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Khaslana found himself talking to the moon again.
Not the one that hung low over the dome of Styxia, but the one he cradled in the palm of his hand. It followed him day and night, through the black tide, across endless cycles like a loving memento mori on better days, and a harsh reminder of his failures on normal days. Despite that, it was always by his side, nestled within the folds of his torn black cloak.
As a rule of thumb, Khaslana only granted himself the luxury of gazing upon her brilliant glow in two situations.
One, when he had to kill.
And the other, when he missed her.
“You told me that every version of you would make the same choice,” he mumbled, fiddling with the slender handle of the crescent-moon weapon. “I know that. I've seen you fulfill your role hundreds of times now…”
The words fell from his lips as if he were reciting them from a script. He had said them before, and he knew he would say them again for the next hundredth, thousandth time.
But…
It never gets easier. No matter how many times he's braced for it, or how often he told himself it was necessary—watching her body grow limp in his arms, her blood staining everything around them with a sheen so striking, it rivaled the eternal glow of the Dawn Device.
Sometimes he sat in that pool of molten gold, wishing it would seep into his body and choke him from within. Just enough, he thought, just enough for him to feel the pain he inflicted upon her dying body.
“I guess…” His voice wavered. “I still find myself struggling to hurt you. Especially with a weapon… that was once yours.”
He recalled how the first few recurrences went; with every wield of ceremonial blade, his grip instinctively tightened.
What if he used too much strength?
What if the weapon got corrupted by the Black Tide?
He fretted endlessly over it, fearing that one careless slight in battle would reduce what little that remained of her to unsalvageable fragments.
A moon broken into a thousand pieces, falling into the depths of a lake so deep it threatened tempted to pull him under. Glowing under synthetic moonlight, the sea-dwelling shards would sing with the promise of a reunion.
But it was also difficult to cut a person down swiftly if he wasn't using force in the process. Plus, the light emanating from the blade was enough to give away his presence if he were to wield it openly.
Time and time again, he deemed it unnecessary in battles, choosing instead to pocket the moon.
And so, Khaslana trudged onwards down his path of destruction, watching as Dawnmaker wore away slowly. Chips, scratches—he’d even managed to tear a large gaping hole in his blade somehow. He didn’t know how much longer Dawnmaker could hold out. Would Chartonus be disappointed in him for treating the specially crafted sword with such frightening carelessness? He hoped not. After all, he had no choice!
Twirling the moon blade in his palm, Khaslana sighed, “I bet Mydeimos would have some words to say about the way I'm handling these weapons.” Then, as if he could hear the prince's scoff in his head, he chuckled.
“Right, there probably isn't a word for it in the Kremnoan language anyway…”
~🌙~
All things considered, Khaslana counted himself lucky for having not one, but two constant companions on his endless journey.
Granted, one of the two companions was an imaginary friend whose speech mirrored the naivety of his past self. Too often did he find himself wishing for the Hero Within to be less… chatty.
“Hey, you feeling alright? It's fine to take a moment to catch your breath, y’know?” The cheerful, glimmering mirage of the Hero Within spoke, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
Khaslana sighed, then swallowed—a weak attempt at clearing his burning throat. The heavy coreflames churning within the cage of his body sometimes made it hard to speak. Surely this condition of his would be solved with time. He remembered his lessons with Professor Anaxa, something about “becoming immune to poison if the body took constant micro-doses.”
Perhaps one day, he would grow immune to the burning sensation of the coreflames too.
Or he’d simply stop noticing it. Were thirteen burning coreflames added slowly throughout centuries considered micro-doses?
“Another cycle, ended. Another, begins,” he murmured, dragging out each syllable as though he were learning them for the first time, and stared out at the serene waters of Aedes Elysiae.
“You’ve been pushing yourself pretty hard,” the Hero Within spoke. “You don’t have to carry everything alone, y'know? Leave it to me!”
That was the problem, wasn’t it?
He was alone. Had been for longer than he cared to measure. The Hero Within could walk beside him, speak to him, even place a reassuring hand on his shoulder from time to time, but it could never truly share the weight he bore. The Hero couldn’t touch the bodies, smell the dried blood, or see the faces that haunted him every step of the way.
It reminded him of an old friend who walked with Death.
Castorice had never been alone either, Death following her as faithfully as a shadow, indifferent to her pleas of being a normal girl. She moved through Amphoreus carefully, hands clasped in front view for everyone to see, a polite gesture and signal that she would not harm them.
He remembered a scene he’d witnessed as a student at the Grove: Castorice crouching down, her heavily-gloved palm reaching toward a wilting flower at the edge of a path. Her hand lingered there for a moment before she withdrew it entirely.
“I shouldn’t,” she had said, smiling weakly at Phainon before standing up.
At the time, he hadn’t understood. Wasn’t the flower already on death’s door?
Now as Khaslana faced Castorice in yet another battle for her coreflame, he came to sympathise with her hesitation. His hand brushed the cool hilt beneath his cloak, fingers clasped onto the moon blade before loosening again.
“I shouldn't,” he echoed.
Wasn’t his moon already past death’s door?
~🌙~
“You look terrible,” the pink healer said quietly.
For thousands of cycles now, she had remained at a berth from him whenever they met, but this time she had stepped forward to examine him. Her eyes darted across the cracked skin exposed beneath his collar. The fractures had spread further now, jagged black veins webbing across his neck and disappearing beneath layers of worn fabric. Between each fissure, faint purple flames pulsed, a furnace within the cage of his ribs.
Hyacine reached toward him instinctively, fingertips hovering just above one of the cracks before stopping herself.
“How many coreflames are you carrying now?”
Khaslana tilted his head, pretending to think. “A million?”
“That is not funny.”Her small face scrunched up in frustration. Not at him, he supposed, but at the state of his body, knowing that this was one patient she could never save.
“There has to be a way to treat this,” she insisted. “If I examine the coreflames properly, perhaps I can stabilise them. Or at the very least, reduce the strain on your body.”
It was such a Healer of the Sky thing to say. Presented with what was effectively a walking, burning corpse, and her first instinct was to heal it. He found himself smiling faintly.
“You really haven’t changed at all.”
“Neither have you,” she retorted. “Running yourself into the ground for everyone else.”
The battle itself felt sluggish. Not because Hyacine was weak—far from it—but because neither of them seemed particularly eager to hurt the other. His own strikes lacked their usual force.
And eventually, as it had been for cycles past and future, Khaslana found himself standing over Hyacine’s fallen form. His tired gaze fixed upon the coreflame burning softly in his hand.
All this while, he had never bothered looking at the cursed thing he had to kill his comrades over.
Yet, this time, he noticed something deeper within its flames. Threads of gold woven through the fire like rays of sunlight hidden amidst rolling storm clouds. It glowed faintly of crackling embers upon a dying bonfire in the starry night, and as he turned it in the palm of his hands, he felt the soothing warmth of the living flame that seemed to pulse like a heart. Even severed from their bodies, it was a wonder to behold. Selfishly, he thought of returning them to the basin of the gods, if only to witness them light up the false constellations above.
Entranced, Khaslana brought his face closer to the coreflame, and then closer still.
How beautiful, he thought.
How had he never noticed it? If this was the warmth that every heir carried within themselves, then perhaps he wanted to feel it too—even if only for a moment.
Briefly, he recalled the words of his teacher Tribbie, warning of Icarus and his journey too close to the sun. He wondered if his teachers would reprimand him even now.
Then, like a moth to the flame, he moved to lift his palm ever so slightly to eye-level.
The coreflame’s warmth felt so good against his cold skin. His eyes began to water from the blinding brilliance, and—
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
~🌙~
Khaslana began wearing a cloak and mask, a sorry attempt to hide the horrifying scorch on his face.
If any of the heirs saw him like this…
He knew what they'd think, what they'd say. Some would berate him, others would immediately offer hugs and remedies. No, he deserved none of that. Anything but pity, or comfort. But his new wardrobe wasn't the only thing that had changed with the new cycles, for Khaslana had gained a new moniker.
He'd heard it uttered in the past a few times, but hadn't registered that it was him until his latest encounter with Aglaea. She was a radiant as ever, standing before him with her dual weapon, shielding a trembling little cipher.
“Speak, Flamereaver. What is it that you want from us?”
She said the name with such venom and spite that it made him pause in his advance.
Oh.
Aglaea was talking about him. She no longer recognised him.
Shocked by the realisation, he retreated back into the darkness, frowning. Could he be feeling resentment?
It wasn't fair of him to think that way. She had every reason to… despise him. And anyway, he was in an entirely new outfit. One that she had not handpicked. One that would likely impress her with its harmonious colour combination, should she have known of the identity behind the mask.
Flamereaver, flamereaver, flamereaver…
He'd been trying not to think about it. But now that he was alone with his thoughts, Aglaea's words clung to his cloak like residue from the black tide.
With nobody else to talk to about it—aside from the Hero Within, who was a terrible listener—he decided it was an ‘emergency’ requiring the assistance of a very special something.
“They're calling me… the Flamereaver now,” he said, testing how the word sounded upon his own lips as he held the crescent blade up against the curve of the moon.
Khaslana was back at the same spot, perched on the roof of Styxia’s highest point. The closest he could get to that distant celestial body. “It… sounds kind of cool… doesn't it? Like a nickname I'd come up with during our daily playtimes back in Aedes Elysiae…”
He tried to remember how many names he had worn before this one: Destined Deliverer. Hero. Saviour. Executioner.
And now, Flamereaver.
“Isn't that funny?” He laughed, vision swimming as he grew delirious, waiting for a response from the cold and silent weapon he gripped in his claws. “Isn't that funny?”
A beat of silence.
He should have grown accustomed to it by now. He should have known better than to ask a corpse what it thought. He should have—!!!
“Pfft.”
“Haha.”
“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”
Clutching at his chest that seemed to burn even stronger as he laughed, Flamereaver’s clawed fingers tore at anything within reach. From his tattered cloak to the cracks already forming on his scorched face, he shredded at it like a man possessed. Even then, the feeling in the pit of his stomach didn't go away. What else could he do to chase the dread away?
Anything, anything at all.
Suddenly fatigued from his own maniacal laughing, his head dropped to stare blankly at the lake beneath him. It was reflecting the shape of Styxia's moon. A pathetic copy.
And yet, before his eyes the rippling surface began to shape out the silhouette of a young maiden. Her hair curled against the nape of her pale neck in gentle cascades of a waterfall that caught the pink shades of light from a setting sun in Aedes Elysiae. Clad in a simple purple garment, adorned with hints of pure white, royal blue and bronzed etchings of Amphorean pillars…
Gasping, he rushed down from the rooftop to get a closer look at the water. When he finally reached her, close enough to trace the ripples, he croaked out the name he dared not utter. The name that had lain dormant for centuries—or, however long he had been living this cycle.
A name that felt almost blasphemous for a sinner like him to speak of, yet one he so desperately wished to be worthy of all the same.
“Cyrene… is it… really you?”
True to her image, the reflection only smiled back at him.
It wasn't her, he knew that. It couldn't possibly be her. He would never be granted such a blissful reunion. Still, he could not stop the words from tumbling out of his broken body.
“I- I can't take it any longer, Cyrene. I promised you, I'm trying… so hard to keep it. I've taken the same path over and over again, just like you. But I…I'm tired.”
He swallowed down the burning bile that threatened to spill alongside his confession. Perhaps this was what he deserved for every flame he had stolen.
“I'm so tired. And I miss you. I miss you so much.”
“Cyrene.”
“Cyrene…please….please!”
Flamereaver didn't know what he was begging her for. Didn't know what he was gasping and groaning for. There were no tears, and there certainly was no reply from the reflection.
He stayed there until his hyperventilation finally calmed, and the surface of the water stilled once more. Just like that, the moon returned to being a mere reflection, one that no longer bore the image of her.
From farther back, half-hidden among the ruins, Cipher watched the shadowy figure. She frowned slightly, confusion flickering across her face.
How strange; that mutt was always obsessively gazing up at the sky. What's gotten into him now?
For the entire night, Cipher silently observed as the Flamereaver knelt over the water's calm surface. His head bowed as if in mourning, and never once did he look up at the moon.
~🌙~
In the end, Flamereaver’s death came easily. He had anticipated this would be the end when he saw that gray haired Trailblazer at the Grove. It was almost comical how little relief he felt despite seeing the hero he and Cyrene had waited for through uncounted cycles.
No matter, he thought, as long as he could die on his own terms… And so, selfishly, he lifted his hand to reveal the hidden moon blade within his cloak. He placed the shining weapon in Phainon's palm, urging him.
No words were exchanged in that fleeting moment, for they both knew what his gesture meant.
The silent plea to die by her blade. Just the way he had ended her own life, all 33,550,336 Eternal Recurrences ago.
As the glowing weapon stabbed into him, Flamereaver felt the strain leave his body all at once, as if something long coiled within him had finally loosened its grip. The coreflames dimmed, their roars reduced to embers. He lifted a trembling hand and reached out, fingers brushing against the unblemished face he once wore. It would be an entirely new path now, and he hoped to provide some form of reassurance.
“Do not bow your head… to THEM.”
The sun that blazed for millenia could finally set, passing its brilliant light forward at last.
And as he faded, he felt no regret. Not because the true Deliverer had arrived, but rather, because he knew Khaslana would never falter, even in the face of Nanook’s Destruction.
.
.
.
When the group of heroes descended upon the Ruins of Time to fight Irontomb, the memories within him were reawakened for what he hoped would be the last time.
As he returned to his wretched body, Khaslana’s eyes shifted ever so slightly to address the person they'd brought along for the final battle.
She was what he could only describe as a False Moon.
“Mem.”
Without hesitation, the name fell from his parched lips. Even if everyone else seemed to be perfectly fine calling her by the name of Cyrene.
“Yes, it's me.” She said, stepping forward to connect with him. “I will remember what you want to say to her.”
A tempting offer.
The young seedling gave a reassuring nod as she placed a hand on her chest and smiled at him. Mem mirrored her actions so perfectly, and yet…
It was the first of her smiles to not soothe him.
“No need. I can see…” Struggling to sound out the words, he continued. “That she's right here.”
Theirs was a reunion long overdue, and if he had to wait just one more battle longer…
Well, he would gladly welcome it.
~🌙~
Death, and the Afterlife.
Somewhere along the line, he had stopped dreaming of it. Yet, here he was. Standing amidst the promised field of flowers that stretched far beyond his sight. And there, shimmering like a fairy, was the person he had been waiting to see all this time.
She turned, and with a smile he never thought he'd see again, Cyrene greeted him.
“You're here, Khaslana.”
“I'm sorry for being late, Cyrene.”
And so, Khaslana found himself talking to the moon again.
Not the one that hung above Styxia, and not the one he once held in his hand…
This time, he would speak with the one he had so longed for. This time, she would respond to his words in earnest, and he would finally be—
—in conversation with the moon.