Chapter XVII – Dark Conscience

On a desolate cobbled road flanked by vast wheat fields, Dorian stood over Evander’s dead body. He clutched a leather-bound book, freshly taken from his hands. Before he spoke, he accidentally stepped his leather shoe into the blood and it disgusted him. He wiped it off the grass next to Evander’s eyes―still wide open.

“The final piece,” Dorian murmured, eyes glowing like a snake in the night, with a fervor that Petra knew all too well. He turned to her, his gaze electric with anticipation. “So far, the prophecy has not failed us.” Petra always affirmed. Dorian being the oldest one after all. Her ivory hair mirrored her Dorian’s. “It’s all about belief,” he said. “You become what you think.” He paused. “I am not just the messiah . . I am the inevitability that this world has been hurtling towards since its creation. I have summoned it, and so it shall―” His poetic speech interrupted by seeing some idiots in the distance;

“We can’t just leave grandfather here. He’s our blood, after all,” the smaller one, Sarath, shouted.

“What am I supposed to do? The package isn’t in the suit pocket!” Ludwidge yelled.

Depressed, Sarath said: “That was my good suit. Good thing we caught that moron with it, even if it’s ruined now.”

“It’s purple, brother.” “So?” “Nothing, fits your character perfectly,” Ludwidge gave a sarcastic, satisfied grin. Sarath slapped him. The larger one drew himself up to his full height, his face a storm of rage and long-suppressed resentment. His voice growled across the field, echoing with years of pent-up fury. “No more! The days of your tyranny are over! I am not your puppet, not your shadow, not your lesser anymore. For too long, I’ve been the foundation you’ve built your empire upon. But foundations can crumble, and when they do, everything above comes crashing down. Your reign ends here!” Rather than acknowledging this, suddenly, Sarath reached into his own pocket, his face a mask of confusion and then ― horror. The figure in the purple suit convulsed and exploded in a burst of energy. The distant castle erupted. Through the chaos, Cyres emerged, screaming, his hand ripped off.

In the distance, the castle erupted in an explosion, its once-proud towers dissolved into a whirlwind of fire and debris. Through the inferno stumbled Ceres. His severed hand left a trail of crimson trailing his blonde ponytail, but his face split in a manic grin. Blood-flecked laughter bubbled from his lips as he staggered forward.

Watching this play out, Karrigan wandered through footpaths, reaching a clearing. But, his eyes rather followed his small creature ‘little mouse’. It scurried through the fields, checking out any strange sound, but always returning to lay next to Karrigan’s boot. He sighed heavily, pulling out a package wrapped in a golden haze. He hesitated. Why throw it away? . . . Then ― hurled it far into the field as it flew over the blue horizons, on which sleep was slowly falling too. And as it descended, Nasle appeared, snatching the package mid-air and vanishing into the wheat field, carrying the final fate of this cursed world with it.