Epilogue
From the Private Annals of Councilor Lamari Dross
Cycle of Dark, First Procession of the Sokar
The Resh’Agar returned through the Veinroads, but not alone.
All of Krystopolis gathered as the crystalline gates opened, and he emerged into the Cycle of Dark. His Reckoning was not as grand as prior years. Whispers told of misfortune that had befallen his mighty Kelvasari prior to his return.
His runes blazed cold as the shields, each step ringing like judgment.
And at his side walked a woman—the Sokar.
Who else could it be? None would dare stand so close to His Quintessence. And the way he let her hand rest on his, as though leading her, protecting her. The Arm of the Void would never bestow such an honor upon anyone save for his counterpart.
Her garb was not what we expected of Doctrine’s promise.
No robes of sanctity, no gown woven by the Lustrate.
She wore only a traveler’s leathers, a plain tunic, boots dusted from the road, the cut of her trousers more suited to a soldier than a sovereign.
Yet her hair—Void bear witness—her hair spilled silver down her back, catching what little light pierced the dark.
Even in the shadow of the Cycle, it shone like starlight unbroken.
The city faltered. Some fell to their knees at once, pressing their brows to stone in worship. Others stood frozen, signing doubts with trembling hands.
Is this truly she? So shapeless? So strange?
The Resh’Agar gave no answer. He only held her hand—her small hand resting over his vast palm—guiding her forward as though she were both a child and a goddess. His eyes did not waver, and hers met every gaze upon her, steady and unyielding.
Through the Commons they walked, through the Selen, through the Rising. No horn was sounded. No hymn was sung. Only the sound of their steps, and the susurrus of thousands of voices trying to decide whether this was salvation or blasphemy.
At last, they ascended to the Jade Lattice, where the Sovereign Flame himself descended from his throne to meet them. His ethereal white robes shimmered with the light of the Shields. He spread his arms in greeting, his voice rising in welcome.
The Resh’Agar inclined his head—as he always has.
The girl did not.
Not a bow. Not even a nod. She stood before the Emperor with her chin high, her hair blazing in the dark, her eyes fixed not with piety, but with something closer to defiance.
I set these words to page, though I scarcely believe them. If this is the Sokar, she is not what Doctrine prepared us for. And if she is not the Sokar…then what manner of being has the Resh’Agar brought to our city?
— Lamari Dross