Epilogue
CASIMIR
Some Time After….
Ahorridly loud crack sounds in the distance.
It comes from the glorified graveyard towering in the clouds.
A place mankind remains adamant labeling as a temple merely because it houses the gods.
Yet what gives a god its grandeur? Their right to be worshipped as revered deities?
Immortality? Power? If so, would Casimir not be a god amongst them?
He does not wish to be anything of the sort.
If the gods are the truth of this world, he would prefer to continue with his endless existence swaddled in a lie.
Because the gods he has faced—has battled and bled for—are not worth the reverence humanity places upon them.
Are not worth their weight in prayers, shrines, and golden offerings.
He knows humanity would be inclined to agree if they ever saw the truth of the bloodlust in their glittering eyes and heard the selfishness in their pretty words.
Power sharper than any mortal could ever comprehend surges, sharpening the air with an intensity so palpable, it pricks even his skin. Casimir knows the gold has officially fractured and split open. He feels more than hears the tiny voice inside him, warning him as a result.
They are free, my Fallen One.
He knows the words belong to the Mother Goddess. Centuries later, and she still has not fully turned her back on him. Though, she has done nothing to cure him from his sickly disease of immortality, either.
Casimir rests his eyes while sitting atop the bench in his too quiet courtyard. He allows the words which have haunted him for centuries to play through his mind.
But a promise, I can give: another shall come.
One who is defined by a name both two and one, born from the ashes of what the raven desired most, yet never found.
And when they awaken—chosen by the Cycle to harbor the greatest power of all—the ashes of one great war will stir, giving way to another, and the Chosen will decide the fate of kingdoms, just as the raven himself had.
It has all finally come to pass.
Lyra Izacalli will decide the fate of kingdoms now.
A flicker of sorrow pierces him as he also remembers the warning the prophecy gave.
He tried to protect her from it. Tried to forge his interests and desires into a single sharpened blade capable of slicing through each syllable of the prophecy’s final cautionary words.
He crafted a plan which would not only save his people and allow him to die—it was also supposed to save her.
Though coldened and cruel he may be now, his final scraps of empathy, pity—whatever to call it—were reserved solely for not wanting her to feel a shred of the pain and heartbreak that led him down his path of spiraling descent.
Should the Chosen fall as the raven fell…
He tried to prevent it. He really did. Yet look where his efforts led him. They brought him straight to the ruination of everything he deigned to finally care for. An obliteration of the final pieces of his withered heart. Pieces he gave to his people, who deserved so, so much better.
He wanted to save them. He wanted to save her.
He failed.
He always seems to fail when trying for good.
Which leaves Casimir no longer knowing his role in all this.
He wandered lost for centuries before he reclaimed the bloodlines of the original Abdites as his family.
Previously attempted hundreds of ways to end his cursed life in his misery.
Now that his only purpose has been stripped from him, what now?
For what purpose does he harbor such power? What worth is his immortality?
Perhaps he should still move forward with his plan. To wipe clean the stain of nobility and erase the Cycle of magic. To reset the balancing scales.
Yet…
Is there even a point any longer? Is such a wretched system even worth resetting without having something—someone—to correct it for?
He shuts his eyes again, scrubbing at his face. “I know you would have an answer, my darling,” he whispers. “If only you would come back to me. If only I could find you.”
There is one thing Casimir can be certain of. The gods have awakened—have gone free—and the only currency they know is blood.
A shadow appears over his eyes, the two wielders he sensed long ago now standing over him. Casimir sighs, reorienting himself to sit upright, draping his arm over his thigh and leaning forward to gaze at the strangers with his deadened eyes.
A man stands before him, his long brown hair half-drawn and unruly. He wears an eyepatch, a gnarly gash trailing down from it to mar the base of his cheek. His jaw is coated in stubble, shoulders covered by a black-as-tar cloak.
Casimir blinks, realization dawning on him. “You look different.”
The person next to the man drops their hood, revealing a woman with curling, copper hair.
Casimir only spares her a glance, resting his cheek upon his closed fist. “Remind me your name again.”
The rough man folds his arms, revealing scarred hands and a cobalt ring. “My name is Gray Nightenjoy. And I have need of you.”