The Temple of the Last was more relic than a secluded place of worship, whose original occupants had long since vacated its premises. The former campgrounds had been converted into a quiet outpost – a tourist ground for mourners who sought connection, only to find the towering stairway eroded into the cliff face and the spiritual presence succumbed to legend.

Yet for the desperate hearted, their sense of Ravenna’s magic persisted, if only in their imagination, and so they came: gypsy, pagan, Viking, and cross-worshipers alike kneeled upon the sacred grounds that Anneliese once stood. Their mind’s third eye centered in prayer towards the haloed outline of blue sky between cloud and mountain top.

As for one abdicated prince turned wealthy vagrant, the journey was a yearly pilgrimage. Though long past his prime, Gideon’s youthful energy persisted by the enduring spirit of Bjarke’s broken axe shaft. His arrival played out in a solitary ritual. Cloaked in bear hide and matching garments of prestige and opulence, he left the safety of his armed guards to wonder outside of eves-dropping distance and crouched upon the still-frosty ground. Here, he pulled each finger from his glove and dug his knuckles deep beneath the ridged soil. His head bowed in respect to the grave of Cestmir and Draconian.

The gravestone was a sizable piece of granite, edged by a thousand engraved lined. The copper plaque was worded with: Shall each generation born of their sacrifice make their mark upon this stone and pray one day it turns to dust.

By its base, he laid a small velvet-lined chest that contained a single scroll five names long. He read one by one, and with each name, he engraved another notch upon the stone.

To the immediate right of Draconian and Cestmir’s grave stood an intricate stone recreation of the fabled phoenix. Around its base was an overgrown pile of ash surrounding the tributary fire, replenished by all who passed. To this, Gideon offered his contribution, and then he looked up to whisper the words marked upon Kulum’s gravestone. ‘May the wrong path be merely the longer journey, and your arrival proof of your transformation.’

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Then finally, a few steps down the road, imbedded in purple crystal-like shards that scattered like embedded flower peddles across the ground, was the bent and broken head of Bjarke’s axe. No markings or gravestone scripture honored the controversial figure of equal parts hero and villain. Just clusters of old, rusted blades driven like shovels into the hard, frosted earth. The tributes of a warrior class who knew and respected their own.

‘We’ll get ’em next time, big fella.’

Then, like a timed release, the blade and shaft burst into their trademark glow.

Gideon’s vision was then sparked by something in the distance. Something invisible among the endless tundra, but he sensed all the same.

‘She’s been waiting for you,’ said the ghost of Ravenna from behind Gideon’s shoulder.

‘What is the child’s name?’

‘Sebastian.’

‘He gave me something I didn’t know I needed. I guess it’s time to give it back,’ said Gideon as he shed his thick bear’s hide coat and jewels that defined his wealth and social standing, leaving only the essentials, which included the broken shaft that filled his body with warmth, his mind with purpose and endowed him with the skills for the long arduous journey.

Then guided by a young white wolf of blue and hazel eyes, he disappeared into the light afternoon haze, to complete his life’s journey and bring about the next generation of demon slayer.

‘You must be proud of yourself and your son?’ said Ravenna to the old, decrepit but very much sane ghost of Burtrew.

The former foreteller appeared among the gravestones. His tremored limbs followed him into the spiritual world as he leant against the wing of Kulum’s gravestone. A glimmer of pride was about him as he reached out to reunite with his former apprentice. ‘I always thought the day I stepped away would mark the end of everything we accomplished.’

‘You weren’t wrong.’

‘But I was, I know that now. The future is not mine and mine alone. It changes with every generation, and every generation should make it their own.’

‘Sooo, this wasn’t of your doing?’

‘No, but I suspect Weddle had something to do about it. So yeah, I am proud of him,’ said Burtrew as they watched Gideon disappear into the indistinguishable distance of the endless white. Their ghostly hands then intertwined before the last true generation of wizards swept away with the breeze, to be forgotten by the winds of change – making way for the new era of belief and possibilities.