Interlude 1.

Edgar. 27 years BA.

Edgar stood before the physical manifestation of the Door, its intricate lattice of magic glowing softly, casting shifting shadows against the cold stone walls. The ritual was complete. No one else lingered here. The presence of Chaos so close was heavy and suffocating, but it wasn’t just that—it was the screams.

The screams had started shortly after the ritual was complete. At first, they were faint, more felt than heard, like whispers threading through the fabric of reality. Then they grew louder, rawer, filled with a terror that clawed at the mind and frayed the soul. The screams were Sasha’s. And Edgar couldn’t leave.

He knew screams would come. They always did. With all Saviors before, with him, with Alaric. It was something conveniently omitted from holy books and sermons about Saviors, but it was always there. For the first years of the vigil, at least. After that, the screams would stop—and that was so much worse because it meant there was nothing left of her to even scream.

The sound tore through him like a blade, a jagged reminder of what he had done. Sasha would endure unimaginable pain, every part of her being twisted and shattered until nothing remained of the girl who had walked through the Door. Chaos would start with the physical—an approximation of a body created solely to be destroyed in every conceivable way. But that would be the easiest part, the briefest - just thousands of years - torment.

The real pain would come when Chaos took her memories, her loves, her very sense of self, and twisted them into weapons. He would force her to destroy the light within her, piece by agonizing piece. And when there was nothing left to destroy, Chaos would begin again. Over and over, for an eternity that defied comprehension. And yet, Edgar knew it too well. He had lived it.

His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, his nails digging into his palms. Chaos's proximity was suffocating, familiar, even comforting in its familiarity. Edgar could hear his voice—Chaos, soft and intimate, weaving through his mind.

Did you think you were free?

Edgar’s jaw tightened, his face carved in stone. He knew he should leave. He couldn’t help Sasha. But walking away felt like abandoning her all over again. He didn’t deserve to leave, not after what he had done.

His mind replayed the moment she stepped into Chaos. The ritual had been stark in its simplicity. No crowds, no speeches—just the two of them and the mages who performed the final rites. Sasha had stood before the Door, impossibly small against its towering form, her trembling hands betraying the fear she had tried so hard to conceal. Memory preservation had been the final step, a delicate, painstaking process to ensure she would have something to hold onto when she returned. A dozen carefully chosen moments were stored in the enchanted device, each memory barely nothing and yet a lifeline. Edgar had watched her closely throughout the process, searching for signs of hesitation, of regret. But she held firm. He wanted to say something—anything—to ease the weight she carried, at least for a moment, but it was impossible. All he could offer her was the truth. “Goodbye, daughter,” he whispered, the words slipping from his lips before he could process them.

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Her eyes widened slightly, and then, she smiled. It was faint and fragile, but it held a strange kind of peace. Her hand brushed the memory device subtly, capturing the words, the look in his eyes, the weight of his love. Edgar hadn’t noticed then, too consumed by the enormity of what was happening, but now his mind replayed it, fixating on each small detail. Did she manage to save it? He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to.

And then she was gone.

The screams grew louder, raw and jagged, before subsiding again into an eerie quiet. Edgar closed his eyes, the sound clawing at the edges of his mind. His nails had left bloodied crescent-shaped imprints on his palms. He didn't feel the pain.

He had been through this before. But not like this.

Alaric had been different—stoic and pragmatic, a man of forty-nine who had faced the impossible with resolve forged from a lifetime of experience. Their bond had been one of mutual respect, built on camaraderie and duty. Losing Alaric had been devastating, but it had been a professional grief, the loss of a comrade in arms.

Sasha was not Alaric. She was young, so young. Too young. Bright and kind and achingly alive. She faced her fate with a quiet determination that humbled and shattered him. She had trusted him, relied on him—not the legend, not the leader, but him. And by this, she gave him something he didn’t know he could feel again, something beyond duty and the burning need to preserve what Chaos hadn’t destroyed. She gave him a reason to care. To love.

He thought of her final months—the way her face lit up when she saw the sea for the first time, the way she laughed when she petted that enormous alpaca, her awe at the simplest magic, her pleasure at good coffee. She had found joy in the smallest things, even in the shadow of her destiny. She had made him laugh, truly laugh, more in those months than he had in decades.

He had survived the unimaginable. He had endured centuries, millennia, eons of suffering on the other side of that Door. And yet, this moment, now, was the hardest thing he had ever faced.

Because he loved her, loved her as the daughter he never had. And he had sent her to an eternity of suffering.

The thought of self-annihilation whispered to him, as it always did. It was a constant presence, a quiet hum at the edge of his thoughts, the scar left by his own vigil. It would be so easy to let go, to finally let go, to follow her into the void, to end the unbearable weight of grief and guilt.

Didn’t you have enough? Chaos whispered in his mind.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Because Sasha would return. And when she did, she would need him.

Edgar opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the Door. He couldn’t save her now. He couldn’t shield her from Chaos. But he could ensure that when she returned—broken, scarred, and remade—she wouldn’t be alone.

The screams faded into silence, for now. Hours had passed since the ritual. Several millennia for her. At this point, she probably already forgot that he ever existed. That the world she gave everything to protect ever existed.

“I’ll be here,” he whispered into the empty chamber. “When you come back, I’ll be here.”

He turned, his steps heavy, and walked away from the Door. For her, he would endure. For her, he would fight. For her, he would live.