Aspect of Entropy, Exalor's Perspective
The wind clawed at the wooden slats of the shack, whistling through cracks like the breath of a dying god. Salt and cold filled the air, sharp as ash on the tongue. Behind me, the ocean stretched into forever—a frigid expanse where light went to drown. The edge of the continent. The end of all roads.
And still, I breathe.
This place could barely be called shelter. Damp. Uneven. The floor sagged in the middle. One gust too strong and the roof would fold like a prayer unanswered.
But it was quiet.
And I needed quiet.
I must recoup my strength.
The divine weight on my body—on my essence—was no longer mine alone. It had become something… perverted. Every resurrection, every slaying by those so-called heroes, tangled my entropy with Aurumor's radiant violence. Creation and decay fused unnaturally in me. A rotting star.
They called me the cause of the rot. The blight. The curse of the world.
They kneel before my siblings, and send their champions to murder me for their sins.
Cowards. They fear my touch.
Thamrion clipped my wings and they fled to the skies, abandoning the land they vowed to nurture.
And still, I remain.
I don't want to.
I am tired.
So tired.
Each breath feels like a lie I no longer have the strength to defend.
But I've seen the cracks.
The veil of reality—thin, unstable, fraying at the seams.
Their "blessings" ripple through time, through space, through mass, without consequence.
But consequence has not disappeared. It has merely been delayed.
And I—I am the price.
If I disappear now, they will unravel this world like a child pulling threads from a tapestry. And this fragile realm will collapse, not from war or sin or darkness—
—but from their delusion.
So I remain.
A promise. That merchant—the snake with a smile. He deals in threads but never tells where they lead.
"Summon your own hero," he said.
"Let the world taste a different kind of truth."
But I am no god of space. Aetherion never answered me.
I could not pull a warrior from across worlds.
I could not summon him whole.
The Aspect of Space wouldn't help. The Aspect of Mind did.
Somnira had to pull his mind to our world.
Only his mind arrived—his soul, peeled from its world like bark from a dying tree.
For the first time, I am not alone.
I owe Somnira much.
I stare at the floor. The wood breathes.
Wherever you are… whoever you are… I'm sorry… But you are my last hope.
Then—footsteps.
Dozens.
A caravan.
Heavy boots over frost-slicked stone. Leather, steel, polished faith.
I reach outward with what's left of my awareness—like fingers dipped in warm oil.
Two… marked with Aurumor. Paladins.
Three… Aeona's scent. The time god's fingerprints are light, but I feel them.
The high priests? Bishops?
I say nothing.
Just… wait.
A knock.
Gentle. Polite. Almost reverent.
I murmur, voice hollow with strain, "Sister. Open it, please."
Somnira moves without speaking. She always did understand silence best.
The door creaks open.
Then—a scream.
A woman's voice. Not Somnira's.
Panic?
Recognition?
Somnira stands, stunned, frozen at the threshold. Her brow furrowed, confusion in her gaze. Not fear. Just… uncertainty.
She does not know this woman.
But this woman knows her.
I push myself upright, ribs aching. The pain is old, dull, companionable. My legs tremble beneath my weight. The doorframe greets my hand like an old enemy.
Time to greet my children.
I step into the light.
The cold is immediate. Biting.
But they bow.
Two soldiers in polished armor—gold-threaded and gleaming with borrowed divinity—drop to their knees like they're before a shrine.
The bishops follow, cloaks brushing corrupted soil. Their faces tilt in reverence.
I see it now.
They sense Aurumor on me.
Not me. Him.
It sickens me.
But I smile anyway.
I don't want to fight.
I lift my hand in mock benediction. "My children," I say, "you have come far."
And then—light.
The man moves first.
Gold armor flaring, holy light bursting from his blade like the wrath of the sun.
A slash arcs toward me.
I twist. The movement costs me breath. The light misses, just barely—
—and nearly strikes Somnira behind me.
"Fall back!" he shouts, dragging the woman beside him. "Retreat! Now!"
The soldiers flinch. Confused. Orders fly down the line.
Of course. The scent was wrong. The presence was wrong.
The divinity on my body is not mine. It reeks of contradiction.
I watch them scatter.
And I whisper—to no one. To the sea. To the stars.
"Oh, wretched ephemeral race…
Children of chance and misery…
Why must violence be your only answer?"
I close my eyes.
"I merely wish to be understood."
The wind howls around the shack.
The wood groans behind me.
And my voice turns to steel.
"Then let me show you the unholy amalgamation of my brother's power."