He awakens to a ringing by an ear, an almost deafening shrill. In his shock – and in a dazed struggle – he turns his head to identify this screaming buzz, but there was nothing, and the ringing has vanished as if it was not even there before. Maybe it truly was not. After all, waking up can be such a chore, especially when it is to clouds of ash suspended in the air. Yet, at a certain angle they shimmer in the light, these ash particles, so it is not all that unpleasant. Under what glare could even burnt dust sparkle? And the knight pushes himself up, stumbling forward due to the weight of his armour before regaining his footing.

There is a large crack in the wall, and outside the world is on fire. But no; at second glance, not exactly. There are plumes of heavy smoke, yes, and fiery mists sparking and barking – faint explosions – sorcery residue. The world was on fire, perhaps, leaving in ruins itself, with the bursting pops a persistent warning against breaking the unmade pact of silence. A piercing light blinks in the sky and the knight shields his eyes by instinct, and then he sees them: black rain hidden in the brightness of destruction – ashflakes: the old sign of doom’s end and the harbinger of more dooms to come.

Cautiously, he treads onto the cobblestone pathway, his hands moving to his belt to feel his sheathed sword and his broken pistol. He kneels to a dark trail of blood that ends as abruptly as it starts. Ah, the knight recalls now: Demons – fangs and wings – and a roaring battle that is now a roaring silence. If his memory is not betraying him, he was turned to stone, unable to see the campaign’s end. Somehow though, he is looking at it now, the loud lack of cheers the mark of defeat; he might very well be the only survivor. He stands and starts for the stairs and then up them, noticing that as there are no men, there are no beasts. Maybe the legion found victory, but left thinking the dead were dead; he still wonders how he could be moving now – and breathing – growing even more perplexed as his memories return in heavier tides.

There is no time for pondering, however, and the knight flashes his steel, ready for an ambush, or as ready as he could be. He needs answers, and so into the castle he must venture. Curiosity cannot kill him if he has been dead before, especially until just moments ago, or so he convinces himself. Eitherhow, he needs to know the ending. It is, after all, what these excess seconds of life should be for, is it not? Closure to ease the mind before eternal repose – an invaluable luxury that he thinks himself unworthy of. Yet here he is, and so he just must know. And swiftly, for how long before his knees buckle and his fingers freeze? But warily, else it would all be for naught. A conundrum concerning priorities, to be sure, especially in such dire straits.

Metallic footsteps echo and bounce off the stones as he paces under the archgates and then over the bridge, and still there is no sign of life nor of death save for splattered bloodstains that have long cooled. The ashflakes do not give him rest as even here they flicker in the rays of light that poke through cracks in the ceiling and the walls. The knight has to swing his sword in stance to each twinkle, expecting sharp claws to lunge at him at any moment only to find nothing but hovering ash. Perhaps coming in here was unwise; he should probably have better grasped the situation beforehand. Too late now; he is close. He can feel it: the conclusion. It resonates with his soul like nothing can. What is it all worth? Even death cannot keep him from finding out, he realises. Is that why he is here? And he will fade after he knows, is that it? That is more than enough, he decides without hesitation since he needs to be quick. If all that he did is worth nothing, then he might need the spare time to convince himself that his endeavours are all that matter. Oh, is this it then, spare time to compose his final say? He presses onwards regardless.

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What had been a spacious courtyard is now in shambles; most of the pillars that supported the perimeter had snapped and tumbled like fallen trees, and the great doors to the central dome is a warped mess: the metal bent outward, folded and crumpled like a tear in a cloth being torn even wider. A lone lit torch lies in the middle of this ruin, and the knight reaches down to pick it up. Wondering of the story behind it, he senses a shifting presence right before him. At first there seems to be nothing, but – now used to twinkling dust – he discovers a sizable sphere of ash blocking his path into the dome. The knight lifts the torch to examine it more closely than he did before, then he wonders again about the urgency of his search for closure. After a short pause, softly, he thrusts the flames into the ash, and the sphere is set alight.

The sparks fly, dancing like lightning and weaving patterns in the air, then they slow and the picture settles, this scene of demons and knights. A roar sounds and he turns around frantically, realising that a winged giant all-embraced by fire is stumbling towards him at demoralising speed. He readies both hands on the hilt of his sword and steps to the right to attempt a desperate roll-and-slash, but the ambush was too surprising, the beast plunging right through him like a splashing wave of hot water. Alive again, he understands now: the picture is alive as well, and the lumbering fire demon ploughs through a group of flaming knights. One of them barely manages to avoid the onslaught, picking himself up and sprinting through the courtyard with his tattered cape flailing, a pyramid of some kind under a clumsy arm. Dropping from above, three massive horned creatures block the way out, and the lone flaming knight turns to the call of the commander. Ah, that muscled brute still stands, and a sigh of relief is given, both within the flames and without. But the ashen sparks grow wilder as the fierce battle grows fiercer, and the watching knight can only watch as the pyramid is tossed into the air to be sliced through the middle by the commander’s flaming greatsword. Then a deafening shattering can be heard and ripples of sparks burst forth. Finally, the moving picture stills and disappears.

Unscathed by the eruption, the knight removes himself from his crouched position, straightening up. The torch is now unlit, not even shedding the smoke of its former fire, and so he places it back onto the ground. The path cleared, he continues through the broken doors and into the chamber of the dome. The pristine beauty inside belies the devastation the courtyard has seen, but his attention is snatched from such grandeur by a figure sitting in a large broken egg shell, and she breathes. At long last, a living person; but he does not understand at all. Not yet, but the conclusion is not that far off now. In fact, it is right there, an answer to define all this, he is certain. It is all that he wants. And the answer speaks:

“Come forth, Knight Diastre. Oh yes, do not be so staggered, for that is your name, I know. After all, I have been awaiting your arrival; so come forth, and receive your answer.”