Maegist Alacrand’s hands were steady even as the tower’s core shook and the foundations crumbled below it. He was alone, the others long since fled. They’d given up, given up long ago in truth. Perhaps he had too, on victory at least. He had never given up on his work though. Never on that.

Once heralded as the saviour of humanity, it seemed he would now die without plaque or memorial, a ball of dust and ash amidst a mountain of the same. 

He had been called many things in his long life, some good, most bad. In his glory days he had been declared a man of endless innovation, one who would finally guide the armies of man to victory over their nigh on invincible foe. No more, the war was over. Humanity doomed to defeat. His creations may have delayed that defeat, but they had not been enough to prevent it. He laughed, it made no sound against the roar of massacre taking place both inside and outside the tower.

He finally secured the lock and leaned back a moment, his last objective complete all that remained was to wait for the inevitable end. He was glad he had some moments to reflect before that end. 

How sad it must be for a life to pass without its owner getting their rightful moment to think back on all that has come and gone. For it is only in that moment when it can truly be evaluated.

He evaluated his own.

He had just not been quick enough in the end. He’d perfected his creation and their formula, but too late. Whatever the others might have said, it was never men who had the power to bring them victory, it needed more than a man. A man infused with the strength, the speed, the wildness, the ferocity of Beasts. That was their path to glory. If they had only listened. They did not trust me. Had never trusted me.

The Foxling had proven its worth. Desra had only been in the field for a little over a year, but even in that year he had shown his value to the cause. With an army of them there was no telling what he could do. And not only with them, with the others too. He was sure his formulae would work on the other beasts just as it had on the Foxlings. He had always been sure. If only they had let me continue.

But no, perhaps it was not their fault. He had been reckless in his haste. His experiments were necessary, but for the ordinary man he could see why they might have seemed cruel, tortuous even.

That and those early Beastlings had not been easy to control, those first creations as much a threat to their masters as to the enemy. He supposed he really was to blame for the slaughter at Sarsut village. He laughed, it seemed rather simple to admit now as he waited for the end. 

That was where things had started to go wrong, condemned to linger in a cell he’d wasted away for years as others less skilled sought to adapt and manipulate his own transmutations. None of them ever truly grasped it, never saw what it was he had brought to life. They had not come close to ever doing what he had done. The Foxlings were far and away superior to all that had come before and after. Such perfection, such beauty. 

He picked up the small chest and clutched it to his body as the entire room shook around him.

His body would crumble, but the chest would not, forged from meteorite infused oak it would last, as would the precious contents contained within. 

Again he wondered what had become of Desra. He had never failed him before, and yet here at the end he had not appeared.

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He only hoped it would be his own people who came looking for it and not those who had destroyed them. If they were to obtain it then there was not telling what manner of depravity would ensue. Though then again. The trials without the binds of morality and ethics had been the most productive and progressive stage in the experimentations. If I had not been reprimanded, well no, there is little use thinking of that now.

A particularly violent shudder caused him to crash and fall down onto his knees. From the window came the fluttering sound of wings. 

Maegist Alacrand looked up slowly. There in the window stood one of them. No half breed this, one look was enough to see it. This was a Prince.

The red eyes blazed as they looked on him, the red so deep it burned. There was no anger in them, only the coldness so natural to their kind. The pale face bore no wrinkle but one knew instinctively that it held years in its air. It was beautiful, but in an overwhelming way, the same beauty one found in nature’s unbridled strength, in the midst of a storm or tsunami. It was beautiful to behold in a way, but only from afar.

Alacrand tightened his grip on the chest. His mind whirred as he thought of what to do. As the Vampir flowed across the room he knew there was nothing he could do to hurt it. Few humans ever did. Those that had almost certainly killed soon after. What hope then had he. No, he could not fight.

Nor did he have to. It was not for him the Prince came. Alacrand laughed as he reached into his robe. It was more fitting this way in any case, to die by his own hand. He’d had his moment.

As the Vampir reached out to grab him Alacrand leapt, flinging the chest from his grip and out the window he flung down the small cylinder he’d taken from his pocket. In an instant fire erupted all around him. Another of his more practical creations, it would not damage the Prince, his firestar was designed quite specifically. A weapon to be used against the hordes of thralls, it could not harm those who controlled those same hordes. 

Still, it did enough to momentarily halt the Conqueror. Its scream then was not of pain but annoyance. The sound was all consuming but filled Alacrand’s ears with an acute pleasure even as the flames engulfed and devoured him. 

The flames and heat spread stingingly over his body, blinded he fell in a fiery heap. Yet he smiled even in the throes of pain. His final act. He felt it a fitting one.

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Far down below Desra watched closely as the tower burned and shattered. The last remaining tower of the last remaining human stronghold. The symbolism then was rather poignant.  

Desra was pleased not to be inside it. He had been supposed to be there to meet his Creator. He was supposed to guide him and his precious treasure to safety. He’d not been so foolish as his Master however. He had fled long ago, hovering on the edge. Waiting. He’d watched the Prince soar up to the Creation room, that had seemed the end of it. Once it was in their hands it would not be taken back. 

But the Creator was resourceful. 

The chest had been lost amidst the plumes of fire and smoke, no human eye could have followed it as it made its rapid descent. Desra’s eyes were not human however. He did not lose sight of it. And when it landed he was there to retrieve it. Above him somewhere he heard the roars of the Vampir Prince. 

Fortunately the Gods were on the side of Desra, as he hoisted the chest onto his back the tower finally gave in, its formidable foundations rocked too many times by the flames and projectiles of the attackers. As it cracked and thundered Desra ran. Even with the chest upon his back he passed crowds of people all desperately fleeing into the forest and the perceived safety it offered. Few if any would survive. 

He would though, and with it the chest. The formulae to create more of his kind. It gave speed to his steps as he ran. Fresh and louder screams rang out as the tower crashed to the ground, in the ensuing storm of stone, debris and ash, most were slammed onto their faces. 

Desra was already away, already rushing through the trees and the forest cover.

Humanity was lost, broken and defeated. The World he had known and grew up in lost forever. Desra smiled. He was free.