After the group hug, everyone took their respective seats and turned towards Garrett. The expectation was palpable. Thomas had to clasp his hands to keep from rubbing them together. This was it. Finally, the knowledge he most needed; the facts he never should have had to wait so long for.

“All right.” Garrett held out his hand, and a heavy tome fell out of the air with a whip-crack as air rushed into the vacuum its appearance had created.

Garrett had also made a podium appear. He set the prophecies in the center of the courtyard. Pages magically turned.

“Here’s what I’ve been keeping secret,” Garrett said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Thomas came forward to stand near the book for a better view. Evenjos and Ariock did the same.

The book settled into an open position near its end.

The two page spread depicted the courtyard in which they now sat. It showed the four heroes with Ariock presiding over them.

“The Pact of Strength,” Garrett said, pointing to the alien predecessor script.

“I guess that’s now,” Ariock said.

Thomas’s skin crawled as he considered how ancient the original mural had been. Ah Jun had truly seen much and very far. Her feverish paint strokes proved that she had felt her visions viscerally. He was almost glad he could not meet the oracle. If any one mind could overwhelm his capacity to absorb, it would be hers. Unyat must have lived in terror of meeting her.

Garrett used his powers to gently turn a page. The following spread was all text written in the curling predecessor script.

“Most of this text is commentary,” Garrett explained. “It’s the blathering of scholars trying to make sense of relics they cannot comprehend. I’ve learned to pretty much skip anything that isn’t the words or paintings of Ah Jun herself.”

He turned another page. More alien script.

Ah Jun had had disciples. They, in turn, had had disciples, and they strove to preserve every painting, poem, and prediction from the oracle. Her cult had eventually decayed as they suffered extreme hardships over multiple generations. They had melted into the Alashani underground, who maintained a tradition of preserving sacred relics and chanted prayers.

A few eccentric Torth, too, had tried to preserve their empire’s origins. Although the Torth collectively forgot who Ah Jun and Audavian and Evenjos used to be, some historians bartered shreds of the ancient past. Garrett had masqueraded as a Torth Blue Rank in order to gain as many valuable relics as he could get his hands on. He’d also stolen sacred relics from the Alashani, which he, unlike the Torth, had access to. Garrett was probably as capable and dedicated as any disciple of Ah Jun had ever been.

“The Return of Strength,” Garrett translated, showing a page with text that curled around a painting with the recognizable brushstrokes of Ah Jun.

In the painted panel, Thomas and Vy shoved a reluctant-looking Ariock forward.

“No idea what that’s about,” Garrett confessed. “It’s a minor prophecy, not a full page spread.”

Another page. More text.

Garrett stopped on a two page spread that was a mess of scribbled colors. Someone had splashed it with paint, defacing it. Even so, hints of the underlying painting peeked through. The size of a background figure hinted that it might be Ariock. And in the foreground? Thomas recognized a portion of a boy’s face. Himself.

His painted self looked determined.

“According to the ancient commentary,” Garrett said, “Ah Jun herself defaced this prophetic pivot. Or maybe one of her direct disciples ruined it. No one knows for sure, but ancient commentators seem to agree that it was done soon after the painting was produced.”

Thomas felt his friends scrutinizing him. The painting did seem to center on him.

“I’ve never been able to figure it out,” Garrett said. “Any clues?”

Ideas swirled in the back of Thomas’s mind. Why would the oracle deface her own painting? Was she afraid that it gave a wrong impression? Or that it might disclose too much secret knowledge for those who fought a war in the far distant future?

Was she afraid that Thomas himself would glimpse a secret that he wasn’t supposed to learn?

Or…

“Does the Death Architect have access to copies of these paintings?” Thomas asked.

“She wouldn’t understand the significance,” Garrett said. “Torth don’t know…” He trailed off.

Thomas understood why Garrett’s face had gone grave. The Torth Empire had not known much about prophets—until they began to enslave innocent Alashani. The Death Architect could have absorbed information about Migyatel and other prophets from her recent torture victims.

If she guessed that the heroes were following a prophecy, then she would search for ways to undermine the oracle. She would want to know what this defaced painting signified.

And as Thomas studied it, he had an inkling of an idea. Much of the painting had been blotted out. A mass of something. Stars? Planets? Flying vehicles? People?

Torth?

Probably not enemy Torth, now that the Megacosm was defunct. The painted version of Thomas did not look beleaguered. Was he backed up by penitents who were willing to help him defeat the final obstacle: the Death Architect?

Thomas did have a secret plan that might fit the two-page spread.

“Is there a chance the Death Architect can figure out our future?” Ariock looked from Garrett to Thomas. “If it’s too much to explain, I could get some telepathy gas emitters.”

“I don’t have any comments.” Thomas hated himself for being so deflective. Was this how it felt to be Garrett? He just didn’t want to risk hinting about his private ideas. “Uh, let’s move on.”

The old man turned another page, not giving any hint that he sensed a buried motive in what Thomas had not said. His mood was full of wary anticipation. Thomas could sense it. There was a major revelation coming up.

Something bad.

“What’s that?” Ariock pointed.

Garrett stopped his slow page turning. A wall of predecessor text enclosed a painted panel: a little girl with ribbons in her hair. Her eyes were closed, but a third eye was wide open upon her forehead. The cosmos surrounded her.

“It says, ‘Death Steals Certainty.’” Garrett read from the painted inscription. “I’ve never been able to figure it out. I mean, obviously it’s the Death Architect. But what’s she doing?”

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Thomas sensed that his friends were mystified. But he had enough background knowledge to hypothesize. In the time of Unyat, a third eye signified one of the intracorporeal powers: telepathy, prophecy, clairvoyance, or healing.

Since all Torth were mind readers, a panel about telepathy would not be remarkable enough to include in the prophecies. Clairvoyance, too, was pretty common among Torth. And the Torth had genetically bred healing out of their gene pool. The Death Architect likely did not have that power.

That left prophecy.

For the first time since viewing the book, Thomas felt rattled. If the Death Architect was “stealing certainty,” that seemed to hint that she had access to knowledge that the heroes lacked. If she could foretell the future…

“Oh.” Thomas said in a shaky voice. “This explains a lot.”

“What do you mean?” Garrett looked at him, surprised. He clearly had not expected to learn anything new about the prophecies.

“The Death Architect is two years younger than me and the Twins,” Thomas explained. “And she hardly pays attention to psychology or sociology. Yet despite her blind spots, and her youthfulness, she keeps besting us. She’s always a few steps ahead of us. It’s as if she’s incredibly lucky.” He gestured to the book. “Which would make sense, if she manufactures her own luck.”

Garrett’s eyes widened.

“That’s right,” Thomas said, reading the old man’s mind. “This panel implies that she sees the future.”

Garrett swore. “Holy crap. Are you saying she’s a prophet?”

“I think that makes sense,” Thomas said.

Evenjos sagged. Ariock swore.

“But is she a full-fledged prophet?” Evenjos asked. “Or just a seer?”

“I don’t know.” For all Thomas knew, the Death Architect was an oracle. That would make her unbeatable.

“We have Ah Jun on our side,” Garrett said.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “Now that I have a suspicion of what our nemesis can do, I will incorporate that knowledge into my plans. Thank you.”

Garrett looked begrudgingly grateful. After decades of studying the prophecies in secret and alone, he had never expected to gain new insights.

“Will you go on?” Thomas gestured. “Please.”

Garrett reverently turned page after page. There were more cryptic paintings between commentary script. An asteroid field. Kessa presiding over a huge crowd. An artistic rendering that might depict an event horizon.

And then a full page panel.

Thomas was surprised to see that this important event showed none of the established heroes. Instead, it showed Vy. The painted version of his foster sister was glowing and surrounded by stars. Her eyes were closed, as if in bliss. She looked powerful.

Ariock leaned closer. “What’s happening there?”

“The inscription is ‘The Disgrace of Death.’” Garrett shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Thomas began to cogitate guesses.

Ariock sounded worried. “She shouldn’t be alone.”

Garrett allowed them all to study the painting for a while longer. Finally, Ariock made a conductor-like gesture, and Garrett turned the page.

More alien script. Then a two-page spread of Thomas and Ariock, both armored for battle, and a monstrous holographic map of the galaxy between them.

“Wisdom and Strength,” Garrett read.

He kept going. They were running out of pages. A solar storm. Evenjos and Vy together, both flowing into a backdrop of stars. “Glory and Certainty,” Thomas read.

And then a panel of Garrett losing his head.

In the painting, Garrett’s bearded face was upside down, decapitated. His neck spurted blood.

“Always a pleasure to see that one,” Garrett muttered with sarcasm.

Thomas translated the unexpected caption out loud. “The Sacrifice of Will.”

“But who is sacrificing me?” Garrett asked pedantically.

Ariock reached over to squeeze his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah.” Garrett shrugged off his concern. “Thank you for your early condolences. Are you sure you want to keep going? Because the ending isn’t perfect.”

“Show me.” Ariock’s voice was deep and merciless. “I need to see.”

Garrett sighed in resignation. He paged slowly past blocks of textual commentary. The Dragon Tower in twilight. And then Vy…

This panel depicted Vy tumbling through space without a spacesuit. She looked like she might be freezing to death.

Anguish roared off Ariock. Clouds coalesced over the mountains, gathering for a deluge.

Thomas reached up and laid a comforting hand on Ariock’s thick arm. But he hated this painting almost as much as the big guy did. Couldn’t anyone prevent this event from happening?

“This doesn’t mean anything definite.” Garrett paused on that page. “Ah Jun painted all kinds of visions. These small panels don’t necessarily come true. They’re just approximations. They’re not pivotal events, in the grand scheme of things. They don’t have to be accurate.”

But it wasn’t really a small panel. It covered an entire page. Ah Jun had captured Ariock’s recurring nightmare with feverish perfection.

“Wait, let me read the caption,” Evenjos said.

Thomas had soaked up the predecessor script from her mind. “It’s ‘the Loss of Certainty,’” he said out loud, for Ariock’s benefit.

It did not explicitly mention death. That was something.

Garrett glanced at the sky. “I can’t let the pages get wet. They’re delicate. If it storms, I’m relocating indoors.”

Thomas sensed Ariock struggling to put aside his emotions for long enough to see the whole book. He wanted to see something hopeful.

The next page showed Ariock, nude but tastefully twisted to hide genitalia, floating in space and surrounded by beads of glowing water and stars. He looked like he was bathing in stars. Weird.

“The Glory of Strength?” Thomas translated, mystified.

Garrett turned to the final page of the book of prophecies.

The final two page spread was dark and dreary. It was a crater and stars. A slender figure stood in the crater. Thomas recognized the black dragon armor which Garrett had made for him, and his own physique.

It was a painting of himself.

The inscription was ominous. The Lone Survivor.

“This is known as the prophecy of the Lone Survivor.” Garrett’s heavy mood implied that this was what he had dreaded to reveal. “According to the commentary of Ah Jun’s disciples, four heroes will go into darkness to defeat Death. Only one hero will return from that final battle.”

The lone hero in the picture was Thomas.

He felt as if he’d been knocked back. !!! filled his head. Was he going to lose Ariock and Vy? Garrett and Evenjos? None of that seemed fair. And even if that miserable fate was preordained, then shouldn’t the lone survivor be someone better than an antisocial Torth? Someone like Ariock?

Something was wrong.

Thomas refused to accept that final prophecy. Ah Jun had purposely made her paintings misleading. The inscriptions were often closer to the real truth than the picture. The Lone Survivor might not actually be pictured here. Maybe Thomas was confronting a ghost who would be resurrected. Maybe… well, it couldn’t be exactly what it seemed to be.

Evenjos bowed her head. “I do not accept this fate readily,” she said. “But in a way, it is a comfort. If I am to end, then I want it to be in saving the whole universe.” She reached for Garrett’s hand. “I only wish Ah Jun could have respected me enough to paint my final moment, as she painted yours.”

Exactly. Ah Jun had painted Garrett’s death, but nothing for Ariock or Evenjos or even Vy? That was telling. They might survive in some way.

“She seems to have left out all kinds of details,” Garrett admitted. “It’s enough to make me wonder if I’ve misinterpreted the whole thing.”

The sky was darker than ever. The emotions roiling off Ariock were intense enough to make the mind readers within his range watch him nervously. He stared at the final spread as if it had wounded him.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett said.

Ariock glared. He looked betrayed.

“I’ve had time to make peace with my fate,” Garrett said. “I’m sorry that I had to hit you with it this way. I understand you’ll need some time to—”

“You lied to me.” Ariock backed away.

Garrett spread his hands. “I once asked you if you were okay with doing whatever it took to defeat the Torth Empire. You said you were on board.”

“But what about Vy?” Ariock clenched his massive fists. “My nightmare is going to come true. Isn’t it? You said it wouldn’t.”

“We don’t know.” Garrett spoke with uncharacteristic sympathy.

“The prophecy could be misleading.” Thomas hoped he was being realistic. “We’re not seeing any painted deaths, except for Garrett’s. To me, that means Vy’s death is far from certain.”

Ariock shook his head, and Thomas sensed the spiral of his thoughts. Ariock hated his own helplessness.

“The prophecy of the Lone Survivor only refers to the four heroes,” Garrett said. “Maybe Vy will survive? We simply don’t know.”

“But I won’t survive.” Ariock took another step away. “Even if she does. She’ll be alone.”

“We don’t know that.” Thomas felt as if he was still grappling with shock himself. He could hardly imagine a future where he would be the only hero in existence. Thomas Hill: the smartest person in the galaxy, and the most powerful person in the galaxy, with a healthy body and no challenges and what might be an infinite future ahead of him.

What sort of existence was that?

He’d have no peers. He’d be just as alone and weird as he used to be when he was a child in foster care, except with a very dangerous and tempting amount of power. It wasn’t right.

But if that was cost of saving the universe?

Well. Freedom wasn’t free.

If someone needed to pay the ultimate price and make the ultimate sacrifice, that someone might as well be the four heroes of prophecy. This was their duty. Thomas would be the Lone Survivor, if that was what was required.

Ariock walked away. “I need to think about this.”

Garrett reached out, then gave up. “Take some time. But come back. You’re the hero we need.”

“We are here for you,” Evenjos added.

Ariock stepped off a ledge and soared away faster than a transport. He vanished into the billowing storm clouds.

“Drat.” Garrett flipped the book closed.

“I need to think, too.” Thomas shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away.

No one tried to stop him from leaving.