Ashes and Silence
The war had ended. Not with cheers. Not with glory. But with a silence so profound, it seemed the cosmos itself bowed in mourning.
Matt stood amidst the shattered remains of the Godkiller Field. Nimistran's ashes drifted like celestial snow, glowing faintly before vanishing into the void. The sky—once torn and ablaze—had dulled to a mournful gray. The stars blinked cautiously back into place, as though unsure whether it was safe to shine again.
His wings—one of flame, one of shadow—slowly unraveled into drifting embers. Ashlight Ascendant. Voidflame Unchained. That form had nearly devoured him, stripping him to the soul and reforging him into something neither mortal nor divine. The memory of that final strike—blazing through Nimistran's divine field—flickered behind Matt's heavy eyelids like a scar that burned from the inside.
He dropped to one knee, the broken earth beneath him still pulsing with the echoes of power. A gust of wind swept across the battlefield, carrying with it the stench of scorched earth, shattered dreams, and celestial death.
"It's done..." he whispered, hoarse—perhaps to the dead, perhaps to himself.
Mailane reached him first. Her armor was battered, scorched black at the seams, and her Shadowsidian blade hung in two fractured halves. She collapsed beside him, arms trembling not from fear but exhaustion. Her eyes—red-rimmed and tired—never wavered. She wrapped her arms around his trembling form, not with celebration, but with silent, shared grief. In that embrace, there were no titles. No gods. Just survivors.
Grey approached, limping heavily, blood soaking the edges of his tunic. Sam supported him, a spectral sling of soulfire cradling Grey's broken arm. The young scholar's face was pale, his eyes distant, haunted by the magic he had burned to save what remained. Ash clung to his robe like snow—a silent judgment from the gods who no longer reigned.
"Did we win?" Grey rasped, offering a ghost of his usual grin.
"No," Matt replied, voice hollow. "We just survived."
They all looked up. Above them, the sky was beginning to shift—rays of fractured light piercing through the cloud cover. Somewhere in the far reaches of the dead sky, thunder rolled not with anger, but with mourning. The battlefield, once a canvas of divine destruction, was slowly fading into silence. Into memory.
---
The Palace That Waits
Far above the shattered world, the floating continent of Elyzeir hovered in spectral stillness. The Moniyan Palace, carved from living crystal and divine flame, stood untouched—immaculate. And yet, it trembled with fear. Its towers, once bathed in celestial pride, now cast long shadows across the sky.
The Eternal Thrones sat vacant.
Nimistran was gone. His divine essence—his very name—had vanished from the world's memory like a breath in winter. The remaining Four felt it instantly. Their sigils cracked. Their immortal bindings dimmed. A silence filled the palace—thick and suffocating, heavier than war.
In a chamber lit by golden flame, Arshimest stood before a mirror that shimmered with fate rather than reflection. The glass showed not his face, but visions of unraveling timelines—fractures in the flow of destiny.
"He has ascended," Arshimest said softly. "No longer beneath us. No longer one of us."
Monshin clenched a gauntleted fist. Sparks of black lightning flared between his knuckles, the air around him crackling with divine tension.
"Then he is a threat. A disruption."
"He always was," Thermuz growled, stepping from a veil of molten obsidian. "But now he's more than that. Now he's a symbol. A crack in the divine hierarchy."
Analice stalked the chamber's edge, her form cloaked in writhing shadows. Her voice cracked—not from anger, but from something closer to dread.
"A god born from men. With fire and shadow in his blood. He defies every law."
Her claws scraped across the marble floor, leaving deep scars that glowed faintly, as though the palace itself bled.
"Then we erase him," Arshimest declared. "We erase all of them. The world has worshipped too long. Now, they must forget."
Monshin turned toward the towering stained-glass windows. Outside, the sky over Elyzeir had begun to ripple like water disturbed by thunder.
"Then let the Reclamation begin."
And the divine winds began to shift.
---
Echoes in the Ruins
Across the realms, survivors began to stir.
Cities once enslaved under divine law blinked awake into uncertain freedom. The Nitine, the Myumin, even the remnants of the Nayron Kings' armies—all rose from ruin. Some with hope. Others with hate. Most with silence. In the broken city of Daisul, children played in the rubble, unaware of the weight that had been lifted from the sky. In ruined citadels, rebel banners fluttered in smoky winds. In the deep forests of Karthwyn, old spirits stirred—watching.
Matt stood on a craggy cliffside, overlooking the buried ruins of Nyuga—his homeland, his beginning. The land where his family died, where his soul was forged in flame and blood. The remnants of the Nitine citadel stood like broken teeth, a graveyard of legends.
In his palm, Amiya's pendant glowed gently, defiantly alive. Each flicker a memory, a promise, a question.
Mailane stood beside him. Her fingers brushed his back, steady and warm. She didn't speak immediately. The silence between them was a language all its own.
"Do you think they'll forgive us?" she asked quietly.
Matt didn't answer right away. Smoke curled from broken cities on the horizon. No gods ruled above them now. Only sky. Only wind. Only the weight of memory.
"They don't need to," he said. "They just need to remember how to live."
In his hand, Amiya's pendant pulsed once—warm, steady. As if agreeing.
Behind them, Grey and Sam approached. The four of them stood together—scarred, grieving, changed. No longer rebels. No longer pawns.
Just people.
But people who had burned down the sky—so others could look up without fear.
Matt closed his eyes.
He didn't pray. Not anymore. There were no gods left to hear him.
Only memories, heavy as ash. Only silence, thick as grief.
But somewhere in that silence, in the space between heartbeats,
he made a vow—not to rebuild the world…
…but to protect it from becoming divine again.
Far to the east, beneath a cathedral drowned in ash, a monk awoke screaming. The stars above him blinked—and vanished. One by one. As if memory itself had begun to rot.