Who am I? For what purpose do I exist? 
Kailar recorded in his notebook. He paused and 
sighed. The sigh that left him was layered, 
difficult, and full of things he could not name. He 
shifted his weight as his eyes naturally drifted to the scenes 
around him. Looking around, studying the capital he had 
once thought of as the jewel of the realm, memories of 
bygone days $ashed before his eyes. He had only been in 
the capital for three days, but he had seen enough of the 
place. The once gleaming capital, Constaria, was 
completely desolate. It was a stark contrast to what he 
remembered.  
The orderly streets, the well–dressed citizens, the shining 
buildings had all been replaced by devastation. Filth 
littered the walkways, and only vagrants roamed the streets 
openly. Others hid under their cloaks as they wandered by. 
Kailar grimaced and slammed his %st against the wall. He 
picked up his notebook and began writing again.  
I did all that I could. I tried so very hard to show others the 
light. Out of my efforts, I learned only one truth. People are 
disappointing. They are not like the characters I watched in 
plays, nor the ones I read about in novels. People are stupid, vile, 
and above all, selfish. What is my purpose now? I wanted to 
strive for a better humanity. Now I ask myself, is there any 
worth to it? Is there any point striving for those who do not 
deserve it? I hope I am able to come to a resolution about this 
soon. Otherwise, I fear the worst. I am purposeless—I might as 
well die. 
– Kailar 1823 LC 
The scratching of his quill ceased. A sound broke his 
rhythm—one he knew all too well. The rhythm of marching 
boots, the dull clatter of armour, the distant mutterings. 
They all signalled the approach of guards. Their presence 
reminded him of the only reason he had left.  
Vengeance.  
Kailar waited for the guards to pass by. He had been 
studying their movements for three days. This was the last 
rotation. They were making their way up to the palace to 
relieve the others already stationed there. Those stationed 
above would now be making their way down, and there, in 
that turning of paths, a gap would open. A short one but 
enough—just enough—for him to slip through. 
They did not look at him at all. His tattered cloak had 
served him well. In the past, wearing such a thing, in such a 
place, would have drawn every eye. But things were 
different now. His unkempt attire allowed him to vanish 
into the nameless, faceless crowd and appear ordinary, 
invisible. Someone to be passed over. Forgotten. 
A cluster of similarly cloaked %gures moved close to the 
guards. Kailar slipped into their midst and let their bodies 
conceal him. As he joined the crowd, he gazed at the 
shimmering backs of the armoured men. Their polished 
iron breastplates, rounded helmets, and long swords were a 
sight very familiar to him. He had been one of them not so 
long ago. 
These soldiers were what remained of the royal guard, 
the sworn protectors of the realm, yet they had stood idle 
as it fell to ruin. In truth, they too were merely puppets of 
those whose actions, or lack thereof, had brought about 
this decay. The sight of them, and of the city itself, made 
Kailar wince. 
We make a mockery of the old traditions of the ancient 
empire. We are unworthy to be called their descendants. We have 
turned our backs on all that the glorious empire once stood for. 
Virtue, piety, justice. All is lost in our present world.  
The guards turned a corner and continued along the 
road leading to the Palace grounds, the place he had once 
called home. The crowd he had been following began to 
move in the opposite direction, and so, he parted from 
them, trailing the guards at a distance. Though the city had 
changed in its appearance, the layout of its streets and 
passageways had not. He knew them well, better than 
most. 
He slipped behind a building by the side of the road and 
made his way through a damp, narrow alleyway he had 
passed through many times before. The passage led to a 
$ight of side stairs that climbed toward the palace gates. 
For the past two days, he had observed the guards carefully. 
They always took the winding main road up. He knew he 
would not be disturbed on the stairway. It would take 
them twice as long to reach the top, giving him more than 
enough time to %nd a way inside. 
Kailar hurried up the overgrown steps, ascending several 
at a time. Midway, his foot slipped on a loose rock, and he 
nearly fell backward. He steadied himself just in time and 
looked down, wincing at the thought of falling. His 
concern was not for injury but for failure. He had waited 
three long days for this opportunity, and he could not 
afford to waste it. The Palace, he had seen, was loosely 
guarded.  
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he was relieved to 
see that the lesser–known entrance was unguarded. He 
crawled out from the rose bushes that overgrew the path 
and ran toward the hidden entrance of the Palace. The 
grounds were deserted. He had expected emptiness, yet the 
quietness felt strangely out of place. There was not a single 
soul about. Only birds called from the trees, and insects 
hummed from the hedges. The sky bowed toward dusk, and 
then, from behind a stupendous cloud, she emerged. 
Selene, the moon. She, who had been his guide and 
constant observer, stepped out into the world as she often 
did during moments that mattered. He pictured the moon 
as an eye, an eye for the gods to observe the world—
eternally distant yet ever–present. Her bright white light 
washed his face, and he clenched his %st. I must do this. I 
must kill him. 
Kailar ran his hand along the cold stone wall, searching 
for the hidden switch among the ordinary stones. He 
remembered it from long ago, marked by a faint trace of 
moss that set it apart from the rest. His %ngers brushed 
against it at last. He pressed %rmly, and the brick sank 
inward with a soft clink. He pushed at the wall beside it, 
but it held %rm—bound by the stubborn growth of 
twisting vines. Stepping back, he drove his heel into it. The 
concealed door shuddered as it gave way, vines snapping as 
they tore free. It slammed open with a heavy thud, the 
sound echoing down the unseen corridor beyond. 
Kailar leaned forward and peered into the void. Slowly, 
his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and with it came a $ood 
of memory. He saw himself in the past, slipping through 
that same path with laughter echoing behind him. The 
vision faded as quickly as it came, leaving only the ache of 
remembrance. A sudden melancholy took hold of him, and 
he smiled faintly, remembering all that had been lost. 
He walked through the winding, dark corridors of the 
Palace. The air was heavy with dust and decay. Some of the 
windows were broken and boarded up with crooked planks 
of wood. He passed them without a second glance. His 
purpose was %xed. He was searching for a single room—the 
source of all corruption in Albion. 
Just as he was about to step into the main hall, 
something in him stirred. A distant urging from the depths 
of memory pulled him toward another corridor. He 
stopped and looked down the dimly lit hallway, uncertain 
for a moment. Then, as if compelled by a force beyond 
reason, he followed it. 
His pace quickened as he moved deeper into the 
passage. Shadows pressed close around him, and with each 
step, memories began to seep through the cracks of his 
mind. The sounds of those who had once lived within these 
walls rose faintly in his ears—their voices, their light 
conversations, the simple joys of a life that was once his. 
He had been happy then. They all had been. 
The warmth of recollection turned into anger. That time 
was all gone now, scattered into the dusts of memory. 
Nothing of his past remained. That part of his life was 
%nished, and he knew that it would never return. 
As he walked the corridor toward his old room, a 
strange haze fell over him. His mind wavered between 
dream and waking thought, and for a $eeting moment, a 
single lucid thought pierced through. Why am I here? What 
force has brought me back to this decaying place? 
He knew the answer. It was the burning thought that 
had haunted him since the great battle, the same fervour 
that refused to die. It was not chance, nor fate, but a will 
that blazed within him and would not let him rest. 
It was the belief that he, above all others, bore the duty 
to restore order to a world that had lost its way. That duty 
began here, in a nation that was not even his own. The 
land’s decay, its chaos and ruin, all of it stemmed from the 
deceit of a single man. In him, Kailar saw the source from 
which every shadow had spread. If he could destroy him, 
then everything else would correct itself. He knew this to 
be true, not by reason, but by an unshakeable conviction 
that rose from the depths of his being. 
But this was not the time to be lost in reverie. The 
memories that tugged at him from the dark corners of the 
Palace and beyond were nothing but shadows now, 
meaningless fragments of a life that could never return. 
What was he hoping to %nd here? The city’s silence had 
already told him the answer. Those who might have once 
greeted him with warmth and kindness were gone. Some 
had $ed. Others had perished. None remained. Only he 
was left. And so he had nothing to lose. The path ahead, 
however grim, was the only one that remained to him. His 
purpose was clear.  
With a steady breath, Kailar turned sharply and began 
to walk back the way he had come, his steps echoing softly 
through the hollow corridors of the Palace. 
Slowly, clarity returned. The trance that had held him 
for days, perhaps weeks, loosened its grip, and Kailar felt 
the world come back into focus. The Palace was empty in a 
way that no ordinary absence could explain. Those who 
belonged here were not merely gone—their presence had 
been erased. Yet this place was not completely abandoned
—the seat of power remained, evident by the attendance of 
the guards outside. From that, Kailar had his answer. The 
man who had broken the land would not abandon the 
throne. If he were here, he would be nearby. If he was 
nearby, then only a handful of guards would lie between 
Kailar and him. That meant the task was possible. 
He thought of various methods and dismissed them all 
in turn. Slit the throat from behind. Bash the skull with his 
bare hands. Stab the heart in sleep. Stab the throat. Drive 
his knife into the skull. Each image rose and fell like a tide. 
None felt right. He did not yet know the shape of the kill, 
but he trusted that the moment would reveal the method 
when it came. For now, he had to move—to %nd the room 
that contained the vile man. 
When he reached the throne room, the sight of it halted 
him. Time had not dimmed its darkness. That same 
malignant presence seeped from every stone, every arch, 
every symbol that adorned the distant walls. The room was 
designed to look like a cathedral. Arches rose and folded 
into one another, supported by tall columns whose carved 
facades caught the waning light. High above, round stained 
panes scattered colour into the marble, looking like 
glowing eyes peering into the hall. A broad staircase led to 
a dais where the throne stood, austere on its platform—a 
single crimson carpet ran down the steps like a river of 
blood frozen mid–$ow.  
There was complete silence inside the hall. Every footfall 
answered back. Every breath lingered in the air. Kailar 
paused at the threshold and lifted his gaze to the blood–red 
cross of Lucerian that loomed above the throne. 
The sight of it drew his mind to Constarius, the man 
after whom the city was named. Yet Constarius was 
nothing beside Kaisar of Ascania. Kaisar was the root of 
kingship, of power, of rule itself. He was the mould from 
which all rulers since had been cast, though none had %lled 
it completely. Kailar thought of him now and wondered if 
his own name drew its origin from Kaisar, or whether it 
was merely another of those strange cosmic coincidences 
that had haunted his life thus far. 
He remembered the paintings he had seen in Hestrisis—
Kaisar enthroned on a makeshift throne on a battle%eld, 
his proud, unyielding gaze %xed upon his fallen enemy. 
There was something divine in that posture, something 
that made all lesser men bow, not out of fear, but 
reverence.  
That is the essence of authority, he thought, the purest form 
of masculinity. To command not only through strength, but 
through the certainty of purpose. 
In that image lived the idea of brotherhood. Men united 
under one will, bound by a cause greater than themselves. 
That is what drives humanity forward—the belief in something 
higher, something beyond desire or comfort. The brotherhood of 
those who serve an ideal is the greatest bond there is. Men such as 
these will turn away from women or other comforts they might 
have once worshipped, for they have already found something 
greater to die for. 
He thought then of Kaisar’s enemy, Velmorix, and how 
he had sent away all the women of his people so that his 
men might stand undistracted against Kaisar’s unstoppable 
legions. Only one man since had come close to that aura of 
destiny, that irresistible command over the hearts of men. 
L’Aigle of Hestrisis. Others had risen in small kingdoms, 
had held power for a $eeting moment, but their strength 
never reached beyond their borders.  
Only a few, such as Kaisar and L’Aigle, had shaped the 
world itself through sheer force of will. And then there was 
Relith—the man nearest to his own age—who had dared to 
resurrect the fallen traditions of ancient Ascania. He too 
had fallen, spectacularly, but not before turning the world 
upon its head within the span of mere decades. 
Yet even Kaisar and L’Aigle had failed. They all had. 
Even Iskandar of Makedonia, that god clothed in mortal 
$esh, who, in one blazing lifetime, achieved what countless 
men could not in a thousand.  
They had all fallen before they reached the full height of 
what they were meant to be. 
All great men throughout history have failed, Kailar realised. 
But I cannot. I will not. The gods will not allow it. My story is 
only just beginning. Or is it? 
For an instant, doubt entered him. Is this conviction 
merely something I tell myself to keep me moving through these 
ruins?  
He stared up once more at the terrible crimson cross, at 
its shadow cast across the empty throne, and wondered if 
destiny still watched him—or if it had already passed him 
by. 
Kailar moved on from the throne room and began to 
search the adjoining chambers. Each door he opened 
revealed the same emptiness, rooms that were either 
ransacked or left completely undisturbed. Then he came 
upon one he had never before entered, though something 
about it seemed strangely familiar to him. 
Only when his eyes caught the gleam of swords and 
spears mounted on the walls did he realise. This was the 
room of that formidable man, that invincible, brilliant 
man. Are you dead now, Sir, like everyone else? 
A faint shimmer of light slipped through a crack in the 
shutter and fell across the low bed, dividing the room in 
two. For a moment, Kailar could almost see him there, 
seated at the edge, sharpening his gladius. Always in 
armour. His dark hair falling across his face until he raised 
his head, revealing his deathly gaze. 
The light, and the vision that accompanied it, dissolved 
as quickly as they had come, leaving only darkness. The 
room was empty. 
Kailar stepped further in and looked around. This room, 
it seemed, had escaped the ruin that had consumed the 
rest. Everything was remarkably preserved as if the ghost of 
that invincible man still guarded this place.  
He lingered, touching the surfaces, opening drawers, 
tracing his %ngers across the dust that veiled the man’s 
possessions. There was nothing of sentiment here—no 
tokens, no letters, no sign of a life once lived, only the 
ordinary instruments of a soldier’s existence. 
He crossed to the far cupboard, %ngers skimming 
blindly along its cluttered edge until they struck the back 
of a large wooden frame, faced away. Kailar stilled, then 
leaned in and held the corners gently, both hands steady, 
careful, reverent, as if handling something sacred. Slowly, 
he turned it over. 
Immediately, a hollow pain formed in his chest—a 
sudden, long‑forgotten sadness arrived without warning 
and left behind a chasm in some unreachable part of him. 
The frame contained a striking painting. 
The painting was both dark and luminous. It was 
rendered in shades of deep green, ghostly blue, and black. 
It was the most extraordinary image he had ever seen. The 
knight stood there, one arm upon the shoulder of a woman 
dressed in dark green. There was light in his eyes, a subtle 
joy in his face—so unlike the man Kailar remembered. 
Kailar let his gaze linger on the woman and the proud 
knight beside her. There was an unspeakable power in her 
face. Perhaps it lay in the depth of her green eyes, or in the 
faint tilt of her gaze. Whatever its source, something in her 
expression reached straight into his soul and awoke within 
him an old, familiar ache. He thought of his own lover, of 
how deeply he cared for her, of how her eyes too had 
carried that same calm %re. The resemblance was 
unbearable. He grimaced and closed his eyes, letting the 
tide of indescribable feelings surge through him until it 
nearly broke him. He stared down at the painting, chest 
trembling, %ghting back tears that threatened to shatter 
his resolve. 
What is this feeling? Who is this woman, and why does it 
seem as though I know her? The question drifted through his 
mind until, at last, he understood. 
He was slipping into the consciousness of another. The 
boundary between himself and the man who had once 
stood here was dissolving. He realised then that all true 
men are bound by a silent brotherhood that transcends 
time, and their loves, their losses, their longings are but 
variations of the same eternal song. 
He was feeling what the knight had once felt—the same 
devotion, the same fragile love. The woman in the painting 
had been as precious to that man as his own lover was to 
him. A profound sadness swelled within him, not only for 
the knight but for all men who had loved and lost, each 
condemned to bear the same grief beneath different stars. 
He stood before the painting for a long while, unable to 
look away. As he gazed upon it, a forgotten feeling began to 
stir within him, one he had not felt since his earliest days 
in his homeland. 
It felt as though the land of his birth itself was calling to 
him, whispering through the air, through the blood in his 
veins. Yet was it truly his homeland that he remembered? 
Or another place—older, deeper—existing beyond the 
reach of human memory? He could not be certain. 
The feeling was not a single image or thought. It was 
vast yet subtle, minute yet immense—a longing rising from 
the mountains, from the trees, from the soil, from the very 
pulse of the people. It was the voice of belonging. It was 
the voice of the Aereth. 
He felt it then as a point suspended in time, small as a 
spark yet encompassing the whole of existence. That feeling 
drew him toward his land, toward his destiny. It was the 
same light that had once touched him in dreams—the light 
he believed he had been born to emit. 
It could only begin there, in the land of his birth. He 
had to save the world from the destitution it was falling 
into. From there he would lead men and women toward 
the radiance he carried within himself, a radiance meant to 
pierce through the ever–darkening world. 
He had to do it. There was no one else.  
He lowered the painting gently, his hands trembling. 
The image lingered in his vision long after he had turned 
away, its colours burned into his mind like the afterglow of 
a $ame. The ache in his chest remained, but it was no 
longer the soft ache of sorrow—it had hardened, re%ned 
itself into will. 
The silence of the Palace pressed in on him again. He 
could feel the weight of all those who had walked these 
halls before him, their voices folded into the stones, their 
eyes watching from unseen corners. For a moment, it 
seemed as though the whole of history was leaning over his 
shoulder, waiting for what he would do next. 
He straightened, drew in a slow breath, and felt his 
heart steady. The longing that had once paralysed him now 
pointed him forward. He had seen what he needed to see. 
The time for memory was over. 
The time for action had begun. 
He turned from the room, his steps measured, 
deliberate. The corridors ahead were dark, but lit up by the 
faintest trace of light which guided his way, spilling 
through the cracks in the old stone. The air itself seemed to 
shift around him, thinner now, charged, as if the world 
were holding its breath. 
Kailar’s purpose had crystallised. What he was about to 
do was no longer solely vengeance, nor even justice. It was 
necessity. 
And in that necessity, he felt the calm of a God. 
Kailar paused. He could hear footsteps drawing near. 
The %rst signs of life he had encountered within the Palace. 
Two distinct sets. He braced himself and slipped behind a 
door, breath held still. Through the narrow slit, he 
watched. 
Two men passed, fat noblemen swathed in dark 
garments. Their voices were low, muttering to one another 
in haste. Kailar’s nostrils $ared. He did not recognise them, 
but he knew them all the same. From their posture, their 
manner, their glinting rings and soft $esh, he saw them for 
what they were. The enemy, the enemy of humanity whom 
he despised. Vermin who grow fat off t h e  s uffering of others. 
They must be eliminated.  
He nearly lunged at them then. But his will was stronger 
than his fury. He reminded himself of the greater purpose 
and let them pass. These men were pawns—he would strike 
only when he reached the hands that moved them. 
Fading into the stone shadows of the corridor, Kailar 
followed. They were speaking Falarian, that thin, coiling 
tongue he had always found displeasing. There was worry 
in their tone. Their steps hurried. Panic clung to them like 
a scent. Through the main hall they $ed, and Kailar moved 
with the darkness, patient as a viper. 
They entered a chamber.  
The chamber. 
His heart pounded. His veins burned. He reached 
beneath his cloak and found his curved knife, the one he 
trusted the most. His %ngers tightened around its hilt. 
Inside the room, he heard other voices. Frantic. Alarmed.  
Kailar approached the open door and peered in. His 
eyes were wide, alight with wrath. He looked like a demon 
conjured from the void—scouring the living for souls to 
quench his killing thirst. 
A cluster of %gures stood within. Foreign nobles by 
their appearance, dressed in the same shadowed attire, men 
from distant nations who lived nameless, but walked with 
borrowed power. Power gifted by the man Kailar willed to 
destroy. 
Four guards stood near them, watchful. Kailar’s eyes 
$icked across the chamber, memorising every detail. Then 
he saw it. 
The bed in the centre of the room. 
Upon it lay that vile man. His eyes were shut, his face 
pale, lips parted as if even in death he would utter 
commands. Beside him, a thin man wept bitterly, clutching 
the man’s long, spindly hand as if that alone might anchor 
the world crumbling around them. 
‘He fought the poison for many days,’ the man choked, 
‘the dream of Almany dies with him. Now we must all 
vacate this place. The great lords will arrive soon, and with 
them they bring judgement, and death. The court is now 
absolved. Return to your estates, in Albion and beyond.’ 
There was a moment of stillness. 
Then a voice broke it, low and sly. 
‘We will return,’ whispered a cloaked %gure with a 
hooked nose, though even he seemed unsure whether he 
meant it. 
Others began to turn, shifting restlessly. Some glanced 
at the guards, others at the door. There was no unity now. 
Only the sliver of self–preservation. 
Their benefactor was dead. And without him, they were 
nothing. 
Kailar's grip on his knife tightened. Then it struck him. 
Like a hydra, more heads would rise from the death of 
this one man. The corruption would not die with him, as 
Kailar had so naively believed. The thought tormented him. 
His fury wavered. The wrath, the unyielding anger, the 
righteous purpose that had carried him across ruined lands 
and broken cities vanished in an instant. Destiny had 
mocked him again. The satisfaction he had waited for, the 
reckoning he had imagined, had been snatched from him 
right before his very eyes. Even a fter the death of the 
wicked man, these other men would live on and continue 
to spread their poison throughout the world. His purpose 
had been $awed from its inception. The destruction of one 
was not enough—it could never be enough. 
He could not alter the fate of the world alone. He 
required more. 
He needed a cause vast enough to unite all true people—
a vision relentless in its pursuit of perfection, an obsession 
devoted to the annihilation of evil. 
Kailar’s entire being trembled as his undying wrath 
returned—a wrath searing enough to destroy a god. 
I MUST DESTROY EVIL WHERE I SEE IT! I WILL END 
ALL OF THEM HERE! 
His inner voice, the last thread of reason, tried to 
restrain him. He would not survive. There were four guards 
within, trained men, armed with swords and spears. He 
could perhaps bring down one. Maybe two. But that would 
be all. His death would follow swiftly. 
Still, he did not falter. 
He readied himself. The knife in his hand pulsing like a 
second heart. His killing intent rose again, called forth 
from the deep well within him. His body steadied. His 
mind emptied. He took a step. 
And then— 
A single white feather fell from the air. 
It drifted downward, weightless and calm, guided by the 
unseen currents in the air. 
Kailar froze. A reverence unlike anything he had known 
coursed through him. A voice stirred in his mind. It bore 
the shape of his beloved's, but it was not hers. It was older. 
Higher. 
A god was speaking. 
Do not step forward. Do not proceed. The words were soft, 
serene, %nal. 
He obeyed.  
His feet pulled back. His grip loosened on the blade. 
Slowly, he sheathed it and turned away from the doorway. 
He moved swiftly, without noise, retracing the path he 
had taken. The corridor felt different now, as though the 
air itself had changed. Something had descended upon him. 
Or risen from within. 
What was that? Where did the feather come from? There was 
no place it could have fallen from—I was inside. W–what was 
that voice? 
Panic took him by the throat. His breath shortened, and 
he broke into a dead sprint. 
The Palace blurred past him. He avoided the gates, even 
the side one he had entered from—he knew the guards 
would be there by now. Instead, he veered toward the 
gardens, once beautiful, now overgrown and silent. No one 
blocked his path. 
He reached the rear of the Palace grounds. The golden 
fence loomed before him, %fteen feet tall and cold, its 
spear–shaped tips curving outward. 
He exhaled brie$y and leapt. The fence shuddered under 
his weight. He caught the highest point he could and 
wrapped his legs around the thin bars. Swiftly, he climbed. 
His hand found the upper curve, and with a %nal effort he 
hauled himself over. The spear–shaped tips scraped against 
his side. He steadied, crouched, then pushed off. 
He had aimed for the grassy ledge at the cliff's edge, but 
he misjudged the distance. His foot slipped. 
Shit. 
He landed at the very edge, but the momentum kept 
driving him forward. There was nothing to hold. His hands 
grasped only tufts of grass as his body lurched onwards. 
He shouted once. 
And fell. 
*** 
Kailar looked around, unafraid. It was a strange thing to 
know he was falling—crashing down through the aereth at 
dreadful speed—and yet feel no fear. The cliff was not a 
sheer drop but a steep, jagged slope that twisted toward 
the vast northern forest. He closed his eyes as a strange 
vigour surged through him. When he opened them, he was 
at the bottom. 
His body ached.  
He ran his hands over his limbs and found only a deep 
gash along his left leg.  
Nothing more.  
He lay beside a narrow stream whose name he did not 
know and laughed. 
Around him, the world appeared unreal. 
In such moments, he oftentimes saw himself through the 
eyes of another—as if he were a presence hovering nearby. 
Observing. Watching. It felt utterly real.  
He saw his own body, lying by the stream like a child at 
play, splashing the water around him. A sudden thought 
struck him. He had fallen all the way down a cli ff, and 
lived, as though he had not been a man at all, but a feather 
which drifted downward, weightless and calm, guided by 
the unseen currents in the air. 
The scene around him was disturbingly beautiful. 
Above, birds weaved through the branches, chirping 
their melodious tunes. The trees glowed a vibrant green. 
The sky beyond them appeared a radiant blue, and the 
clouds rolled vast and white. This corner of the forest, it 
seemed, had not been touched by the tainted hands of man. 
Kailar felt a sting above his eye. His %ngers came away 
bloodied. It dripped into his eyes. As he wiped it away with 
the edge of his cloak, the world darkened.  
Night fell around him instantly. 
The stars appeared %rst, countless, in%nite, strewn  
across the immeasurable dark sky. Arrayed like a script 
only the old gods could read, they seemed to hum, to pulse 
with a low sound he could just barely hear. A long, silvered 
band of assembled light cleaved the sky in two, %lled with 
cosmic clouds and shimmer, like a wound lit from within. 
A galaxy. Theirs. Every so often, a star broke loose, trailing 
%re across the heavens, carving brief paths through the 
darkness before fading into nothingness. They continued in 
silent succession—lines of light $ung like arrows across the 
night. 
Then, peering out from behind the trees, came her. The 
same, ever–present %gure in his life.  
Selene.  
She peered at him through the leaves, distant, undying, 
her serene gaze laying directly upon him. 
He smiled at her, rising slowly. His legs resisted, but he 
forced them into motion, staggering forward until he 
tripped over a stone buried in the shallow stream. His 
bloodied hands and knees hit the gravel beneath the water, 
sending an icy jolt through his body.  
Still, he rose again. 
He walked, following her light through the shadows of 
the ever–darkening forest. With each step, a surging feeling 
grew within him. Invincibility. Certainty. He could not 
explain it, but he was sure of it. Nothing could stop him 
now. 
Then, an unusual shape appeared before him—a manor. 
Familiar. Warm. Even in the fading light, it glowed with 
memories so sweet, so pure, so distant. All gone now.  
I know this place. 
He had never approached it from this side, but his heart 
recognised it. The manor where it had all begun. Where he 
had seen her again, after so long.  
He went towards it slowly, in unnerving anticipation. 
What’s left of this place? 
Then—a voice called out to him. 
It spoke his old name, the one he had discarded. 
A chill ran through him. 
He drew his great curved blade, holding it by his side. 
A %gure appeared in front of him, cloaked in dark 
green. Their face hidden. A brilliant white light emanating 
from their body.  
Then, their hood fell away. 
The knife slipped out of his hand. 
Kailar dropped to his knees. 
Tears %lled his eyes, welling and spilling out freely. 
He looked at her. He tried to speak. 
‘V—’ 
But his tongue faltered. She was here. Alive. Pure.  
Just as she had been in memory, so she was again. 
She approached him, arms wide. He tried to rise, to 
meet her, but his body failed, and he fell forward. 
The darkness rushed in.  
The last thing he felt was the warmth of her arms 
encircling him.  
Then her silky, soothing voice, soft as mist, whispering 
in his ears. 
‘I’ve finally found you, my prince.’