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>>> Computation #23570001
…
>>> Loading Scene [Aedes Elysiae]
>>> Loading Computational Factors:
"NeiKos496"
"PhiLia063"
>>> Initiating Computation
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>>> Script [Black Tide] begins displacement update
>>> Executing overwrite command on Scene [Aedes Elysiae]
…
>>> WARNING!
Error: Overwrite command blocked by Object "NeiKos496"
>>> Retrying…
>>> Executing overwrite command on Scene [Aedes Elysiae]
>>> WARNING!
Error: Overwrite command blocked by Object "NeiKos496"
…
>>> Script [Black Tide] displacement update terminated
>>> Object "NeiKos496" self-iteration progress: 3.35%

// Assessment: In the 23,570,001st recursive loop, NeiKos496 exhibited deviations from historical behavioural data. Upon loading into the buffer zone, all instances of NeiKos496 remained at "Coordinate: Aedes Elysiae" for the majority of the cycle duration. Self-iteration progressed at an accelerated rate due to close proximity of NeiKos496 to its parallel instance.

To the people of Aedes Elysiae, the black-clad swordmaster is a familiar sight. He had held back the Black Tide, nearly thirty years ago, when it first came to the village. Sweeping in with his blade ablaze and his cloak billowing in the wind, he’d cut down great swathes of the encroaching hoard, fighting tirelessly day and night to bring the village into a peaceful dawn. He is a local legend, a story passed down to children of the Deliverer who stood tall against the insurmountable waves of monsters. However, they know little more than that fateful battle of years past. The swordsmaster never speaks, never approaches the townsfolk. He seems content to exist on the outskirts of their village, patrolling the borders, a silent and steady protector keeping watch for the Black Tide. On some days, if you rise early enough, you may spy a dark figure silhouetted against the radiant form of the rising sun, alone upon the horizon.

But he isn’t alone. He’s never alone, not anymore; he hasn’t been alone since that very first cycle, the first time his blade drew golden blood. His ghosts are always with him. They’ve grown beyond the confines of memory, clawing their way out of the festering guilt lurking in the back of his mind into physical space as if to remind him that they are dead and he is not. Which is, of course, his fault.

At some point during the cycles, he had started to hear their voices. Distant whispers that had him whipping around to catch an ambush that didn’t exist. And as the years passed, centuries, millennia, their whispers grew to screams. They began to force their way into his vision, creeping from the periphery into full view, then into physical space. Sometimes alive, sometimes dead. More often than not, dead. When their hands reach for him, he feels their touch like a brand. When they raise their weapons against him, he suffers every blow and laceration he had dealt them. When they die, their final words shudder from their lungs, echoing those innumerable cycles.

Can spirits formed from memory hold grudges? Is it some manifestation of the seething hatred underlying his programming, turned upon himself? Some raw traces of their data clinging to him, like the blood that stains his sword, his cloak, his hands with gold? Even when they aren’t present, they are felt in every step he takes, every pulse of the flame burning in his chest. They weigh on him with every cycle, growing more whole, more alive. They are the echoes in his ears that fill the quiet moments and the nights travelling the broken lands; the flames of his blazing fury that can never settle, never find respite; the searing heat of divinity that only grows, that he can never, never escape. To bear their wishes is his eternal penance, for the sins he will continue to commit time and time again. To bear their wishes is his eternal duty, to honor those who will be cast to flames time and time again.

Cycle 23,570,000 of the Eternal Recurrence. Hyacinthia stood against him for the first time in…how long? It was a rare occurrence. The healer tended to remain upon backlines, and he was often able to snatch Aquila’s divinity without having encountered her. The last time he had faced her in combat, his skin had not yet taken on the complexion of fractured alabaster. His eyes had still retained some semblance of their spark—before they had grown dull, empty. And the fire within him had already begun to blaze, yes, but not quite the raging inferno of eons.

Hyacinthia. Dear, sweet Hyacine. She tried to heal him, extending her hand as if to a patient and not to her executioner. Reaching out to a blazing pyre, setting herself alight in the attempt to treat his burns. She drew upon the Coreflame of Sky not to bring down thunder, but gentle clouds and a soothing rainbow, even as the Black Tide’s corruption seeped into her bones. Her pupils were ringed in the desperate, vertiginous glow of Aquila’s madness. He met her dying gaze with a resigned acceptance.

But something she did had touched him. Perhaps it was the influence of her divine power, or her heartfelt words that had stirred something inside him.

The moment you took the world upon your shoulders without hesitation… you lost the chance to ever be yourself.

He put an end to her suffering. The Coreflame rose; the Sky fell.

But Hyacinthia’s words echoed in his skull, joining the choir of a thousand ghosts yet cutting clearly through the clamour. She was right; the faint flicker of humanity within his chest had long since dimmed to embers. The sun may burn bright enough to wrench the dawn from the unending darkness, but a hollow flame provides no warmth.

He had kept their wishes in his heart all this time. All of them. Hyacinthia’s desperate plea will be no different, even if she had not wished it for herself.

So, in the beginning of Cycle 23,570,001 of the Eternal Recurrence, he made a choice.

He stands upon the shoreline, the tattered black cloak billowing behind him in the sea breeze. The scent of salt is sharp upon the gale. It tugs at his cowl, slipping through the visor of his mask, yet he does not feel the chill of the wind on his face. He does not feel much of anything beyond the endless ache of fire. One hand rests upon the sword embedded in the sand beneath him—a shattered husk of twisted, vitreous steel. Each incoming swash breaks upon the blade, kicking up a fine spray. Any seawater that climbs the shore beyond that, far enough to reach his feet, vapourises to mist the second it makes contact. Beneath his boots, the sand hisses and burbles from the heat.

As he watches, light begins to seep into the sky beyond the horizon. A pale sun crests over the waves, scattering hints of dawn across the ocean and painting the night sky into tender, rosy colors. Once more, the sun rises for Aedes Elysiae. He continues to soak in the crepuscular light, still save for the rise and fall of his chest, until the sun parts from the sea and begins a steady climb into the sky. It’s the same sunrise he’s seen a million, ten million, a hundred million times. But over the course of his long, long experience, he has learned to appreciate moments like this.

After all, just this once, he has all the time in the world.

Today is a good day. It’s a good day because the sea before him isn’t littered with the bodies of his dead and dying friends. Limbs splayed out, glassy eyes trained upon him. Cursing him. Mocking him. Pleading with him. Staining the shore with gold. It’s a good day because the rage that surges within his chest is tempered by the peaceful, uninterrupted view of the sunrise. That fury remains, aching in the depths of his core, burning in his blood; a fury stoked by the fires of a hundred million coreflames, deep and ancient as Amphoreus itself. But it does not threaten to spill over, consuming him and everything around him. At least, not at this moment.

Ever since he had made the decision to protect Aedes Elysiae, he has been blessed with more days like this. Not often, mind you—for perhaps that would be too generous a gift for someone as wretched as him. But the soothing landscapes of his homeland possess some innate ability to ease the soul. It’s a miracle what only thirty years have managed to do for him, weighed against twenty-three million cycles. Not only have these years lessened the constant torment he endures, they have lessened the ire of his ghosts as well. He still witnesses their deaths, still faces their contempt. But now, on occasion, they may appear whole, unscathed, such that they might even be the real Heirs standing before him. The return to his homeland has settled their vengeful spirits, allowing him some semblance of company. Whenever a good day like this comes around, he clings onto it like a drowning man to driftwood.

He’s never truly alone. But in this cycle, that truth rests lighter on his shoulders.

Today, Helektra joins him by the sea. Some of his ghosts will appear anywhere, while others favour specific places to manifest. Helektra herself only ever steps from his memory when he stands before the vast oceans. She keeps away from him, seated out on the sandbank with her lower half submerged. The surf eddies around her aquatic torso, lending her the impression of complete unity with the ocean; a creature born of the salt and spray emerging from the depths. Helektra does not acknowledge him, but he can hear her mournful dirge resonating over the sea, accompanied by the stirring tones of her violin. She sings in a language forgotten by the world; he must draw upon the Coreflame of Ocean to understand. It is a lament for the fallen—her kin, of whom she remains the only survivor until the day she meets her prophesied end.

He’d rarely had to draw his blade upon Helektra over the many cycles. Between the Imperator and her Gladiorum, neither lived for long beyond their era. Their fates were intertwined, and more often than not, ended with one of the two lying in a pool of golden blood. Still, rare doesn’t mean never, especially over twenty three million lifetimes.

He had never known Helektra that well—her, Cerydra, Terravox. Not as well as the Heirs of his time. They were of the old guard, the spark that brought the Flame Chase to an explosive start. Even in the earliest cycles, when he collaborated with the Imperator to bring the Titans to their knees, Helektra scarcely shared her thoughts. At the time, he hadn’t thought to ask.

What he does know is her longing. Longing for her home. Longing for a past she can never return to. He carries every bit of her longing through the endless cycles, a deep, unquenchable void that sinks into the depths of nihilism. Helektra would often gaze off into the horizon, lost in thought, as if she could return to the ocean by yearning alone. As a spirit, she prefers to appear in the water—whether it be lounging about the shore, swimming freely through the waves, or drifting lifelessly in the shallows. Her ghost is light and intangible as sea foam carried away on the currents.

Cerydra makes her presence far more imposing. She’ll stand before him, eyes blazing, her crown glowing red-hot with her fury. Oftentimes her wounds are on full display—a gash down her chest, a slit across her throat, a gaping wound in her gut. She spares him no sympathies. He can’t blame her. He’s wrenched the Coreflame of Law from her fallen form more than a few times. Every few hundred cycles, it becomes a necessity for him to be the blade that topples her reign. Despite their shared goal, he and the Flame Chase so often end up at odds. Cerydra will never accept the futility of their struggle—she laughs in the face of fate, determined to claw her desired future time and time again from the promised annihilation. The Imperator has never once faltered in her glorious campaign.

Perhaps she’d understand if he had the chance to properly himself; she’s pragmatic above all else, and there is no Amphoreus to rule in the Destruction’s future. But in his memory, her fury grows as he carries it through every passing cycle—the bitter resentment of a failed conquest and a fallen conqueror.

On days like these, if Cerydra manifests, she’ll take space to herself. Much like Helektra, she prefers the beach; she’ll wander down the shoreline and stand alone, her small frame indistinct upon the length of sand, looking up beyond the firmament to distant stars. But she doesn’t appear today. Helektra and Cerydra never meet, never appear before him together. Even in death, their separation is fated.

Of all his ghosts, Terravox is the only one who never appears before him. Perhaps they simply have nothing to say to each other, much as they never had across those early cycles of Flame Chase. But memories of the great dromas slumber within the many Coreflames of Earth, harboring the myriad lifeforms of Georios, waiting for him to carry them into the new world. Those earthen dreams are filled only with the desire for survival. Sometimes, when he attunes to the Coreflames, he can feel Terravox in the rumble of the earth, hear grumbling chuffs resonating from deep within his chest.

The slow, stirring tones of the violin begin to wash in over the waves, drawing him from his contemplations. He knows this song by heart. It is a sorrowful melody that calls upon the homestead, a plea for an answer that the performer knows is not coming. Helektra sways in the tide as she performs, framed by the rising sun.

He may not be her audience, but he will stand witness all the same.

When the sun parts from the waves and begins the ascent into sky, Helektra lowers her violin and delivers a bow to the ocean. Then she simply stands with the waves lapping at her knees, lost in her own reverie. He takes Helektra’s stillness as time for him to draw his blade from the sand and begins a meandering stroll along the coast. Helektra is gone by the time he looks back.

Anaxagoras will join him on walks by the shore. His teacher speaks the most, always contemplating some alchemical concept or philosophical truth. Many of those lectures are unintelligible to him, scattered thoughts and musings that blend into white noise in his ears, punctuated with the occasional, bold laugh. However, Anaxagoras’ research topic is clear. Cycles. Cycles. Always cycles, always about uncovering the great and transcendent secret that he has been subject to for eons.

He’s witnessed the Blasphemer present his theorem innumerable times; it’s hardly a wonder that this is the memory of him that so readily springs forth. Even so, hearing the mutterings of Anaxagoras’ ghost makes a knot of something fiery and cruel grow taut in his gut. What good is understanding in the face of an uncaring fate? Even if Anaxagoras could unveil the truth in whole, knowing makes no difference. The outcome remains the same. The cycle starts again.

But despite the futility of it all, Anaxagoras was never one to vacillate in his search for the truth. His teacher’s unwavering conviction to critique burns bright within his chest as he carries it into the future. Futility means nothing to the Blasphemer; if his research brings him to death’s door, he will boldly knock in search of a response. How many times has he wrenched the Coreflame of Reason from his own chest? Anaxagoras always has and always will throw himself to the flames for those sublime answers he seeks. More often than not, he’ll disappear just as quickly as he had arrived—much the same as he always was in life. Even on the days that Anaxagoras manifests with fatal wounds, they hardly seem to bother him. The Blasphemer simply laughs, laughing even as golden blood spills from his head.

What difference does it make? The truth of this world is not so fragile. I will return to prove my thesis as many times as need be.

Sometimes Hyacinthia will arrive alongside Anaxagoras, offering the occasional suggestion or counterpoint. Their banter is light-hearted, even when Anaxagoras has to cede a point to her. After all, she was the only one who could really match those esoteric arguments. Castorice will often trail behind. The three of them together stir old memories; for a moment, he will travel back to the days of his studies in the Grove of Epiphany.

However, Hyacinthia more frequently appears alone. On the bad days, her eyes are not her own—Aquila’s divine gaze stares back at him, painted by the corrupting ink of the Black Tide as molten gold courses over her body. On the good days, she’ll sit beside him and take his hand in hers. She has a good sense for his mood; she will chat with him when he needs company, sit in silence otherwise. His fury tends to taint his ghosts, twisting them into cruel and vengeful caricatures of their true selves. Yet out of all of them, Hyacinthia is the least impacted. It’s difficult for him to imagine her without her gentleness, her patience, her compassion for every patient. That same compassion is why she always reaches out to him first. Why she continues to reach out to him despite everything, breathing promises of a rosy dawn to life in his heart. For her, he carries devotion.

Today, neither Anaxagoras nor Hyacinthia make themselves known. But as he treads down the beach, the sound of delicate footsteps follow in his wake.

Castorice is the quietest of his ghosts. She always trails behind him, a safe distance of ten paces between them. Sure enough, when he looks back, she’s following along with her head bowed respectfully.

Castorice had always sequestered her sorrow away into the deepest corners of her heart. Having witnessed her tale unfold countless times, he knows her as well as she knows herself. Her flaw may be the cruelest of all. The icy chill that lingers upon her hands settles deep into her psyche, creating the most fervent desire for warmth, whilst simultaneously snatching it away from her. She walks through an eternal winter, forever on the threshold of spring but never able to reach for it. Castorice will not take her curse lightly.

Today is a good day, and she has shown no hostility. A momentary impulse takes him. He retraces his steps to stand in front of her and extends a hand; Castorice flinches back on reflex. He keeps the offer outstretched. Perhaps Hyacinthia’s habits have rubbed off on him after all. His extended arm is an unspoken reminder that her touch cannot hurt him. Not as she is now. He waits, patiently, as she reaches a tentative hand out. When her fingertips brush his, he takes them tenderly into his grip.

How many times has he felt her icy hands? All the times he’s lifted her lifeless body in his arms, the chill of death unable to quell the raging fire of deliverance. He has far too much of her blood on his hands; if he can carry out just one wish of hers, allow her spirit the slightest indulgence, he will do it. He will carry her wish for peace to the end of the west wind, and deliver her to the true warmth of life.

Castorice’s hand settles more firmly in his as he leads her down the beach. She seems to ease with every passing moment that goes by without him falling to her curse. That he feels no sensation from the contact—death’s cutting chill entirely absent—he attributes to the flames in his breast that burn through his palm. It allows him to keep up the pretense a little better, to imagine that Castorice is right here beside him, hand in hand. He shoves down the truth that, vivid as his ghosts are, they cannot take on physical form.

They part where the shore gives way to the meadows, Castorice wordlessly slipping her hand out of his. Her aversion to touch will not be dispelled so quickly. She must fear that if she maintains contact for too long, her curse might suddenly transcend her death to take hold of the living.

(Can he be considered among the living? Maybe he’s the ghost, haunting this fragile shell of a body; maybe the burning pyre consumed him a million lifetimes ago; maybe the weight he bears is an eternity of sins he’s accumulated, this existence a purgatory watched over by his fallen compatriots for the rest of time.)

Sand gives way to sparse grasses that grow steadily more lush and plentiful as he follows a familiar route that he has traveled many times before. As he makes his way through the tawny grass, he can hear peals of excited laughter bounding from up ahead. The Ladies Tribios frequent the fields. Perhaps this place provides them a freedom they never got to experience in life, the sweeping grasses fit for childlike play—after all, he had spent many sun-soaked days with his childhood friends in these meadows. As he passes the vast swathes of grass, the edges of his sight are filled with her thousand forms picking flowers, rolling in the grass, chasing each other around.

He’d never met the original Tribios. She was far before his time in every cycle. Nevertheless, he has arranged the many fragments of Tribios that he carries into a full picture, a portrait painted in a thousand strokes of memory. Tribios is a hero; she is the first to step onto the uncertain path of the prophecy upon every cycle. She holds so much hope for Amphoreus, spreading her faith in the world over a thousand messages to disperse upon the winds. There’s something about hope that makes itself apparent, and he can feel it deep within the Coreflames of Passage that he holds. He knows that she would sacrifice herself without hesitation for the world.

Most of the time, the Ladies Tribios appear in the periphery of his vision. He has walked a long, long road, and his path has crossed with each and every fragment at least once. But if ever he tries to focus on them, they waver like afterimages left by searing heat before superimposing into no more than three. If he’s lucky, they continue to run and dance through the meadow. If not, three identical dolls will lie discarded and forgotten upon the grass. And on the worst days, the Lady Tribios herself will plead with him before shattering to pieces, every individual piece tumbling and exploding into shards until nothing but dust remains.

Today, he pays them no heed. His destination lies further afield, past a sparse copse of trees and over the ridge of the hill. The only trace he leaves of his passing are the smouldering footsteps that quickly fade into the rustling grass. But where Tribios is, Aglaea will not be far behind—and indeed, by the edge of the meadow, the Lady Goldweaver rests beneath a tree. Clouded eyes drift in the direction of her teachers. Whether or not she truly sees, he cannot tell. There is no golden thread in this place. And yet, everything in Aedes Elysiae glows golden; he wonders if the view would remind her of the warm rays that spread over the baths of Okhema. Her unfocused gaze remains blank even as she senses his approach, but he notices the near-imperceptible shift of her head as she trains her focus on him. He nods a brief greeting out of habit, moving to continue on past her.

Then the sunlight catches her dress, making the golden stain across her chest glow like dying embers.

Molten fingers curl around his heart at the exact point of Aglaea’s wound. The warm colours of the day around him seem to subside, like a fresco fading after years of exposure.

No. No, today is meant to be a good day—these days are precious, far too precious for him to allow them to slip from his grasp. For one who has done so much wrong, perhaps he does not deserve peace of mind. But he cannot help but cling onto the momentary freedoms that his ghosts deign to permit him. Today is a good day, and no one dies on the good days. He ignores the flare in his chest and drops his head, refusing to acknowledge his wounded companion. But even so, he can feel Aglaea’s needle-sharp gaze trained upon him. Her eyes, although sightless and clouded over, still possess the remarkable ability to convey accusation. He’s seen them fixed upon her lifeless corpse countless times; they always look just the same as they do in life, painting Aglaea in a haunting, post-mortem reproach.

Why? Why now?

Bitterness grasps his chest in its searing grip, claws cutting into his ribs. She knew what her fate was. They all did.

Losses are a constant on the Flame-Chase, among which even life itself holds little value. How many times has Aglaea reminded him of those words? Her creed is carved into his head as deeply as that of Anaxagoras’ theorem. Whenever he cuts down another friend, whenever he wrests another Coreflame from dying hands, her voice is there like a whisper of silk brushing past his ears. Losses are a constant on the Flame-Chase, and who among them has been chasing the flames for longer than him? Loss has been his constant companion on his journey through eternity. She knows this, they all did. So why will they not grant him peace?

He can hardly accuse her of not standing by her words. Aglaea has never faltered in her resolve, not for a moment, not even when she bathes her last in warm and radiant gold. The title of demigod falls upon her shoulders every cycle, wearing down the warmth of her humanity. She has been called cold, indifferent, accused of growing blind to the suffering of the mortal world—for who among her detractors could hope to understand the depths of sacrifice she makes behind the scenes? Aglaea allows the Coreflame to temper her into a simple tool, the banner of Flame-Chase billowing down the path towards that promised tomorrow. From the moment she steps into her responsibilities, her life is just another weapon to be used or discarded as the moment calls for. Aglaea holds no wishes for herself—her only desire is to usher in the Era Nova, whether or not she might witness it personally.

He can’t fulfill that wish. Not yet. He can only carry the temperance of her many lives endlessly into an uncertain future, all the while refusing her the prophesied salvation time and time again. That’s why Aglaea is here. Her presence is an accusation, a reminder that he is the sole roadblock to the effort she dedicates her life to in every cycle.

He foolishly steals a glance at Aglaea—and her blank stare has not wavered. It seems to penetrate straight through him. The sunlight bathes her in warm and radiant gold, as radiant as the ichor spreading further and further across her chest, centered right upon her heart. He drops his head and changes direction, as if putting more distance between them will dispel her ire.

Small fingers wrap around his free hand, and he startles at the sudden contact. He stops in his tracks. Lady Tribios—one of her thousand fragments—stares up at him.

Snowy, what’s wrong? Her grip is strong, but her fingers are so frail in his. Her voice quavers as she speaks. Aren’t you going to say hello to Agy?

It’s Tribbie—the most whole out of all of their forms. He carries the concord between one thousand shards of fragmented soul—Tribbie, Trianne, Trinnon, Trissha, Triyew, Tricome; he could go on. Most of them have long withered in foreign lands before his time, but they have always kept each other close in their hearts. Tribbie is the closest thing to Tribios herself. That same hope glows in her most strongly of all.

“No,” he whispers. “Not now.”

Tribbie frowns, her eyes large and sorrowful as they blink up at him. Come on, Snowy…please?

“I can’t,” he says, forcing down the rising fire that leaps from his core. “Please, Tribios, not today.”

But even as he speaks, two more pairs of hands reach for him; Trianne and Trinnon clutch at his cloak, at his arm, pulling him along.

Come with us, Snowy!

Snowy…don’t leave us behind.

Helplessly, he finds himself dragged closer and closer to his fallen mentor. Their grips are vicelike. Sure, he could tear them off. But he doesn’t want to fight, not without reason, especially not Tribios—their bodies are so frail, so fragile, they always die—

“Tribios, don’t make me do this,” he pleads. Fire pounds along his ribcage, and each of their tiny hands feel like brands where they meet his body. “I can talk to her any other day; let me have this chance—”

Like the chance you gave us?

Aglaea’s voice cuts through his futile protests, cold as ice. She rises to her feet to meet their approach even as the blood begins to drip, the fabric so saturated that it cannot hold any more. As she moves, it shifts away from the skin to reveal the brutal wound through her chest. He closes his eyes, but the image has already been imprinted a thousand times in his memory.

Like the mercy you showed us?

This isn’t her. He knows this isn’t her, he knows she would never speak like this. But her ghost, so full of vengeance and hatred…it would.

He forces himself to face her before he speaks. “Aglaea—”

If you want rest, there will be plenty of time for it in the Era Nova. Her voice is perfectly measured, despite the scathing undertones of her words. It’s a pity that we’ve never seen it, after all the times we’ve tried.

A surge of indignation hits him at the barbed observation. Aglaea has perfected the art of cutting commentary under a veneer of civility. “You know I can’t let you do that.”

Why not? With every question she asks, Aglaea takes another step forward. Are our goals insufficient compared to yours?

“I didn’t say that. But you don’t know the full truth.”

And you do? Do you know that your plan is the correct one? How can you be so sure that the Era Nova is an empty promise, when you throw around so many yourself?

Fire swells in his chest, searing fingers that wrap and tug and heave at his insides. He grits his teeth and chokes down the acrid taste of smog slowly creeping up his throat. “I know because I’ve seen it. I’ve witnessed the cruel reality of our world with my own eyes.”

So you would hinge a bloody campaign of a million lifetimes on the evidence of a singular instance?

She stands face to face with him now, her glare piercing through his visor, staring straight through him. The growing burn of his ire refuses to let him back down—not like he has much choice, with Tribios holding him in place. Three matching looks of concern dart in between him and Aglaea, as if uncertain whether to step in or not.

“I am not willing to pay the price of the alternative.”

How disappointing, Anaxagoras chimes in. I thought I’d taught you better about unsubstantiated conjecture. Even the smallest of proofs requires a rigid academic approach, not to mention that concerning the weight of the world.

Reckless, thoughtless, Cerydra spits. Even those who called me a tyrant could witness the fruits of my reign for themselves. But you, sprinting into infinity with nothing to show for it—you think yourself a hero?

Their voices push into the conversation, filling the space between his ears with smoke even as they refuse to take on physical form.

How long will you allow humanity to suffer under your insistence? Aglaea asks. Blood pools around her feet. Rivulets run through the grass.

“You all know nothing,” he hisses. Pressure is rising in his chest. His Coreflames hum a fervoured beat that cuts into the back of his ribs. He hears Tribios’ gentle plea of Snowy, calm down and ignores them—they aren’t on his side either. “So why not get lost instead of ganging up on me?”

Bold words from a man who has nothing but hatred and misplaced idealism, Cerydra scoffs.

Falling back on bravado and baseless claims when on the backwards foot can only reveal one’s fallacy, Anaxagoras observes.

“Shut up!” he snaps, loud enough to disrupt the growing whispers that have begun to simmer in his head. Anaxagoras and Cerydra aren’t physically present, but he can sense them leaving. Sense the lingering contempt in their wake. Still, he addresses all of his ghosts when he speaks. “Believe me, or don’t. I couldn’t care less. I will continue to do what I have always done, whatever it takes.”

So you’ll kill us again. Aglaea is still woefully present, fixing him with a deathly glare. You’ll continue to kill us again and again for this spectacle of folly.

He sets his jaw. Silence hangs heavy as the constant weight upon his back.

It seems you’ve taken my words to heart, Aglaea sighs. Our lives hold little value to you, don’t they, Deliverer?

Aglaea flickers before his eyes. Standing one moment, splayed on the floor the next. Neck twisted at a grotesque angle, hands clutching at wounds far too deep, eyes still staring straight through him. Tribios appears and disappears; three dolls lie limply at his feet before sparking out of existence. His ghosts dance a macabre dance of life and death before his eyes as if to remind him exactly what his commitment to his path means.

The pressure within him reaches a boiling point. A melting pot of frustration and anguish simmers over the flames of hatred, clouding his vision with steam.

“That’s enough.” He wrenches himself away from the Ladies Tribios—dead, alive, dead—and they fall away from him. “I told you, I’m not dealing with you today.”

Aglaea’s eyes affix him with an ice-cold stare of reproach—alive, dead, alive, dead, dead, dead. The longer she stares at him, the more it feels like all of those times in the cycles—the way she had treated him like a garment that she needed to perfect; cutting away his imperfections, adjusting his presentation, ensuring that he was always the perfect, dependable Deliverer. A cruel shard of loathing twists in his gut.

“You want to accuse me of not caring? Fine!” he snarls. “You mean nothing to me. So just stop haunting me”—he’s raised his blade before he even registers what he’s doing—“or I’ll make you stop.”

He’s gone too far, but he can’t bring himself to care. Aglaea will get over it. Or she won’t, and he’ll have to deal with twice the spite the next time he sees her. But all he wants right now is for the Lady Goldweaver to leave him alone.

They hold their staring contest for a beat longer. Then, when he next blinks, she disappears in the wind. All that remains is a wisp of silk that drifts slowly to the ground.

Aglaea is wrong. He has to believe she’s wrong. For no matter how many times he has been accused of indifference, of cruelty, he keeps his grip firmly on one truth: their lives do have meaning. Every single last one of the Chrysos Heirs are immeasurably valuable. That they offer their lives in service of the prophecy only deepens the tragedy of the sacrifice that they make in every cycle. Even if he has no choice but to play the role of their executioner, he will never claim their lives without knowing their meaning. The fire blazing in his chest is proof enough of their collective will. Who else could stand tall in the face of a cruel, unchanging fate, to tear down the gods with their bare hands and usher Amphoreus into the new world? Even twenty-three million of himself could never be worth one of them.

He turns to apologise to the Ladies Tribios, but they’ve left him too. The meadow is utterly silent. He knows without question that this is their way of expressing their disappointment in him.

The air suddenly feels too heavy. Too full of sorrow, and regret, and betrayal. He can’t be here anymore; the weight of his ghosts’ absence can be just as crushing as their presence. Without a second glance, he turns and runs.

He allows himself to slow when he crests the hill marking the outskirts of Aedes Elysiae, arriving right as the sun reaches its zenith. This spot offers a vantage point where one can look out over all of the village, from the sprawling mass of cottages interspersed around the public square to the winding pathways that branch out to the docks and the wheat fields. He lets himself linger on the sight of his home for a moment longer, pushing down the unsavoury thoughts that have yet to properly settle into silence after his prior encounter. Instead, he focuses on identifying familiar figures going through the motions of their peaceful, idyllic days. They remain blissfully unaware of the thirty years of peace he has granted them.

Just this once, may they have all the time in the world.

Dark clouds gather in the other direction, a tenebrous gathering that heralds the unceasing march of the Black Tide. His intervention here has driven it back as far as the mountain ranges, and he will continue to guard against it for as long as this cycle needs. The untamed data of the Destruction ultimately seeks the path of least resistance, and his efforts over this cycle have undoubtedly framed Aedes Elysiae as a difficult target. The Black Tide has drawn its forces back to spread elsewhere, and he scarcely senses its approach now. Still, it continues its steady advance across the horizon, swallowing up more and more ground with the turning of the years. How many of those distant cities have fallen? Janusopolis, Aidonia, Castrum Kremnos? Without him leading the Destruction’s onslaught, perhaps some might hold out a few years longer.

What are you looking at, pretty boy? A familiar voice drawls in his ear. Come to admire your handiwork?

Of course, it would be too much to hope for a moment’s peace.

When it comes to his patience, there is only one demigod who devotes their time solely to pushing and prodding at it. Unfortunately, she is all too good at her job. Cifera drapes herself over his arm, caressing his golden vambrace and cooing to herself. He wordlessly shakes her off, ignoring the provocative barb. She remains unfazed, dropping cross-legged upon the grass.

Pretty view, isn’t it? All that doom and gloom.

“Cifera.” His tone is strained, overlying the anger that he so desperately wants to unleash, while simultaneously terrified of unleashing it. Not today. He doesn’t know if her ghost is here to pass the time in peace, or with vengeful intent. Her demeanour between the two extremes are annoyingly similar. Really, it hardly makes a difference given his current circumstances.

Mmm…how far along are we now? 4400 years? She lies back on the grass, crossing her hands behind her head. Looks like you still have plenty of time.

“Not today, Cifera.”

She isn’t wrong. Okhema should have at least half a millenium left, thanks to Cifera’s lie. It’s only when the thief becomes entangled with the Flame-Chase once again, near the end of the cycle, that he usually gets the chance to end her alongside Okhema’s extended prosperity.

To her credit, Cifera has always possessed more bravery than she gets recognition for. She’ll whine and complain when asked to stick her neck out, but she does it. Her taunts are flippant and lighthearted, regardless of if she’s teasing her allies in Okhema or throwing insults at him as he charges her with sword in hand. Sometimes it seems as though nothing can shake the thief, not up until the moment he drives his blade through her chest.

Rarely, she finds some way to escape his pursuit. No matter; the city eventually topples to his blade all the same. Rarer still, the lie of a thousand years will unravel like falling spools of thread, the holy city crumbling alongside.

Leave the best to last, she continues. After all, doesn’t the greatest lie of Okhema deserve a chance to flourish? I hope you aren’t too eager to kill me off.

A flash of gold rushes across his vision—Cifera coughing up ichor, Cifera staring at him with frenzied, fearful eyes, Cifera limp on the ground, head bowed—

Gods, why can’t Cifera just be more selfish? It’s hardly as though she isn’t looking out for her own interests. He carries enough of her desire to know that her self-preservation instincts are strong, far stronger than her fellow heirs. But the self-absorbed facade Cifera dons is always covering up her strongest desires, the most altruistic. And when it comes down to the end times, when the Flame-Chase rests on the edge of a blade, when her loyalties come into question…she answers the call every time. Why does she have to care? Why can’t she hear Aglaea’s call and flee for her life? Why does she have to stare down her murderer with impunity and laugh, even as terror courses through her veins?

Why do any of them do it? Why do they have to keep fighting, and resisting, and dying—

“Cifera!” he snaps, before hauling his frustration back under control. His chest burns; he wants to scream at her, just to vent even the slightest bit of pressure. He clenches his teeth hard enough to make them ache. “Please. I don’t want to do anything I’ll regret.”

Cifera sits up to face him, leaning forwards on her haunches to stare him dead in the eyes. If she can sense the danger in his tone, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

I’m sure you don’t, pretty boy, she says, squinting through the gaps in his visor. Hm…not so pretty anymore. What a shame.

She bounces to her feet once more, beginning a self-satisfied strut around him in the manner that a cat might toy with its prey before pouncing. The wicked grin on her face is enough to spell out her unsavoury motives.

They hate him. They show it in different ways—Cerydra’s blazing temper and Castorice’s reproachful gaze, Tribios’ quiet disappointment and Hyacinthia’s hollow stare, Anaxagoras’ cutting insults and Cifera’s cruel barbs—but they hate him all the same. That weight upon his back is the heaviest of all. A roiling flame that burns in his chest, seething, pouring into the blaze of his own fury. It is a fire that grows harder to contain as the eons roll past, one that threatens to engulf him entirely.

Even in the peace of Aedes Elysiae, he cannot hope to contain them entirely. His ghosts outnumber him by far. Having one vengeful spirit upon his back would be hard enough. But eleven of them? How can he be so naive as to hope for peace of mind when they are all constantly present, constantly harbouring the resentment of twenty three million cycles? All it takes is one of them—they don’t even need to speak. Glassy eyes and golden blood send a message all the same.

Maybe if Cifera had appeared earlier in the day, before his encounter with Aglaea, she might not have been able to get so far under his skin. Maybe her appearance is just the smallest extra push he needs to plummet over the edge.

Or maybe some part of him is always waiting, lurking, simmering under all the pressure, ready to jump at the first opportunity to explode into a roaring blaze.

The next time Cifera slinks past him, he grabs her by the scruff of the neck. She yowls with alarm, caught off guard as he hoists her into the air.

Hey— hands off, you mangy mutt!

“I asked nicely,” he growls through gritted teeth. His hands clench around her hood; he feels the fabric tear under the pressure, feels his nails pressing into flesh. “I’ve been patient. Leave. Me. Alone.”

Without waiting for her response, he throws Cifera to the ground. She only tumbles for a moment before leaping to her feet and bouncing away from him, kicking up dirt as she scrambles to put distance between them.

Holy Zagreus, someone’s temperamental—fine, fine! Whatever pleases you.

Cifera pulls a coin from her pocket, spinning it along the back of her palm. A wicked grin splits her face. The coin pings into the air, and she’s gone with a rush of wind. But as she bots away, her parting words hang in the air in her wake.

I’m sure he’ll be much more understanding than me.

“What?”

He senses the attack coming before he sees it—a fury of blows rain down upon the spot he had been standing moments prior as he throws himself backwards. Instinct kicks in and his sword is raised, meeting each strike with a ringing clash of steel. He struggles against his attacker for a moment, sword locked in between the pair of gauntlets, before being forced back by the strength of the blow.

Only one man makes an entrance like this.

Standing before him, lit by the midday sun, Mydeimos is ablaze. Deep red garments billow in the air behind him. Every golden adornment upon him catches the light; his heavy gauntlets gleam with brutal, deadly intent.

Deliverer! The Kremnoan roars, taking a step back and raising his fists for another attack. Every one of the harsh lines and cut edges that define this warrior scream of Mydeimos’ unyielding determination. There will be no waving him away with supplications, no threatening him to stand down. Mydeimos is here for a fight.

And maybe some part of the dark and wrathful mess in his chest wants to respond in kind. Right now, his ghosts have already stoked the unstable flame of hatred in him to dangerous highs. That urge to unleash all that fury to destroy aches in his bones. He’s always holding back. He doesn’t want to start anything with his ghosts, lest he do something unforgivable again. But this opportunity has come right to him, and he sees no reason to hold back any longer.

Mydeimos wants to fight? Then he’ll give him a fight. Wordlessly, he raises his blade and charges.

One might expect a hand-to-hand combatant to be at a disadvantage against a sword, but Mydeimos is relentless. Waves of blood-red crystal push out of the ground towards him, or cut off his lateral movement. The air is heavy with the fervor of divine wrath. Nonetheless, he meets every move with the practised ease of a warrior trained over a million lifetimes, every cleave and parry practiced over a million battles. He slashes, jabs, whirls, lunges; his cloak is a dark eclipse billowing behind him. Shards of crystalline blood shatter; sparks soar from every clash.

This exchange is more than familiar to them. Kremnoans are born for battle. It burns within their veins. They speak with their weapons and their response is written in blood; by now, he has learned Mydeimos’ language by heart.

The Mydeimos of his mind is a ferocious warrior indeed. A few hits break through his guard—the wind would be knocked out of him if he were closer to human, but he simply revels in the thrill of something that he can feel, so numb is his body to sensation. Gods, he may be loath to admit it, but this is far more his speed. Facing his ghosts is a difficult ordeal. When they curse and growl and scream, he can only stand and take the wave of resentment head on. But the rush of combat is the perfect outlet for all of his countless frustrations. Conscious thought slips away from him as he falls back upon pure muscle memory, every swing reinforced by the rage of untold eons. A perverse satisfaction runs up his spine at each resounding clash of steel. This is what he was made for. Someone is screaming and he realises it’s him, roaring with laughter as he lets his inhibitions fall away.

Instinct drives him as he registers the weakness in Mydeimos’ defense—one that the Kremnoan has never quite managed to correct. Instinct pushes him to surge forwards, blade heavy in his hand, to slip through the Kremnoan’s guard. With a practiced ease, his blade arcs around and behind him and sinks into the tenth thoracic vertebra.

All at once, the thoughtless haze of battle dissipates. The weight of his reality comes crashing down on him like a clap of thunder. The sword in his hand becomes painfully real, the hilt biting into his palm. A white-hot shard of guilt lances through him in the very same spot he struck his companion, lodging itself somewhere in his gut.

Mydeimos freezes. Time slows to a crawl as the two meet eyes. He has always been able to read Mydeimos well, but this moment—the instant his sword slips into the warrior’s single weak spot—remains the exception. An inscrutable mixture of emotions dance across Mydeimos’ face before it slackens and goes blank. In all the millions of times he’s witnessed—caused—this scene, never once has he been able to tell what the Kremnoan is thinking.

Then the ghost of Mydeimos falls again.

A guttural howl escapes his throat, forced out by the rising flame in his chest. He drops to his knees. His momentary exhilaration is utterly crushed under a cruel reminder of the sins that he cannot escape. How could he have allowed himself to act so flippantly? When did killing his friends become easy? Instinctual?

Executioner. He is their executioner. He claims their lives as easily as he draws breath. This is what he was made for.

His blade falls to the ground. Shaking hands reach out to the prone body of the man he is forever destined to kill. That wound is forever the same, ugly gash. That lifeless weight is forever the same cradled in his arms. Mydeimos never changes, in life or in death.

He’s slain Aglaea 13,906,300 times. Anaxagoras, 14,519,120 times. Castorice, 9,456,284. Cifera, 21,071,580. Hyacinthia, 8,249,500. Every killing blow is a brand upon him, committed to eternal memory. He needs to remember.

Mydeimos has fallen to his blade 23,570,000 times. Not a single cycle ends without the Kremnoan facing him down in combat. Mydeimos never retreats, never surrenders. Never survives. It’s an honourable death, worthy of the name of Strife.

Something stirs within the hollow of his chest.

Fury.

An ancient, primordial wrath that has grown, feeding upon the wellspring of his sorrows, into an inferno more violent than all 282,840,000 Coreflames. It unfurls itself from slumber, spreading through his body; fire pounds at the cracks across his face as if threatening to burst from his skull. All he can do is scream. Thunder bellows across the horizon, as if in response to the anguish that pours from his lungs.

“Why?” he asks. The question claws its way from his throat, leaving the taste of blood and ash in its wake. “Why, Mydeimos, why?”

Why does it always end like this? Why can’t we ever come to an understanding? Why do you die so easily? He doesn’t know which question he’s asking, but he knows the answers to each of them all the same. This is their eternal dance.

Tendrils of dark clouds coalesce into a stormfront, heavy and brooding against the afternoon sky. Shadows creep up the hill. And in the darkness, his ghosts are never far behind. A fulgurous crash of lightning splits the air, and they’re there. Aglaea, casting her icy gaze and adorned in brutal wounds. Anaxagoras, cackling triumphantly as he chokes on his own blood. Tribios, shattering into a thousand fragments that collapse into a thousand dolls. Cifera, a wicked grin on her face as she clutches a bloodied stump with her remaining hand. Helektra, Cerydra, raising their bloodied weapons even as they struggle to stand. Castorice, skeletal and decaying, lurching towards him. Hyacinthia, eyes ringed with corrupting madness, arm outstretched, still reaching out. They’re all there, all but the ghost who lies dead in his lap.

He remembers them through anger. How else can he ensure that he never forgets? So long as he burns with fury, they will remain in the fire within him. They’ll never leave him. He allows that seething resentment to carry him forwards over the endless cycles.

But hate is a dangerous thing, and he has lived alongside it for far too long. It claws into the crevices of the heart, seeps into noble intentions, righteous ideals, heartfelt wishes, corrupting and consuming until there is nothing left to give. It tarnishes the purest memories. It warps friends into foes. His ghosts are the product of grief forged into hatred in the crucible of eternity. They may allow him good days, they may deign to play nice, but they cannot deny the truth of their existence any more than he can.

Hands reach for him, clawing at his arms, wrapping around his face, his throat. Their voices converge into a hurricane of pleas and curses and anguish. He fights back, but without his sword, the numbers simply overwhelm him—that, and the fact that he refuses to release Mydeimos even as they tear at his arms and hands. His cries are torn away by the howling wind. His mask is pulled from his face; his cloak is torn back. Fists pound into the fragile, fractured shell of his face. Paired with the inferno blazing out of control within, he feels as though he could break apart at any moment.

Another bolt of lightning screams across the sky, and the imprint of its path burns a brilliant, golden flare across his vision. He lurches backwards, and Mydeimos is ripped away from him as he collapses to the ground with an impact explosive enough to make his head spin. Still, he keeps struggling. Screaming. But for every ghost he shakes off, two more fill the empty space. The weight of his ghosts atop him quickly becomes too great. He can’t see. Hear. Breathe. His world is submerged in the fury of the dead.

With a dull roar, the storm finally breaks. Rain begins to pound down in sheets that crash across his scorching body, exploding into steam with a ferocious rush.

He closes his eyes and allows it to swallow him whole.

Get up.

He startles, stirring from somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. The ground is slick with rain, yet bone dry where his body makes contact. A light shower falls from the sky, droplets striking him with harsh, sizzling impacts. The deluge has washed away the worst of his rage, leaving his head leaden with smog and washed-up ashes.

Get up! Is this the best Amphoreus’ ‘Deliverer’ has to offer?

A growl rattles in his chest as he wrenches his fractured blade from the mud. “Haven’t you tormented me enough today?”

Today? You’ve been here for two weeks.

“What?” He finally lifts his head; the Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos greets him with a scornful glare and a jagged wound in his sternum.

You’ve had quite enough time to wallow in self-pity, ‘Deliverer’, Mydeimos says, his tone dripping with a familiar scorn—the way he says ‘Deliverer’ is a far cry from the deference and respect with which others use the title. Mydeimos knows him far too well for that.

He bites back a vitriolic retort. His fingers grip the hilt of his sword more tightly.

Mydeimos had only called him ‘Deliverer’ sincerely once, in the very first cycle. That was the only time they had truly walked side by side. Every time after that…how can a ‘Deliverer’ be the one who crushes the hopes of his compatriots? The title is a brand, just another burden atop the expectations he carries.

“Don’t. Don’t call me that.”

Slowly, he gets to his feet. Raindrops die a thousand deaths upon his body, returning to the air in plumes of steam. He had wrongly assumed this was the tail end of that initial storm. Or had it rained for the entire two weeks? The passage of time never seems to obey his delicate grasp upon it. It isn’t the first time he’s experienced days go by in minutes.

A low peal of thunder rumbles across the sky, as if addressing his queries. His eyes jump to the Black Tide’s march across the horizon; he relaxes somewhat upon seeing it no closer to Aedes Elysiae than before. Then perhaps the tempestuous weather is the result of his tenuous control over the many Coreflames of Sky he holds. He’d never quite mastered the use of most of the Titan’s powers. They aren’t his to command to begin with.

What? Not happy with the oracle card you drew? Mydeimos’ usual smirk twists into a vicious scowl upon the visage of his death. I thought you fancied yourself a Deliverer.

“You know just as well as I do, that title is nothing more than the naive delusion of a desperate populace.”

Don’t lie to me. You believe in it just as desperately.

He raises his head to the horizon, avoiding the eyes that burn in the sunset as they flicker across his hooded, haggard form. He has too much fire inside him already. “This world has need of a Deliverer, yes,” he admits. The word is ashen on his tongue. “But I am not the one they deserve.”

Mydeimos barks a laugh devoid of its familiar warmth. Something sharp twists in the blaze of his Coreflames.

“What do you want, Mydeimos?” he asks, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Have you come to fight me again?” He leaves the end of the sentence unspoken—we both know how that ends.

I didn’t think you were so fragile, ‘Deliverer’. Does my death upset you so badly? What, did the past twenty-three million times not count?

He keeps his gaze fixed on the distant skies, but he can sense the Kremnoan drawing closer.

Take a look at yourself. Drowning in your own self-pity.

“Mydeimos.” He spits out the name that he’s said so many times before. With tenderness, excitement, amusement…with anguish, horror. Fury. Something within him is cracking, splintering—maybe his self-control, maybe himself. Blistering heat twitches in the space behind his ribs. “Just leave me be, would you? Do you hate me so badly?”

Why not ask yourself that question? The Kremnoan stands right before him now, his frame impossible to ignore as it fills the skyline. You and I both know why I’m here.

He doesn’t respond. Flames creep up his chest, clamp around his throat.

Need me to spell it out for you?

Thunder crashes across the horizon. Rain continues to pour upon them both, but the inferno within him has grown so furious that a fine mist rolls off his body from the rainwater’s instant vaporisation.

“Because I killed you!” he snarls. He grabs Mydeimos’ outstretched arm and wrenches it to his own chest, ignoring the bite of the hefty gauntlet pushing into his skin. The Coreflames push back in response. He can sense that his body is hot enough to brand anything in direct contact now—yet Mydeimos does not flinch. “Is that the answer you want? I can feel you”—he slams the hand roughly into his chest again, punctuating the point—“here. Your rage burns alongside mine.”

Mydeimos laughs again, refusing to pull away from his grip. Back to this lie again! I’m here because you can’t get over killing us.

He takes another step forwards, closing the remaining distance between them. The steam swirling around them paints him in haunting tones—a figure wreathed in mist and vapour, insubstantial, bound to dissipate.

“I do what I have to do. No matter what, it ends the same anyway.” He drops the Kremnoan’s arm, pushes past him and takes long strides across the hilltop; every step sizzles beneath his feet. He can’t look at him. Not like this, not now. Not with those eyes piercing through him the way they do every cycle and every execution.

Do you even hear yourself? Mydeimos follows him, his footsteps near silent in comparison. You’re so wrapped up in your messiah complex that you can’t see yourself for who you are anymore.

He walks faster, determined to shake the ghost off his tail. The rain begins to fall more heavily, morphing from a drizzle to a steady downpour. Mydeimos matches his pace, raising his voice to be heard over the drum of falling water.

The longer you go on, the more weight you bear upon your back. You may have grown numb to the pain but that does not negate the damage. How long will you last?

He moves faster. He’s practically broken into a run, tearing through the curtain of rain, leaving a trail like white-hot metal plunged into water. Let the rain carry Mydeimos away; only then can he cool the incalescent fire pounding in his chest.

You never change! Mydeimos is shouting now. Taking on more than you can handle, crumbling under the pressure, furious that you fall short of the perfect saviour. I’m here because of your self-loathing. Hatred is changing you!

“Hatred changed me a long time ago!” He stops, spinning around, and Mydeimos almost crashes full-tilt into him. They stand face to face for a moment, chests heaving under the pouring rain. “That’s all I was made to do. Hatred is carved into my being. Have you forgotten? All we can do on the Flame Chase is lose! We lose constantly, then we pick up the same cruel charade in the new cycle and do it again. I am destined to lose everything I care about. So tell me, Mydeimos. What is there left for me but hatred?”

Your friends! Your allies! All the people who fight alongside you in every cycle. Do you truly think that we would condemn you for doing what you need to do? You may walk alone on this path, but you are not the only one desperate to save our world from Destruction. We have always been prepared to lose everything for the sake of the future.

“What difference does it make? That doesn’t change what I’ve done. I betray them every time. They all die the same way. You can say whatever you want, but you’re dead, Mydeimos. You aren’t real. You don’t speak for the living. Do you really want to help me? Then just stay dead.”

They stare at each other for a terrible moment. Something flickers in Mydeimos’ eyes—hurt?—yet his expression is as impassive and unchanging as carved marble. He knows he’s gone too far; he wants to regret his words, yet the blistering heat of his fury has seared away any sense of remorse.

You were right, Mydeimos finally says, eyes dark and inscrutable. His voice is a low timbre that can barely be made out over the rain, yet it cuts like a knife. This isn’t the Deliverer Amphoreus deserves.

The last of his control finally snaps, splintering into sharp, fragmented pieces. Incandescent fury surges from the broken remains of whatever restraint he had left. To hear Mydeimos voice his thoughts, speak them to cruel, bitter life, somehow bites deeper than any physical blow.

Lighting shatters the skyline. The ground beneath their feet heaves. Mydeimos’ eyes widen as he seems to realise, too late, his mistake.

“You think I hate myself?” he says, no longer bothering to keep his voice level. He lets the fury of a million lifetimes spill into this single moment, staring down his closest companion and his most bitter enemy. “I despise myself. I know exactly who I am. A fool who dares to hope for an impossible dawn. An executioner who murders his friends in cold blood. So don’t pretend that you aren’t here just to remind me of all the sins I’ve committed.”

You don’t have a choice—

He laughs a bitter, strained laugh. “But I do! I choose to kill you. I choose to keep walking down this path. Every time the cycle ends, I choose to bring it back and make everyone suffer under the weight of their inevitable fates again.”

Mydeimos opens his mouth as if to speak, but seems to think better of it. He takes a step forwards, and another, sluicing through heavy sheets of rain.

His blade shudders in his hand. He grips it more tightly, stilling the tremor in his palm. A terrible urge to cut down the approaching ghost again seizes him. Gods, why can’t Mydeimos just fight back? Why can’t he scream hateful things in exchange?

“And you know what, Mydeimos? I’m sick of you. Of everything.”

He’s raised his blade, extending it to fend off the man who continues to draw closer nonetheless.

“I’m tired of having to make impossible choices for people who couldn’t hope to understand this pointless, thankless existence. I never asked for any of this! I never wanted to be the Deliverer!”

Then stop. Mydeimos stares him dead in the face with the same intensity he’s worn over countless lives. He stands with the extended sword pointed right over the cavity in his sternum, unflinching. Give up. Put down your blade. Let the Flame Chase of twenty million cycles come to an end.

The pressure building in him comes to a point—blistering heat that roars from his chest to his head, smothering him in the fires of hatred. Golden light radiates from his skin as incandescent heat pushes through his flesh, screaming for release. His body is nothing but a hollow shell, worn down by the Coreflames over the eons and filled with an ancient, deadly fury. He wants nothing more than to give up control, immerse himself in the familiar ache of rage and let it carry him forwards without thought. The Destruction’s call urges him to crush Amphoreus in his bare hands, to become the sun solely to burn it all away. He raises his blade high above his head, the keen edge cutting through the deluge, and screams—

—as he plunges it into the ground, driving it up to the hilt. The earth groans under the force of his strike, shuddering before finally growing still. Time seems to slow for a moment as he gasps for breath, chest heaving, fingers twitching around the hilt of his now-buried weapon.

He hates them. Mydeimos. The Chrysos Heirs. All the people of Amphoreus. The gods. The Aeons. Fate. He hates the cruelty of it all. Hates the wishes that he bears on his back, hates the burning agony that roils in his chest, hates the ghosts that will not allow him the peace of indifference.

Hates how easily they die. Hates the futility of their struggle.

Hates how they always leave him alone in the end.

“I can’t,” he breathes. His whole body trembles, the resentment within not satisfied, yet utterly overcome by a sudden and intense fatigue. He’s tired. So, so tired. He sinks slowly to the ground, hands still on the hilt of his blade. “I…can’t...”

He hates himself most of all. For hating the people he loves more than anything in the world. He would walk this road to the ends of the universe for the slightest hope of their salvation. He would become the sun and burn to ashes to bring them a glimpse of the dawn. He hates them, and yet he cherishes them so dearly.

The promise he made feels so long ago now, but the words still ring clearly in his memory. He hadn’t known. Neither of them had known how dearly it would cost them.

Mydeimos slowly comes to his side, resting on the sodden earth.

I know.

The rain eases just as suddenly as it had intensified. In a matter of minutes, it returns to a sporadic drizzle. The sun peers tentatively out from behind the swiftly dissipating stormfront.

Together, they watch the shattered horizon in silence for a time more. The distant shadow of the Black Tide continues to crawl across the world, spreading like spilled ink soaking through parchment. Night falls, shadows swallowing up the lands. Then day breaks, and the sun breathes the world to life once more.

After a long, long silence, he finally speaks again. “Why are you still here?”

When Mydeimos replies, he does not shift his gaze from the horizon. Why wouldn’t I be?

He doesn’t have a good response, so he just turns his focus back to those distant vistas. A moment passes. Or maybe an hour, or a few days. It doesn’t matter how long; Mydeimos’ grounding presence is constant throughout.

You’re wrong, you know.

“What?” he asks, roused from a half-conscious state. “About what?”

In response, Mydeimos simply raises one hand to his chest.

That of mine which you carry. It isn’t rage. It never was.

Unconsciously, he mirrors the gesture. His ghosts stir beneath his touch, a dull ache that settles in his core like molten rocks. He knows them by heart; he can sense Mydeimos’ fire coursing through every Coreflame of Strife he bears.

“If not rage, then what?”

It’s hope. You carry all of our hopes with you.

Once again, Hyacinthia’s words come unbidden to his mind. Hopes, wishes, dreams…he carries so, so many, just as the Deliverer carries the hopes of the masses into a brighter future. He should be the perfect vessel for it. But after an eternity of suffering, with an eternity more ahead…will he still be so?

“I can’t help but wonder if Hyacinthia was right. This fire…it burns far too brightly. Your wishes are the only things carrying me forward. But how can they survive in the new world if my hatred burns everything to ash?”

He gathers a handful of soil in one hand. The damp earth dries up, ashen flakes spilling through his fingertips back to the ground below.

We’ll survive. Because I know that somewhere beneath all that hatred is the true you. The one who first embarked on this journey. And I know that he has nothing but love for this world.

“But that person… He burned to ashes a long time ago.”

You are the same. He had faith that you would keep making the same choice, and you continue to. Because you know that this is what needs to be done.

“How do I know that I’m doing the right thing?”

You don’t.

“That’s not very comforting.”

Comfort? What comfort is there? You chose your burden, so live by it.

He gazes out at the watery sun as it begins to sink below the horizon. This celestial sphere may be a fabrication, but somewhere beyond it lies a universe full of countless such stars. The cosmos stretches unfathomably far, governed by powers unimaginable; the thought of it makes him feel so very, very small. Yet all of that hangs by the slightest thread. The Destruction is a blade suspended high in the air, ready to fall upon the universe, held back by a hundredth of a percentage of those cold extrapolations.

Mydeimos’ voice is gentler when he speaks again. The weight of hope is a heavy burden. When you fight, you fight for all those who put their hopes upon you. But no war is without loss, and it takes sacrifice to claim victory. You have always been the one people put their hopes upon. That hope may weigh you down, but it can also be a source of strength to draw upon. Even if you don’t have faith in yourself, countless others believe in you. You’ll see things through to the end, no matter the cost, because that’s who you are. Someone who will never let hopes go unfulfilled, even if it means abandoning that which you hold dear.

“Even if it means betraying those very same hopes?”

He notices Mydeimos’ hand drift to the ugly wound through his back, an imprint of twenty three million deaths. As one of his ghosts, Mydeimos barely appears without it. He’s seen that sight so many times that it must be seared into his mind, inextricably linked to his memory of the Kremnoan, yet Mydeimos never seems bothered by the fatal wound.

If it brings Amphoreus to a new dawn, so be it. We have always been prepared to give our lives for the Flame Chase.

When Mydeimos locks eyes with him, his yellow irises blaze like gold in the dying light.

And I have always had faith in your judgment. Why do you think I entrust my weakness to you every cycle?

His smile is as warm as sunlight upon the wheat fields.

I know you will continue to make the same choice. Every single one of you.

They both glance back in the direction of the town, so far below them that the people are like nymphs in a miniature display. Somewhere down there, a young man is living a life that countless other versions of himself never had the chance to. One day, he will have to bid his home farewell again. He too will take up his blade and step onto the path that so many versions of himself have walked before. When that day comes, his eternal struggle will pick up from its brief respite. But for now…let him live this one single, peaceful lifetime. To protect his sense of self; that was what Hyacinthia had wanted for him. So he’ll buy himself as much time as he can. Just this once.

They sit atop the hill for a time more, watching the horizons endure. A silent vigil over a small fishing village in a remote corner of Amphoreus, protecting the peace of a young man who will one day carry countless hopes into the future.

When the flame in his chest settles to a low simmer, he gets to his feet wordlessly. Mydeimos doesn’t acknowledge him as he pulls his sword from the earth and begins a meandering descent back in the direction of the village. They have no need between them for farewells. Those words have been exchanged countless times before.

However, after a few steps, Mydeimos’ voice calls out to him one final time.

This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.

He hesitates for a moment, then replies truthfully. “No.”

They have had this conversation twenty-one times over his thirty years standing vigil. He can’t help but count.

It won’t be the last, will it?

“Probably not.”

Then I’ll remind you as many times as I need to.

By the time he glances back to the hilltop, Mydeimos is gone.

He arrives at the wheat fields at sunset. They sway in the evening breeze, brushing against his legs in waves as light as a whisper. Some stalks smoulder upon contact—the heat of his body simmers and roils, the fire of divinity alight within his chest—but the fields are calming in a way that soothes him to his very core, tempering his fire. As he pushes through the sheaves of wheat, his temperature lessens until the only sound is the whisper of the wind running through the hollow stems. It’s ripe. Ready to harvest. Eventually, he finds a spot where he can lie safely without crushing any of the brittle stalks. He rests his sword upon the soft earth and removes his visor before sinking to the ground, his shoulders slumping, arms outstretched. Basking in the light of the setting sun, he allows his heart to open.

23,570,000 cycles. 282,840,000 Coreflames.

Hyacinthia’s words still echo in his ears; she had wished that he could protect his own sense of self, that he could allow at least one of his unending procession of selves the chance to be happy. Even so, even in this single cycle of peace, this fraction of a long, long existence, he still cannot lose sight of his purpose. He can’t relax the grip on his sword. The anger in his heart burns too fiercely.

But no matter how hard he fights, no man can go on forever. He’ll grit his teeth, tighten his grip, harden his resolve over and over again. But the looming inevitability of the Destruction hammers down upon him unceasingly. The fire of divinity blazes hotter and hotter with every cycle. Ceramics split in the heat of the kiln, sculptures crack after years beneath the sun. How long will the hollow shell of his body be able to withstand the roaring flames? Another ten million cycles? Twenty? A hundred? He can already feel his mind slipping. Smog creeps into his wavering consciousness, blurring his thoughts. Exhaustion is leaden in his bones. He wanders the cycles as his ghosts dance before his eyes, rage within his chest, burning, burning, threatening to consume him entirely. What happens if he loses his resolve?

The world ends. Then the universe.

He doesn’t have to go on forever. But he has to at least hold out until a hero comes to break this deadlock and usher Amphoreus into a new dawn.

Just this once, he swears. Just this once, just for this one cycle, he’ll allow himself—both of his selves, all of himself—to rest. Let that dim flicker of humanity within him be restored, and find the kindling to keep burning for another hundred million lifetimes.

When he feels her approach, he keeps his eyes tightly shut. He doesn’t dare break the tranquility of the moment. She’s fleeting as ripples in water, existing in the space between moments; perfectly transient, the ghost of a girl doomed to die at his hands in every beginning. He never gets to see her face, no matter how perfectly he can picture it in his mind’s eye—if he dares to chance a glance, she’ll be gone before he can open his eyes. He can’t bear to shatter the illusion. Even if he knows he is simply clinging to an impossible lie.

He hears the rustle of wheat as she comes up behind him, pushing reeds aside to settle upon the ground. Out of habit, he reaches out a hand and feels cool fingers slide into his own, feels the crackle of wheat shifting against his side as she eases herself next to him. If he listens carefully, he can hear her heartbeat, a delicate rhythm echoed by the steady pulse in his own chest. She always feels the most real. Terribly, painfully real, like she’s still alive, lying beside him. Made of flesh and bone. Like he’s returned to his childhood, waking up from a long nightmare to a beautiful sunset and a peaceful moment by her side.

Her voice breaks through the stillness, the gentle melody of a song he remembers from his childhood. A lullaby sung by the mothers of the village to soothe their children to sleep.

Only when she comes to his side does the constant presence of his ghosts fade. He forgets, for a moment, the terrible, terrible things he’s done. He forgets his hatred. He forgets the eternity he’s lived, and the eternity that lies ahead of him. All that matters in this moment is that he has her, and in this moment he can almost—almost—pretend he’s home for good.

He rests for a while. She only comes to him in the wheat fields, and only then does he allow himself to truly let his guard down. The wind whispers through wheat in undulating waves, echoing her lullaby, drawing in an earthen scent overlaid with faint notes of the salt on the air. He squeezes her palm, just to remind himself she’s still there. He reaches out with his other hand, running individual, golden stalks through his fingertips, rough and brittle against his skin. He breathes in slowly. Everything passes more slowly in this cycle. It’s a moment of respite, a rare chance to put his blade down and rest. Even the flame burning in his chest feels more manageable. The return to his childhood home—for peace, not Destruction—has filled a small part of the hollowness he’s been left with. The wheat fields settle into his heart, soothing the aching blaze that has left him a husk, a burnt out shell, allowing the spark of humanity to glow just a bit brighter.

Featherlight fingertips brush over his forehead, pushing his fringe to one side, gliding through his hair and across his temples. They trace the fractures that run down the side of his face. Against the burning of his skin, her touch is a soothing, icy cold.

“You still treat me like a child,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed. She doesn’t respond, but he swears he can hear the smile on her face as she continues to sing. The lyrics are airy and indistinct, like a memory just out of reach. But the tune melds into the whisper of wheat, into the distant lull of the ocean, into the requiem for the fallen that he holds within his chest.

“Are you real?” The question comes to his lips unexpectedly.

I’m here, aren’t I?

“Am…am I real? Is any of this?”

Of course you are silly~ Why, what’s with all the questions?

He doesn’t know. But amidst the swaying stalks of the wheat field, under the tender watch of the setting sun, he is gripped by a sudden desperation to hold everything and everyone he’s ever loved and lost. They all seem so far away—sands slipping through his fingertips, ashes scattering on the breeze—that sometimes, it feels like they never existed at all. He alone walks this silent eternity, a tide-torn emptiness that has never known salvation.

“Am I still the same?” Again, the question escapes him before he can think. Something about her presence compels him to give voice to his deepest troubles. “After everything I’ve done… Can I even go back? I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve done so much wrong. I can’t— I—”

My dear ████████, she says, the name she whispers so strange, so foreign to his ears. You haven’t changed, have you?

Her hand slips from his; the soothing chill of her touch settles across his face as she cradles his chin in both palms. She draws closer, close enough that he can still hear her lowered voice—a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing a secret that no one else can know.

Remember what I told you? The hero doesn’t give up because he’s fighting for all of the things he loves. Sometimes that means making the hardest decisions. Sometimes we just can’t avoid holding onto regrets.

Her forehead brushes over his, her hair tickling the sides of his face. He keeps his eyes tightly shut, fighting the urge to try and catch even the slightest glimpse of her.

But when you finally reach the end of this story, you’ll be able to turn the pages back to the beginning. Instead of being trapped within the details scene-by-scene, you’ll behold this magnificent epic in its entirety. And in the light of the new dawn, that story that we’ve written…

Her voice is delicate as morning dew, and yet it carries with it an undertone of unmatched conviction. As if to let him know she believes in him more than anyone else in the world.

It’ll be the tale of the bravest hero of all. The hero who fought so, so hard for all of us against impossible odds; who held onto the entire world with all of his heart. Our Deliverer.

When the tears come, he’s caught off guard. She doesn’t like tears. He’s never seen her cry in all the time he’s known her, across all the cycles he’s killed her. Tears cloud beautiful moments with sorrow, so you should never let your tears take away from the precious memories you’re making. Carrying hope is better than sorrow, right? At least, that’s what she always told him.

She doesn’t chide him now, though. She just runs one thumb along his cheek, although his tears have already evaporated, and resumes her soothing melody. The other hand comes to rest around his shoulders, pulling him into a delicate embrace.

Tomorrow is coming.

“How do you know?”

You trust me, don’t you?

He nods, her hands cool against his face, the nape of his neck. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.

You’ve held out for so long. Just a little bit longer, okay? I know you can do it.

She holds him closer to her as more tears come, her chin resting upon his head, whispering a lullaby that dissipates into the west wind.

He knows she isn’t here. A figure sculpted from traces of her that shine in the sea of his memories, painted in starlight and breathed to life by the delusions of a sinner wracked by guilt and longing. She is the whisper through the wheat fields, the faint light of the waning moon, dawn mist and morning dew under sunlight. But how can a fleeting memory take on such tangible form? Her presence beside him is every bit the same as it was all those years ago. In those halcyon days, the boy and the girl would sprawl amidst the golden fields, basking in warmth, arms outstretched to soak up all the sun they could. She would hum a tune—sometimes the ones taught to her by the fairies, sometimes her own—until he drifted off to sleep. Her lilting tones, her featherlight touch, the gentle rhythm of her heart; all of these sensations exist in a long-past paradise engraved into his heart.

He knows she isn’t here, yet he feels her all the same.

“What are you reading?”

He pokes his head over her shoulder, settling a hand around the rope of the swing set. The young girl looks up at him. Her pink curls frame the beaming smile on her face. “It’s an old book that I read a long time ago, but I put it away and only just found it again.”

“What, another boring romance novel?” He ducks out of the way of her playful smack, retreating a safe distance to the bank of the pond.

“Hey! Can’t a girl enjoy her hobbies?” she pouts. Seeing as he’s out of reach, and not willing to relinquish her seat upon the swing, she opts to stick her tongue out at him instead. “But no, it isn’t. It’s more like…a hero’s journey.”

At this, he perks up. Something more suited to his tastes. “What’s it about?”

“Not telling!”

“Hey!”

She laughs at the wounded look on his face, her giggles rippling through the air.

“Alright, fine. Come and take a look.”

He joins her on the swing set. At their tender age, the two of them can still fit comfortably side-by-side, legs dangling just off the ground. She lifts the cover to show him. It’s decorated with a brave hero clad in white and gold, the dawning sun striking the edge of his outstretched blade. In the background, a towering horned giant raises its fists in challenge.

“It’s about a hero who has to travel far away from home, defeating the evil gods so that he can save the world.”

“Oh?” He glances curiously at her. “I thought you didn’t like those kinds of stories.”

She hums thoughtfully for a moment. “Not when I was younger. I didn’t like all the darkness and danger in the middle.”

She flips back to the page she was on. “The hero has been fighting for so long, but he keeps losing all his friends no matter what he does. It’s really sad, isn’t it? Back then, I didn’t want to read on, because it felt like there couldn’t be a happy ending after everything that happened.”

“Then why are you reading it?” he asks.

“I think I understand it better now that I’m older,” she says. “I think this kind of story can be romantic too, y’know?”

He frowns. “But you said it’s all dark and sad.”

“Yeah. But every darkness has to end eventually, right? And when the night ends, the sun rises again. The hero doesn’t give up because he’s fighting for all of the things he loves, and he knows that if he keeps going the darkness will end one day. That’s pretty romantic, right?”

She gives him her signature wink.

He still doesn’t quite understand her. What can a young boy living in a peaceful era know about a desperate struggle for survival? About pain, loss, grief?

But when she speaks like this, with the utmost certainty, he has faith that she knows what she’s talking about. That’s why he’s always trusted her to know what to do. That’s why, when it comes down to the end of the world, he will trust her again.

When he wakes up, she’s gone. All he sees—although he hadn’t consciously drawn it—is the ceremonial blade resting upon his chest; a crescent moon carved of ice eclipsing the flares of the blazing sun. He calls her name, just to be sure, although he already knows no answer will come. Her ghost is fleeting as ripples in water, a whisper of the past echoing into the future.

But when he holds the blade up to the sky, against the stars, a flash of pink gleams off the edge for just the briefest moment.

Her grave is near the dock, just by the seaside. Fitting for a girl who so often dreamt of sailing away, seeking out distant shores to make new and exciting memories. Not him; he had always been perfectly content to live out a peaceful life in his hometown. At most, he’d considered travelling away to hone his skills with the sword, in order to better protect his home. But she longed to see what was beyond the horizon, to witness the beauty of the world before returning to settle down. In a way, her wish had come true in that very first lifetime. Just not in the way that either of them had hoped.

He slows as he pushes through the tall grass, coming to a stop a few paces away from the small clearing. It should be alone at this time of night, but a young man sits beside it now. His head is bowed, shoulders rounded as he dozes against the small gravestone. A new bouquet of flowers rests atop the grave; a meticulously polished sword lies just by his side. The breeze tousles his messy fringe, sweeping it aside such that his contented expression shines clearly in the moonlight. A slight smile curves his lips at the edges—perhaps due to some pleasant dream. Phainon of Aedes Elysiae sleeps by the grave of his childhood friend.

He allows his gaze to linger on the mirror image of himself for a moment more, then turns to leave.

“Cyrene?”

He freezes, looking back to see Phainon blinking at him with bleary eyes.

“Oh, it’s you! Sorry.” The young man laughs sheepishly, picking up his things and getting to his feet. “I was just having a dream about my friend. I must have been more tired from training than I realised.”

Phainon may be pushing fifty, but the extended lifespans of the Chrysos Heirs have kept his features youthful. This cycle has done even more for him—his features lack those minute traces of grief that the Phainons of every other cycle have held constant. Instead, warmth permeates his every word, every expression. After all, his home is safe, and his life is mostly carefree. Mostly.

“What brings you here, Deliverer?” Phainon asks, following the black-cloaked figure’s sightline. “Did you want to visit her?”

“I’m…sorry.” His real voice is unused after months—years?—of silence; it comes out rough, strained, as if trying to speak through a throat full of ashes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Phainon says quickly. “If it wasn’t for you, everyone else would have been in danger too.”

He notices Phainon’s grip tighten around Dawnmaker, moonlight glinting off the polished edge. “If I had been a little stronger back then, maybe I—”

Phainon falters. He bows his head, staring at the grave.

“I’m going to become stronger,” he swears. “I’m going to protect everyone’s wishes, and keep everyone safe.”

The determination in his eyes is achingly familiar. Not once over twenty-six million cycles have his convictions wavered. Even in a life where peace has allowed him to grow without the heavy burden of loss, Phainon is still determined to raise his sword for the good of everybody.

“Tell me…about her,” the swordsmaster rasps, nodding his head towards the grave.

“Cyrene?” Phainon thinks for a moment, resting a hand on the grave. “She’s—she was always so full of love for everything around her. The whole world. She was always finding the beauty in things, and people, and writing them into beautiful stories to preserve them.”

The words begin to tumble out of Phainon, distant memories taking root and blossoming.

“She never cried. Her smile was so warm, it made you feel happier just looking at her. She knew exactly what to say or do in any situation. She was playful. She loved to tease me—even though she was only a little older than me, she would treat me like a little kid. I didn’t mind it much though. She was brave. Braver than me. She…she wanted to travel the world one day, to experience everything Amphoreus has to offer.”

Phainon hesitates for a moment, then adds, “I miss her.”

“Remember…that feeling.”

Phainon looks up, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“Remember her…. Let the memories drive you…into tomorrow. Don’t lose hope. Keep moving...forward.”

He isn’t sure what compelled him to speak, nor does he know if the words are for the self before him, or for himself. Nonetheless, they clearly resonate with Phainon.

“I will. One day, I’m going to find a way to save the world,” Phainon says. He hesitates for a moment. “Deliverer, Nameless Hero…will you join me?”

The man standing before him has so much hope for his future. He almost seems to glow in the dim light of night, his eyes bright and expectant. He hasn’t felt the weight of the world, but he’s already confident that he can take it.

Khaslana’s wish has never changed.

But that isn’t completely true. Even if he won’t allow himself to acknowledge it, another wish has always lingered deep within his heart. A wish that he hadn’t known he had, that he could never know without having everything brutally torn away from him.

In the beginning of this cycle, after he had saved Aedes Elysiae from the Black Tide, Hyacinthia appeared by him on his first visit to the wheat fields. She stood beside him as he took in the sights of the endless, golden waves of wheat. For an infinitesimal moment, longing had torn at his heart more sharply than the constant burn of wrath.

So this is your wish, Deliverer? she had asked. Hyacinthia had always been far too good at reading people’s emotions. It’s a good wish. Don’t cast it away.

He will not acknowledge that wish. He does not deserve to see it granted. Not yet.

But staring at himself, so young and innocent still, he feels the sudden desire to protect his sense of self. Just for a little longer.

“It can’t hurt… Just this once.”

“Why?”

Phainon’s eyes blaze with fury, staring down the swordsmaster he had thought was a saviour, a Deliverer. “Just tell me why. Why did you kill them?”

As they stand against each other, the whorl of the Vortex of Genesis in between them, he sees himself mirrored in that furious gaze. He hears the words he’s demanded of himself millions of times over.

He wishes he could feel something. This should break his heart—this look of betrayal, of desperation. He watches Phainon’s hopes crumble before his very eyes, as he crushes them to ashes in his fists.

“Answer me!” Phainon pleads. His knuckles are white in a deathly grip around Dawnmaker—the sword modeled in the image of his Deliverer’s own weapon—as his world shatters to pieces. “You were our hero. You saved me! Why would you—”

He watches Phainon struggle to find the words, to make sense of the situation.

He had kept that fragile peace for a few hundred years more, until they could hold back the Destruction no longer. He had helped Phainon escort the people of Aedes Elysiae from their hometown as the Black Tide surged through it, leading them through the broken wastes to the final bastion against the end of the world.

Now, the bodies of the remaining Chrysos Heirs lie in his wake, a brutal trail of Destruction carved through the holy city on his way here. He had left them behind as he stepped through the Century Gate to the Vortex, and yet every single one of them met him on the other side. And under the stars of that false sky, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Phainon, the chorus of the dead sings the refrain of this eternal tragedy.

Gods, he had tried. He had made the effort, at least, to explain himself. Perhaps some part of him still dared to hold out hope that this cycle would be different. But with the Black Tide pounding on Okhema’s door, and the end of the prophecy right in arm’s reach? He shouldn’t have been so naive. Once again, the cycle ends with blood on his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And he really, truly does mean it.

Phainon roars, his anguish as sharp as Dawnmaker as he charges at the person he hates the most in all the world.

Phainon’s eyes are hollow, crazed; the warrior fights with nothing left to lose. Dawnmaker crashes down like a thunderbolt, driven by pure loathing. But he isn’t just fighting Phainon. Every slash he parries lands with the weight of eleven ghosts behind it. The howls of everyone he’s killed and will kill again pound in his ears. Gold blazes across his vision. Blazing in his chest, the Coreflames have become unbearable—he can no longer suppress the inferno as it grows alongside the incendiary wrath of his ghosts. He throws himself forwards all the more desperately, swinging his blade wildly in wide, sweeping arcs that cut down his ghostly assailants, but no matter how hard he fights he finds no respite from the onslaught. He can no longer tell if the blows he suffers are real. He can’t bring himself to care. All he can feel is fire.

When Dawnmaker finally plunges into his chest, he lets out a shuddering sigh of relief. He drops to his knees as his ghosts roar with triumph. His blade falls to the ground; the shattered pieces of his visor lie somewhere on the ground behind him. Phainon meets his eyes for the first time, some terrible revelation slowly dawning on him.

“One person alone can witness the miracle.”

He grasps Dawnmaker by the blade, fingers sinking into the edge as he drives it deeper into his chest. With his other hand, he calls upon the sacrificial blade. Cold as ice, edge shining with ethereal light, it hums in his fist as he pushes the crescent moon towards Phainon.

“That person…can only be…you.”

A mix of conflicting emotions contort the warrior’s face. Phainon stares at the crescent in his hand, then his face, then Dawnmaker buried to the hilt in his chest, as if not quite able to comprehend everything in tandem. Slowly, his fingers close around the hilt of the sacrificial blade.

“You were my hero,” Phainon breathes. His voice trembles with anguish. “Was it all a lie? All this time?”

“I’m…sorry,” he rasps, one final time. He has nothing more to say.

When the crescent moon cuts into him, the inferno of twenty-three million cycles erupts from his crumbling shell. The world shatters, fractured eons collapsing into a sea of uncountable memories. Phainon screams as the deluge of millennia tears through him. Millions of lifetimes race to the beginning and back as causality rearranges itself within his head. Everything is burning, molten gold poured into him; his body is torn apart and reforged in the tempering flame of divinity.

It was him. It was always him. It will always be him. His ghosts scream in his ears, pound in his chest, fall and rise and fall again before his eyes. He’s never alone; he’ll never be alone again. Aglaea, Tribios, Castorice, Anaxagoras, Hyacinthia, Cifera, Helektra, Cerydra. Mydeimos. Their dying stares pierce through him, their hands wrap around his throat, their golden blood runs rivers that submerge him entirely. The weight of his unforgivable sins will always be upon his back, bearing down upon him as he invites the apocalypse. He’ll betray his friends a hundred million times more, and every memory will be carved into his heart. He will rage against fate and burn, and burn, and burn until salvation or Destruction, whichever comes first.

For the briefest moment, a ripple crosses the tumultuous sea, bringing a glimpse of pink and a hushed message.

May we meet tomorrow, in a world that has no need for a Deliverer.

“…See you tomorrow,” he whispers. A single tear rolls down his face, vaporising before it has time to fall.

Another self joins the unending procession. Another self is thrown upon the roaring pyre, to stave off the long night until dawn breaks.

Khaslana’s hollow body crumbles to ash.

And Khaslana raises his blade to begin the world again.