350 years ago
UNKOWN
Before time had shape, and before death had rules, they gathered.
Not in any realm—they didn't exist yet—but in a veil of consciousness so vast it hummed with unborn stars.
The void pulsed with the rhythm of eternity.
And a single god stood at the center.
Tiamat.
Wreathed in divine flame. Eyes burning like the first sunrise.
The mother of all that was untamed—oceans, storms, dragons, and queens.
Across from her, lounging in twin thrones of broken light and bent shadows, sat the Entities.
They had no names.
Only functions.
One leaned forward, resting its head in a palm, smiling wide.
"Wait —be quiet, I love this part," it said, voice like silk over a blade.
The other one tilted its head, barely blinking, and whispered—
"Poor lamb."
A vision bloomed between them—an illusion cast in cruel clarity.
Below…
The fire burned in the king's hands.
It flickered golden and divine, the sacred flame of Tiamat's temple, passed down to Pendragon heirs since the dawn of the dynasty.
And now…
He would use it for her.
The crown princess
He remembered when Artizea was just fourteen—eyes bright, robe heavy, trembling as she stepped into the temple and lit this very fire to declare herself Crown Princess before gods and mortals alike.
He had never felt so proud.
So certain that she would outlive them all. That she would sit on the throne long after he had returned to ash.
Now that same flame would take her from him.
Forever.
He lifted the bow—her bow. The one she had used on the day she was crowned.
His fingers trembled as he drew back the string. A single tear escaped and ran silently down his cheek.
Then—he let go.
The arrow soared.
It struck the sacred pyre with precision only grief could deliver.
The wood ignited instantly.
Flames burst high, wild and weeping, devouring the funeral shroud, curling around her body with reverence.
Her people sang.
A hymn of farewell—ancient and aching. Their voices lifted, rising like doves into the heavens, a plea to the gods: Take her gently.
The royal family bowed their heads.
But among them…
A small boy peeked out from behind Gilgamesh's leg.
Calisto.
His small fingers gripped the folds of his grandfather's robe, his golden-red eyes wide and searching.
"Where is Papa?"
But Rhysand was nowhere to be found.
Beside him, Seraphina stood silent, her hand trembling in Calisto's, squeezing tightly. Too tightly. Her lips pressed together, but her eyes—those eyes—betrayed the cracks forming.
It was Elaine who knelt, gathering both children into her arms, whispering words neither could understand.
Only feel.
Words soft like feathers and soaked in sorrow.
Above them, unseen—
Tiamat watched. Her fists clenched.
The Entities smiled, watching the child's confusion, the mother's ashes, the father's absence.
"Do you see?" one cooed. "No matter the universe, no matter the path… they always break."
"They were never meant to carry your legacy," the other added.
But Tiamat's fire flared.
Enough.
She stepped forward.
'They will."
The Entities paused.
"Are you sure u wish to continue this?"
"If you fail," one warned, voice hushed now, "you will drag them through every cycle. Their names will vanish with yours. They will forget who they are… and still suffer for it."
Tiamat lifted her chin, unmoved.
"I'm sure."
Below…
Arthur stood beside his father, watching the flames rise, and finally muttered,
"Rhysand isn't coming, is he?"
Gilgamesh did not answer immediately. He only stared into the fire, his jaw clenched. Then, finally, in a voice raw and hoarse, he said,
"I wouldn't."
The flames rose higher. consuming the last of the girl who had once lit them herself.