the cave. What are these chants?
As the music stopped, Revera found himself peeking through the cave entrance, surprised to find such a large cave hidden by narrow entrance.
Inside, he noticed immediately that the cracked, rocky walls lining the cave interior were graffitied – used like a canvas for aimless smears of dark blue and deep-red paint.
At the center of the cave sat a paltry campfire, emanating far brighter than a flame of its size should. Beside it sat a grizzled, bald and worn-out man, smears of crusty black, blue and red paint sporadically encasing his entire body like a think suit of armor. In the distance he could see a thin outline of some object, the details covered by darkness.
Subconsciously, Revera walked in to take a closer look at the man.
He donned a short, unkempt beard – the look of a clean-shaven man whose shaving kit had been missing for weeks – a broken nose, running parallel to his face and bones protruding out. Hollow eyes, deep bags and a gaunt face – everything spoke to a man who had not eaten in weeks.
Or maybe, a week. Revera slowly realized.
It was difficult to judge his height while he sat, but he seemed to be a few hands smaller than Revera, leaving him a bit on the short side. And the right height.
Across his chest ran a deep maroon scar, starting from the tip of his left shoulder and ending at the wide end of his hips. With a start – Revera realized the dark-blue and red “paint” was blood. A mixture of fresh and dried.
Alongside the scar – marred by hundreds of cuts and bruises – was a large tattoo running the length of his chest. It was a torch – lit – with thousands of words encircling the torch, a language even Revera didn’t recognize. That tattoo itself, however, was far simpler. One could hardly forget the tattoos of the Eternal Pyre - a sect of the Eternal Flame working with the Braochi Society – as their dedication to the discovery and decoding of prophecies was akin to legend.
The man carried an instrument of some sort in his hands, with six strings and a round base where the strings connected.
As he approached the man, he noticed the markings on the wall weren’t random smears, but rather crude paintings and drawings – drawn entirely in blood, the same that covered the gaunt man. Abysmal artistry aside, Revera could feel power emanating from it.
By the man’s left foot lay two small brown bowls, filled to the brim with the same navy-blue and red blood used to paint the walls. Revera felt a jolt of shock as he noticed that the man seemed to be missing a leg, in it its place a stump – likely cauterized by the flames of the campfire.
The man’s bloody cream coat was ripped to shreds and frayed, clinging for dear life by a few of strands. His wore no pants – only burnt undergarments loosely covering his genitals.
Revera’s eyes were drawn to the giant slab of meat, tucked beneath the man’s arms. It lay almost three meters long, the massive object barely fitting between his arms. Ripped flesh rather than cut, he could see small rills of thin, navy blue blood dripping from the sides. To the right of the meat lay three massive horns, one of which was broken and undoubtedly being used as a stick of some kind.
The missing Kazarak head.
As Revera came closer, the man immediately opened his eyes and stared at him.
His rose gold eyes shone with a bright spark of intelligence, holding unnatural wisdom and full of mischief and energy.
Revera hesitated for a brief moment, suspicious of the energy and enthusiasm emanating from the withered soul. No sane man would find themselves in such high spirits after what had and was occurring. But he continued forward, confident that he could easily suppress any violence before it began.
Fortunately, no such thing occurred. The man began to tune his instrument, plucking and fiddling with the strings until each note sounded perfect.
Revera swiveled his head, failing to find sheet music for instruction. Instead, his eyes caught on something else – and was disturbed to find the man’s missing leg, the jagged cut marks across the thigh indicated a crude hack job. The tibia of the leg had been completely flattened and the foot bent backwards a hundred and eighty degrees.
The man finished tuning his instrument and began to string a tune together. Each subsequent note vibrating deeper and deeper, echoing off the walls until Revera’s ears began to ring.
Revera interrupted the ghastly playing. “Name yourself!”. He commanded.
The man responded with an unusual smile – one where his lips didn’t quite move outwards as much as they did upwards. He continued to pluck at the strings of the instrument and when he finally spoke, it was not the voice of one man, but of two at the same time.
The first was the deep, soft and masculine, while the second was feminine; raspy and unnatural, as if it was just an echo of another voice. Old and bold. The second voice rang louder as he spoke:
“A time long ago, a time yet to come. Once I was, once I will be, once I am.
Suddenly, the man dropped his instrument as he doubled over, writhed in pain and clutching at his stomach. He let out explosive blood-curling screams of agony, each wave threatening to destabilize the entire volcano through the sheer force of vibrations alone.
Revera jumped into action. In the blink of an eye, he leapt closed the distance between them and yanked at the man’s bony arms to pull him close. He grabbed his face in one hand and slamming the jaw shut.
Possessed.
The man clawed and wriggled in a valiant attempt to escape the iron grip, but it was to no avail as Revera pulled the man up – looking him directly in the eyes. Gone was the intelligent glimmer that he had seen just moments earlier, replacing it was a primal ferocity and anguish. The eyes changed colours before him, turning from white to black to all the colours of a rainbow one after the other. In one smooth, practiced motion Revera placed his index finger to his lips, and let out a command – this one with the force of his power behind it.
Silence.
Instantly, the screaming and writhing stopped. The man’s arms fell limp beside his body and as the heat from his face escaped, an icy cold replaced it. He released the man from his grasp and began to examine the cave again as the man wheezed in breath after breath. The paintings on the walls began to move, displaying a vivid scene before him. They moved dramatically from left to right, each passing image moving faster and faster until it was just a blur around him. He spun around and saw the campfire began to dance out of control, radiating a feral heat. It grew higher, then higher again until the tip of the dancing flames scraped the jagged roof.
Revera put his fingers to his lips again and sent a light vibration around the room, repeating the same mental command he had let out moments ago.
Silence.
In an instant, the air was violently expelled from the room. The stones began to shift and the paintings began to still. The fire died down until only small embers remained.
“Revera?”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He turned to find the man lying flat on his back, the jagged rocks driving deep wedges into his shredded skin. Despite that, his pale-green eyes looked up at him in awe and hope. Now, only one voice remained. The soft, yet deep voice. Revera hadn’t wanted to identify the man – afraid to find it come true.
“Gav?”
Tears began to stream, wiping blood as they fell on the young man’s face. “I thought you wouldn’t make it.” he cried, holding back a sob.
“I came here as fast as I could.” Revera replied softly as he knelt beside his old friend. “What happened here, what happened to you? Last time I saw you, you were but a mere child.”
A smile somehow cracked through Gav’s haggard expression. “Last time we met was over thirty years ago, Revera. I see your sense of time is as terrible as always.”
“But it’s only been thirty years!” Revera exclaimed.
The smile on Gav’s face broadened, surprising given the circumstances. “Maybe thirty years for the almighty Ishtra is short, but for a human like me that accounts for almost twenty percent of my lifespan.” Gav glanced around room, his eyes settling on the paintings covering the wall.
The smile slowly slipped off his face, replaced by a ragged expression of pain and exhaustion. “Thank you for saving me. I… I tried to fight back against the Foreteller, but…” Gav’s voice faded out as he gazed into the distance. “It was so powerful, overpowering my efforts. I couldn’t stop what I was doing. She ripped off my leg and used the bones as a brush to paint the pictures. It was so bloody painful. She must’ve thought there would be no one to hear the prophecy, and so painted the images of it on the walls.”
A pang of sorrow entered his voice as he gazed upon the torched stump where his leg once resided. “How did you stop her?” he asked quietly.
“Silence of the soul. I silenced her. Any normal creature would’ve instantly turned to stone on the spot, but for a soul as powerful and ancient as the Foreteller, I could only drive her out of your body” He turned from Gav to examine the walls – marred with bloody images. “Why are you here Gav? Why do you have a Kazarak head wrapped in your arms. Dealing with The Foreteller? A Prophecy? What is happening my friend?”
Gav shook his head. “I… I came to this Island – Myapoth – because of a rumor we decoded. It spoke of a Great Prophecy, one that would arrive on the land conquered by peace and flames. There are only a few locations that match those descriptions. Two of us were sent to each island in preparation, but my Partner was crushed immediately by a falling boulder when the Firestorm. We should have been safe, there was no indication that a Shiftstorm would hit.”
Revera ran his hands across the walls – visually he was unable to decipher the clearly coded message. The blood ran ice cold to the touch – highly unusual given the general heat.
Behind him, Gav’s voice welled up with sorrow, fists slamming on the floor in anger. “I took shelter in this cave, hoping to just survive the storm. And… and then I found it. Or rather, it found me.” Each sentence left his voice hollower, but his concentration was broken by a series of deafening volcanic eruptions. Revera could sense massive chunks of melting rock fall from the sky as the eruption began again - the volcano threatening to bring the whole island down. Revera turned away from paintings on the wall, as he examined the chaos happening outside.
“We can talk about it later Gav, I can sense that Myapoth is not long for this world. If the Foreteller has taken hold of your body, then I–” Revera spun around, thought occurring a moment too late. If he was trapped in the cave, who sent me the signal? And if his partner died immediately, what killed the Kazaraks?
Revera got no further. Behind him, Gav picked up his instrument and began to sing again. He let out a deep laugh, only this time the voice was old, raspy and feminine. He had underestimated The Foreteller, whose spirit possessed the man yet again.
Revera moved to silence her again, but he was far too slow. Before he had even taken a step, she had already begun to play her old melody, and the weight of the music brought down him flat on his belly.
With a struggle, he turned his head up to look at his friend. Gone was the ragged expression of a broken man. His eyes were now pure white, his smile twisted upward in a haunting expression of manic joy.
“IT COMES, IT COMES” she bellowed gleefully, staring straight into his eyes, before jumping onto his back – feet rhythmically drumming to the music. He could feel something being etched on his soul, something that could not be undone. “THERE IS NO ESCAPE. THE TIME OF CHAINS AND GAINS HAS COME TO AN END, JUST LIKE THE ERA OF STRINGS AND WAR BEFORE IT. NOW A NEW ERA RISES, AND THE HANDS OF TIME HAVE LANDED ON DEATH AND REBIRTH. HEAR ME, HEAR ME NOW, OH MAN OF STONE! FOR I SHALL TELL YOU WHAT WILL HAPPEN, ALTHOUGHT IT HAS ALREADY HAPPENED.”
NO! Revera screamed violently, trying to throw off the Ura holding him down. He tried to move, but the pressure was far too strong – stronger than even what he could manage. He focused inward – centering his attention above to The Foreteller and letting out another Silence of the Soul.
To his shock, the technique rebounded – Silencing Revera instead. His body fell limp – mind unaffected by his own attack – as the foreteller leapt off his still back. It was a sobering experience – a humiliating reminder that even an Istra – an Istra as powerful as him – is not invincible.
“THERE IS NO STOPPING THE INEVITABLE!” the foreteller cried. As the music began to rise in tempo, the old spirit began to spin out a prophecy, in a language of old. A language untold, a language unknown. And there was naught that Revera could do but lay about like an obedient child and listen in misery.
A minute passed by. Then another. Another once again.
Five minutes passed by before the foreteller told the telling. Revera understood not one word of what was said, but he would remember it nevertheless. For that how it always was, and that how it always shall be.
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Deep underground, Grufeld violently shook as another streak of savage earthquakes engulfed the planet, like a homeless man overdosing. The structure was built with energy absorption in mind –including kinetic. Thus, regular earthquakes have little effect on the day-to-day activities of the prison.
Unfortunately, these earthquakes were anything but regular – this was no longer a series of earthquakes, it had become an apocalyptic level natural disaster. But those were problems for stronger and vastly more qualified people.
In more immediate concerns, panic was beginning to spread across the Grufeld – among prisoners and jailers alike – the ever-present fear of the prison simply collapsing in on itself, now amplified by creaks and rumbles that accompanied the disaster.
The Jailers sat quietly at the end of the narrow hallways – playing cards to kill the time – as they kept a somewhat lazy eye on the prisoners. Behind them, the prisoners spew insults and jeers at their oppressors – demands for safety.
As the prison shook more and more violently, and the eerie echo transformed from a small distraction into a deafening cacophony, a loud, hearty laugh suddenly drowned the world out. It came from the deepest depths of the cold dungeon.
The bottom floor of the prison is the ultimate graveyard, inhabited only by the most dangerous criminals alive. Wrapped in perennial darkness, the air is dirtier than a lordling’s conscience and the temperatures are colder than the broken heart of a widow. The atmosphere wraps around its victims like a second coffin. It is where light travels to perish, where sound sails to be silenced, and souls are damned to an eternal damnation.
And against all odds, a laugh emerged.
It managed to pry away from the depths of its bitter homeland and triumphantly escape to the highest point of The Tower. The gleeful cackle shook the residents more fiercely than any earthquake could dream of.
Uncertainty grew within the Jailers as each passing bellow grew louder, and the fellow prisoners settled quietly to observe the beautiful dissonance of music. Finally, fear and doubt overcame the Jailer’s mask of confidence, and they began to descend the prison’s maze of tight corridors in a chaotic fashion. Darkness enveloped their vision as they entered the final floor, so they followed the thundering laughter until they reached the final occupied cell. Although they could not see it, inside a small, young man lay flat on the floor. Cold, thick chains wrapped around his wrists like snakes around pray. They dug deep, leaving his hands white as blood flow struggled to circulate through his fingers. Despite his young stature, his face was covered in a thick long beard, frozen completely by the frosty conditions.
“QUIET DOWN YOU FUCKING MAGUS,” the recently appointed Captain of the Jailers bellowed. “NOT ONE MORE PEEP OR YOU CAN KISS YOUR MEALS GOODBYE FOR A WEEK, YOU HEAR. WHAT IN FIORMAS’ SOUL COULD YOU POSSIBLY FIND HUMOUROUS, SEWER RAT?” Despite the confident façade, a slight tremble betrayed his fear – it wasn’t often one spoke down Quinx, The Forbidden. The jailor would deny it of course – call it a tremor of rage, should anyone ask.
Slowly, the boisterous laughing began to fade, until only a wheeze could be heard as the terrifying magus drew in breath after breath to fill his lungs, each releasing gasp instantly freezing in the air. After a few moments, a raspy voice escaped the convict.
“Don’t you see!?” he gasped, a hollow laugh managing to escape with his words. “It has begun! The end is near, you fools! All that you have struggled to uphold, all in vain! The chains you have wrapped around the hearts of men will soon shatter, and change will grip this world once again!”
He let out another hearty laugh.
The captain felt heat rise to his face, anger and deep down, terror. “I SAID NOT ONE MORE FOOKIN’ LAUGH, YOU SOULLESS SHIT. DO YOU WANT TO STARVE TOO?”
Quinx chuckled – only this time the sound felt evil. “Those fucking meals can eat shit. When I imagine the terror on your face when you realize what is coming – ah well, that will sustain me more thoroughly than any shit you provide.”
He stood up slowly, each motion causing agonizing pain for the thousand year old magus. All the jailers – including the Captain – took an involuntary step back. Even locked up and chained for thousands of years, Quinx's mere existence was enough to sow terror. The thousand year old Magus looked to the unseen sky, face full of triumph, and bellowed.
“IT HAS BEGUN!”
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“Leave my room, please. And… thank you, for your service.”
Ceremonial robes scraped on the stone as the apostates departed from the Grand Chancellor’s abode, the floor sparkling in their wake.
He sat back into his chair, deflated. Agony and terror ripped apart his mask of calm as he took in the news. Dread had been slowly creeping in since the first violent earthquake – and more than once he thought to escape – but inwardly he knew that it was too late. He thought he would be calm when the time came – thought he was prepared to see his duty though.
He reached beneath his stiff, blue robes to pull the Dagger of Beginning from its sheath and tossed it lightly on his desk, leaving a dent in the beautiful wooden masterpiece. Since ancient times, the heavy ceremonial dagger has remained at the Grand Chancellor’s side – supposedly a key of great importance, but time had eroded all memories of what purpose it held. Father Time is undefeated, he idly realized. Now, the sacred blue bladed dagger lay soundly on his desk, no more useful than a paperweight.
The Grand Chancellor swiveled in his chair to face the dazzling painting that hung on the wall behind him.
The Holy Cycle – a depiction of the beginning. It was hauntingly perfect. Long – stretching from one end of the wall to the other – the painting was a beautiful swirl of colours, so many that the Grand Chancellor would have failed to name even a hundredth of them.
The obvious centerpiece of the rectangular canvas was a white, lamb-like creature with Human like proportions. Fur covered her entire body – glinting in the sunlight as she sat crisscrossed, legs one atop the other. In her left hand – or hoof – she held thousands of tiny seeds; each a different colour, such as mahogany, turquoise, violet and the Chancellor’s favourite: verdant.
Her other one held a small, orange ball of energy. Even as the Chancellor watched – the orb seemed to glow off the canvas – golden aura catching the attention, as if it was a piece of her very own soul. He gazed upon his lord – and smiled – for the warmth she provided could not be tempered by any darkness.
Life. She sat front and center – all the colour in the world in one hand, and the Sun in the other.
Surrounding her was the cold, black universe – sporadically inhabited by thousands of tiny white specs. Some wandered aimlessly, content to write their own journey, while others banded together like a herd of sheep. Stars and Galaxies. Where Life radiated warmth – the surrounding universe emanated cold – not malice, but indifference.
The head of the Cult of Life reflected fondly on when he had first seen the painting, some fifty years prior. He reminisced how the beautiful lamb had first drawn his gaze. He remembered he found home a new home in the beautiful Church, a home that he never had growing up, and how it filled his life with pride and meaning when he finally became a Priest, then a Father.
He recalled his surprising ascension to Grand Chancellor. He was never a man with grand ambition yet with each offer of promotion he found himself unable to refuse, not due to lofty ambitions or greed, but because he knew if he passed, someone less devoted would rise in his place.
And that, he could never accept.
He slowly swiveled back to the dagger on the desk. When he first accepted his position as Grand Chancellor, he had been warned that this day might come. But he never expected it to happen during his reign. Novertheless, he must uphold the responsibilities bestowed upon him, no matter how difficult he might find it.
The Grand Chancellor sat at his regal desk, staring at it’s beautiful brown sheen for over an hour, mind empty of thoughts. It was too sudden, no time to prepare, no time to spend with his family or say goodbye to his friends. He would miss them dearly, he thought, but not as dearly as they would miss him.
I am not ready.
He held back the tears as he shuffled through his desks, searching for quill, ink and paper. Then, he set to work, writing a final letter to his wife.
Dear my beloved Maria,
I write this letter in haste, for I have not the time to properly lay out my thoughts, and so I ask for your forgiveness if it seems [incohesive]. Though we were only married for a short thirty years, the time we spent together was the most beautiful thing in the world. Everyday with you was an eternity filled with love and joy. I loved waking up next to you, your thin blue arms wrapping me in a warm embrace. I loved the curves of your body, the scars on our back, the little tattoos around your arms, the way your voice pitched up when I found you eating food in the night. I loved your long hair, that you kept flowing unrestrained for my enjoyment. I love your unrelenting optimism, that hint of arrogance in your voice when you cooked a meal, and the passion you showed on your face when you spoke of your paintings. I love that part of you that was stubborn and unrelenting, even if it may have caused me great difficulty. There are no words that can describe my love for you, so I shall keep it simple. I love you, so much.
I know I was never the perfect Husband you deserved. I know I kept secrets, and I came home late, and I wasn’t always there for you. I know that I seemed meek, and that you hated how I never fought back. I know you hated how much time I spent reading my scriptures. But you accepted all of it, because you loved me. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
I am sorry for what is to come. I want you to know, I had every intention to stay by your side forever. But my responsibilities as a Grand Chancellor outweigh my responsibilities as a husband. And for that, I can only beg for your forgiveness. I cannot explain why I have done what I did, but know it was something I must do. For everyone’s sake.
I am sorry for leaving you alone, but know that even if we are universes apart, I will love you forever.
Your Husband,
Ravoria Fidello
Ravoria put down his quill, tears streaming from his eyes. The writing was messy, ink spilling everywhere as a result of the earthquakes occurring. In writing his letter, he had prepared himself for what was to come. He placed the letter in a yellow envelope and sealed it with the seal of House Fidello, rather than the seal of Grand Chancellor of the Church of the Beginning. This was a private letter, for only one pair of eyes. He knew that his subordinates would deliver the letter unsullied. It was the least they could do.
He put the letter on the desk, hand replacing it with the dagger instead. There was not a scratch on the dagger – it’s dull metal edge unblemished.
His fingers ran across it once – stopping to read the inscription engraved.
Illy Inscario fariofa Carassa. Through Death comes Rebirth.
In that moment – a thought occurred. Maybe this has been the purpose all along – hidden from us all so no none of us could desert our responsibility. He contemplated the irony of it all; the painting, the dagger, the mission.
And then, in one smooth motion, he sheathed the dagger in his heart.
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Myanvar woke up to the sounds of violence all around him. He could hear the screeching of children in the distance, the sound of iron clashing with iron and the sounds of chanting all around him, all the while earthquakes shook the room. He pulled himself up, taking in the sight. He was annoyed to find this wasn’t the room he’d fallen asleep in. Moved me without asking, damn dogs.
He looked down at his chest, unsheathing the Dagger of the End from where it skewered his heart. He grunted from the effort – but found there was little pain that accompanied. Instead, the gaping hole now filled with brilliant aureate light.
A new life.
He turned around to examine the painting hanging on the wall behind him. The Holy Cycle – a depiction of the end. It was hauntingly perfect. Long – stretching from one end of the wall to the other – the painting was muted in it’s colours, using only a few to extenuate the details.
The obvious centerpiece of the rectangular canvas was a black, wolf-like creature with human like proportions. Black fur ripped across his body – absorbing the surrounding light like a void. Standing tall on his hind legs, surrounded by rolling meadows, an expansive blue sky – sparsely inhabited by a few wandering cloud – and beneath a giant tree – healthy if its size and general bulk were indicators – hands held out.
In one hand – a half-eaten apple, it’s red skin glinting. In the other – a sickle, it’s silver metal glinting.
It had been decades since he had seen the painting, and even now – looking upon his master – he felt… peace.
Very few could say that – looking upon Death.
His silent revery was shattered by the bursting arrival of a young priest, throwing his door open. “My Lord, Grand Chancellor,” he gasped. “You are awake.
“That I am.”
“Then, as apostate of the Church of the End, it is my duty to tell you that ‘It Arrives’.”
Myanvar, eyes still fixated on the painting, begun to laugh. “And so it has. Come. There is much to be done, and I do not know how much time we have left, nor how long I have slept for. We must prepare.”
Bari found her abode high above the ground silent and still. She looked down upon the quakes that shook the land violently. They began almost a full two whole weeks prior. She looked up to the stormy sky and saw an Electric Shiftstorm on the horizon – the likes of which Bari had never seen. This was no coincidence. There could only be one meaning to this.
She looked to Dythia, sitting on her left – hysteria in her eyes as she cackled with glee.
“Our Savior is coming! Finally! We can finish what was once started.”
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A few decades prior…
Walrone considered himself a good man. A dedicated farmer, a lovely husband and a father of two wonderful kids – each of which had chosen not to follow in their father’s footsteps, which filled him with pride.. By all accounts – he led a good and pious life. He followed the creed outlined by his faith – and while he may have had an affair or three, who could blame a man for doing what men did?
So Walrone considered himself a good man. That’s why when the hurricanes ripped apart his land, forcing him to migrate to a new forest – he considered it a part of the True Architect’s Grand Plan.
When his axe rebounded off the old oak tree the first time, he simply laughed it off as poor technique. Even with eighty years under his belt – even an older timer like him could make a mistake.
The second time it rebounded – he simply brushed it aside. A tougher tree than usual, and while it had been many years since he had been unable to fell a tree in ten blows – rare wasn’t never.
When upon his eight attempt – he failed to even make a dent in the tree with his strongest blow, despite having felled many of its surrounding brethren in less than five swings, he became curious.
After his twenty-fifth attempt – where he swung so hard the resulting knockback found him several meters back – he began to wonder if the Architects had simply deemed this tree indestructible.
Mr. Walrone may not have been a good man, he certainly was an unlucky one.
He approached the tree, rubbing at the spot where his axe had just bounced off – rubbing at it curiously. Instantly, a vine whipped out from beneath the tree, wrapping around Walrone’s ankle and dragging the man underneath it before he could even scream.
Slowly, the tree began to shift – at the same time as thousands of trees across the planet, of all different shapes and sizes began to shift simultaneously. The change wasn’t drastic, hardly noticeable, if one ignored the newly minted thick white plaque – woven in with the trunks of the trees.
What do you desire?
Life? Wealth? Power?
Information? Glory? Pride?
Find it all in the
House of Iye.
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THE AREKAII COLLECTIVES
FALMR Book 1: House of Iye