Epilogue
Thousands of miles northwest of Ollora, in the valley of a mountain range long forgotten and left wild, Celesta approaches a sapling.
As her bare feet tread across the grass, moonflowers and ivy blossom unfurl in her wake.
Spreading outward, they coat the ground, choking and smothering the grass beneath.
The sapling’s tiny leaves shimmer gold in the sunlight, swaying gently in the breeze. With a slender hand, she caresses a branch with an encouraging touch. Her touch causes the leaves to wilt, becoming a cluster of crimson blossoms.
Cerulean eyes marvel at the tree before her, a smile curling her lips. It will continue to grow and thrive under her care. Dragging a nail across her collarbone, gleaming silver blood pours into her cupped hand.
Reaching, she pours it over the soil at the base of the tree as she falls to her knees, reciting a prayer in a language she hasn’t been able to use for centuries. The blossoms begin to glow with a pulsing red light, and petals stretch farther open, yawning themselves awake.
Change is coming.
Change long past due.
These gods have grown lazy, expectant, and forgetful. They behave like children, destroying what was left in their care. She’s watched for hundreds of years how they serve themselves, complicit in Netharis’ attempt to grant himself the power of the elders.
All because they fear the void.
Netharis is the first of the gods to fall. Others will follow. And in due time, the old gods will awake, and the realms will feel their wrath.