39. Echoes of the Forgotten
Echoes of the Forgotten
I woke to silence and empty chambers. The covers on the other side of the bed were disturbed, pulled back as if someone had quietly slipped out of them. I blinked in surprise, taking in the implication. He had slept here? Next to me?
Dawn was beginning to filter through the high windows, casting the room in a pale light that made the dark furnishings seem less imposing.
For a moment, I remained still, cataloging the sensations in my body. The burning in my lungs had subsided to a dull ache. My throat felt raw but functional. The fever that had consumed me for the last few days had broken, leaving me wrung out but clear-headed.
Moving to the edge of the bed, I tested my legs. They trembled but held my weight as I stood. A silk robe had been draped over a nearby chair—black, of course, embroidered with silver thread. I pulled it over his shirt.
I walked to the window, looking out over the bleak landscape of Draknavor. The blood-red sky was just beginning to lighten, revealing the twisted shapes of the forest and the dark shore beyond. It was beautiful in its way—stark and honest about its nature.
Where had he gone? Had there been a summons from the Eternal City again? Some divine crisis that required the Prince of Death's attention? Or had he simply grown tired of playing nursemaid?
When I tried the door, it was locked.
"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered, rattling the handle.
Kneeling, I extracted one of the long pins from my hair and bent it into the shape I needed. The lock gave way with a satisfying click, and I allowed myself a small smile of triumph. Take that, Death Prince.
The corridor outside was empty, silent save for the soft whisper of the draft that seemed to permeate the Bone Spire. I padded barefoot down the hall, following the route I'd memorized during my explorations. The fortress was always quiet at this hour.
A thin line of light beneath a door halfway down the eastern corridor drew me like a beacon. Xül's study door stood partially open, spilling warm amber light into the hallway.
He stood with his back to me, examining something held carefully between his long fingers.
It looked like a shard of crystal, similar to those we'd seen at the ruins.
The sight of it sparked memories of that day—the ancient battlefield, the remnants of a war between beings beyond comprehension.
Questions I'd been too cautious to ask then still burned in my mind.
His confession about the priests had emboldened me.
I stepped into the room, deliberately making enough noise to announce my presence, though I suspected he'd known I was there all along.
"You’re up early." I said, trying to keep my tone balanced.
Xül didn't turn, but I saw the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he drew breath. "Immortals don't require much sleep."
"Convenient excuse."
That earned me a glance over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "Feeling better, I see. Your temperament has certainly recovered. "
I moved further into the room, drawn to the crystal in his hand. "What is that?"
"Arcanite," he said, turning it so the light caught its facets.
I hesitated, weighing the risk of my next question. Days ago, he'd shared one dangerous truth with me. Today I would push for more.
"Those ruins we visited," I began, watching his face carefully. "How did it happen? Before Moros and Vivros were the last ones standing? You showed me their battlefield, but what preceded it?"
He finally turned, setting the crystal down on his desk. His expression shifted, a flicker of surprise—either at my question or my audacity in asking it.
"The Sundering," he said, testing the words. "That's a dangerous topic, starling."
"Seems like a natural progression to me." I shrugged, leaning against the side of his desk.
He smirked, but it seemed more curious than mocking. "I suppose that's true."
His eyes stayed on me a beat longer before he sighed and moved to a chest tucked against the far wall, unlocking it with a key he withdrew from inside his coat. From within, he retrieved a round case that was cracked and stained.
"The Primordials numbered thirteen originally," he continued, carefully extracting a scroll made of yellowed parchment. "They existed in a state of perfect equilibrium. Until they didn't, of course."
He unrolled the scroll on his desk, revealing diagrams and script in a language I'd never seen. At the center was an illustration of thirteen interconnected symbols arranged in a perfect circle.
"The Sundering wasn't a single battle," Xül continued, his voice lowering. "It was a slow death. A centuries-long decay."
"Sounds riveting."
"For some." He tilted his head. Observing me. "For others, something to be forgotten."
"Well, I'm intrigued now. Continue, please. "
"How polite you're being this morning," he teased, hand tracing delicate lines over the parchment.
"You haven't pissed me off yet." I smiled sweetly.
“It’s important to understand the dynamics of the Primordials to grasp how everything ultimately occurred.”
“I’m listening.” I said, biting my lip.
“While most Primordials existed in communion, Moros and Vivros had long ago separated themselves from the collective. Moros lurked in shadows. Vivros..." He paused. "Well, none of the texts pinpoint any specific location for Vivros. He simply couldn't be found. So most stopped looking."
“Why did they separate themselves?”
“Vivros was never particularly interested in ruling, or being a part of something bigger than himself. He preferred isolation,” Xül leaned against the desk. “At least, that is what I’ve gathered.”
“And Moros?”
Xül simply shook his head and drew a deep breath.
"Moros was the weakest of the Primordials," he said, indicating a symbol that appeared darker than those surrounding it.
A circle with a crack splitting it. "He isolated himself not because he preferred it, but because the darkest deeds are most efficiently enacted from the shadows.
He had a thirst for power. For strength. A hunger that was never satisfied."
A chill traced its way down my spine.
"Do you know what Moros consumed most voraciously, starling?" He asked, eyes flickering up to meet mine.
I shook my head, unable to look away from his penetrating gaze.
"Memories," he said. "The very essence of experience, of identity. Of self."
"Memories?" I repeated, trying to force my mind to understand. "He... fed on them?"
"Like you might consume bread or wine," Xül confirmed. "But for Moros, it wasn't sustenance—it was power. The more he consumed, the more he became. "
He gestured to different areas of the scroll, where the symbols seemed arranged in a hierarchy.
"Over centuries, Moros fed on the memories of the other Primordials.
So subtle at first that they didn't notice what was happening.
A missing moment here, a blurred recollection there.
By the time they realized, it was too late—their minds were already half-devoured, their powers diminished by forgetting what they once were. "
"He wanted to be the only one," I breathed. "To consume everything until nothing remained to challenge him."
"Yes. And in their weakened state, the Primordials turned to their descendants for help. But they had miscalculated."
The scroll showed smaller symbols clustered around the original thirteen.
"The Twelve saw opportunity where their creators saw salvation. And they struck—not against Moros, but against the rest of them."
I stared at him, my mouth dry. "You mean…the Twelve killed them?" The words felt impossible, yet they left my lips all the same.
"The war was devastating beyond comprehension," Xül said, his voice quiet but clear. "Even now, millennia later, the consequences of that betrayal ripple through the cosmos."
"Gods." It was all I could say.
"When most had fallen," he continued, rolling the scroll closed with careful hands, "only the two outliers remained. Moros and Vivros."
"Outliers," I repeated, catching the word.
"Brothers, if some legends are to be believed," Xül said. “Born from the same cosmic event.”
"So when the Twelve moved against the Primordials?—”
"Vivros wasn't present. Moros didn't care.
Perhaps he'd even been counting on it." His smile was cold.
"Vivros was unaware of the slaughter until it was over.
It was only after the cosmic balance cracked that Moros turned his hunger toward his brother.
The last source of primordial power left to consume. "
"And Vivros emerged from his isolation to face him," I said, understanding dawning.
"Not by choice. Moros forced the confrontation. He was now stronger than he’d ever been before."
“But Vivros killed Moros, in the end.”
“Yes. He was the last living Primordial until the Twelve decided it was time to finish what they started. So they descended upon him when he was still weak.” Xül paused, tilting his head as his gaze dragged across the room.
“They had to act fast, I suppose. It was once believed that all descendants, even working together, could never defeat him. So the Twelve couldn’t exactly miss the opportunity for an upper hand. ”
His phrasing caught my attention. "All descendants?" I asked. "You mean the Aesymar?"
Xül's eyes flickered with surprise, whether at my perception or his own slip, I couldn't tell. He moved to a drawer in his desk, withdrawing a different scroll, this one bound with four distinct colors of thread: gold, silver, black, and a strange greenish-blue.
"The Aesymar as you know them now," he said, his voice dropping even lower, "were not the only divine beings to rise against the Primordials in the Sundering."
He unrolled the scroll, revealing a map unlike any I had seen before—not of land or sea, but of realms, connected by pathways that formed a complex network. Four distinct worlds, each rendered in one of the thread colors, arranged in a perfect quatrefoil pattern.