The final chain cracks and breaks. Darkness, it oozes, like blood from a wound, or rot that has festered for far too long. A final scream runs through the existence known to Atheians. It trembles within the darkness, through the shadows of the Veil, and in reply begins its movements again. It trembles, and it smolders. It yearns and it despises.
It drank the moment and, drunk on it, began to move. It stirred, and like a cup of wine, it runs over and spills against the lights that have kept it at bay for a thousand years, and many more.
The scream ends. The earth rumbles, it violently shakes... and a whisper is heard.
Release us.
- - -
The earth is sin.
The city stood proud beneath the light of the great blue-crystal that gave it day. Its tall towers pierced toward the ceiling, rising to almost touch what they knew as their heaven. Proud. A sign of a people who had come closest to an idea, an ideal, which some might call God.
That city, like any other city, had risen out of necessity. Out of a people's need to overcome all the obstacles placed before them.
Always, the Atheians would rise. Always, they would endure. That is why these towers stood so proudly. It was a sign of triumph, it was a sight of that idea which to them was God: "We will rise; we will endure; we shall touch the heavens."
Those were the words by which it was founded. If not in the moment, but as it grew, and as the towers climbed toward the ceiling.
By those words, a million people had lived and died in this city. Always rising, always struggling. Always defeating whatever life sets before them. In the end, that city itself was transformed. First into hope. Then into life... and now, at last, into death.
The city stood proud as the world gazed upon it; as the Veil had grown still to witness this moment, as the earth rumbled once more. It was before the world, but it was also the world itself. It was a collection of pride, a collection of living history. And made of dust, in the end.
A tower here and there collapsed as the earth opened and swallowed parts of the city. Surely, it was swallowed by pride itself. That sign of the idea which to them was God. A city that would no longer stand as a memory of survival. No longer would its towers pierce toward their faux skies. Like a wave, that city made of dust would recede before the world.
Silence.
An emptiness soon filled by the choirs of torment and horror. Soon, there would be no city. Not even a memory of it. And yet, still, it stood proudly before the world, awaiting the next moment. The next chaos.
- - -
A billion souls pressed and swarmed against each other. They crawled on top of one another. The moment was closer, and closer. Sins must be atoned for. Crimes must be punished. Freedom for the souls. Freedom to take revenge. Freedom.
And somewhere, within the darkness, a voice spoke to ears that could only listen: "... and you shall all bask in but a fraction of my divinity."
The Veil suddenly surged, making its way toward the east. Through the lights that had kept them at bay, swallowing their blue, extinguishing them, as if they were naught more than candles. A thick cloud of darkness; souls stuck in purgatory or their own memories, of not wanting to be forgotten, even when doing so was the only way to truly release them...
The Veil struck the city that had stood so proudly. It struck not only this city, but all of that which the Atheians had constructed beneath the lands that awaited their return.
The liquid darkness of millions of festering souls struck against the walls of the City of Last Light, and there was none to stop it; no lantern could hold it. Each light it touched, perished soon after, and the light that came from above, even it, was blocked out, and a strange darkness not known for the Atheians took hold of their world.
They looked above, and saw what they most feared. They ran about, hiding wherever they could. Screams and cries for those already lost to earth that had swallowed them. Some, those braver than the rest, went through the rubble, trying to save even one more Atheian. They chose to ignore the end that was there for them. They saw the Veil that gathered above them, but even then, they used their magics, and dug away the rubble, unearthing burrowed apartment complexes, the furniture within them, then soon after Atheians, some alive, but most dead...
The Veil cared not for their useless actions, and surged forth, enacting revenge onto those who would not accept their memory; who would run away from it; who would block it from their view... Like millions of hands, they reached toward the city, making their way toward people below, trying to touch them, to pull them into their nightmares; their mirror. To remove from existence, to offer a form of oblivion; one built from memories of torment, of history long forgotten, of...
A hum. A low hum swelled and doubled. Glyphs etched into the statues, the figures known as the Ancients, flared in blue, giving birth to a grand collection of lights, soon turning into billions of colors forced into one. The Ancients pushed their stone hands forth; they pushed out the light that ran through them; they pushed out the pure magic, and it scorched away the Veil, stopping its approach, not allowing its touch to grace the innocence it so wanted to defile...
So holy, so grand... so sinful. So evil... yet so beautiful.
None could look at it. None could witness its glory. None could stand still and accept it; all eyes averted. All eyes looked away; even those who had worked so hard to save even a few more lost to the earth that had swallowed them, Me'ur among them. The city came to a stop, and one could not tell if the Veil still existed past the lights. One could not know if there even was a world outside the city, or if all that ever was had become null.
This was the purest form of light, the purest magic there was; the greatest evil in existence, for it represented the erasure. It was the lack of something, yet it was everything. It was nothing. It was void. Oblivion... Perfection.
And from the light they could not bear, a collection of voices pronounced, one louder than the rest, the voice of a woman not forgotten to history; a woman remembered as a hero... The voice of the Atheian Empress, the first Ancient that had become one with the Walls...
"We must make our way back... Reclaim the lands above!" It was a chant, a choir that carried over and reached the ears of all. It traversed the lands, and it was not left unheard by the millions of souls not yet lost to the Veil.
It was the call for an exodus.
Salvation, at last. But only if they were to survive the journey.
For some, this moment was the loss of lives, the end of hope and dreams; it was defeat. And for some, like Mu'u Tou't, it was a grand victory. He had won. He had been correct—no, right since the very beginning... and he had mistaken that for grace.
- - -
Food. Water. Clothes. A lantern. These were all Y'Kraun had time to shove into a bag, his wife in the other room, comforting their children, helping them pack a few things before they would leave. Minds raced, skittering between imminent ruin and the hope for salvation. How could this be? How could something like this happen?
Y'Kraun couldn't stop. He couldn't stop moving; his mind lacked the ability to stop for a moment, to breathe and remember that he was alive...
But what if he weren't? What if something bad had happened? What if this building had been the one to be claimed by the abyss? What if... he lost everything? All in an instant. U'Ran'Ui, L'enu'n, L'ek'ral—he found himself looking at them for a moment. He felt tears emerge; the thought was too horrible. It was something no one should ever go through.
But some had. So many had been lost in the darkness. Who was to be blamed? What made all of this happen? Could it be? He shook his head, gritted his teeth, and picked up the bag. He crossed to his family and locked eyes with U'Ran'Ui for a moment. Her fear was as present as his, but she, too, hid it away, fostering an illusion of stability for the sake of her children. Perhaps a lie, but one parents must tell.
What parent would want their children to see just how much they were afraid of death? Or worse... the loss of a child.
"Let's go," Y'Kraun said, forcing a smile. He added, "Get ready for the adventure of a lifetime."
U'Ran'Ui mirrored that smile; it was almost convincing. And the smiles, as well as the brightness that reached L'enu'n's and L'ek'ral's eyes, were more real than the doom that might await them outside. Perhaps, deep down, they knew. And perhaps, for the sake of their parents, the children knew to fake it as well. Perhaps more convincingly than their parents' harmless lies.
Without a moment too many, they rushed out of the apartment; Y'Kraun held the door and watched the trio begin descending the stairs. From outside, they could hear the panic, screams, and much more. Some chants about the doom, the exodus, and whatever else. Y'Kraun blamed himself in that moment. He should've believed the prophets. He should've begun preparing for the inevitable.
He glanced at what he was about to leave behind: their apartment—no, their home. A place that held so many dear memories. First steps, first words of their children. The last time he saw Kanrel... so much.
Even then—even with all that he was about to leave behind, he closed the door, but made sure to lock it... Just what if they were to one day return home? A harmless thought paired with a harmless action, or was it more so a habit born from routine?
He walked down the stairway for the last time. The blue light from the crystal pulsed faintly; somewhere far away, the Ancients' hum throbbed through stone. On the bottom floor, his family awaited. They looked outside, the waves of people, flooding toward the west side of the city, the place where most of the gates were. Thousands upon thousands of people, shoving each other, fear and desperation in the air. It reeked of it.
They would have to step into that storm and go with its currents until they reached wherever they could. But there was still something he had to do.
"Wait here," Y'Kraun said, and pushed through the threshold. For now, he would not go with the flood; he went against it, to a door behind which was another thing he would have to leave behind. He opened the lock and stepped into their shop.
Almost pristine, untouched by hands, by the Veil, or even the earthquakes. There was only some extra dust that had scattered on the different surfaces of the shop. Just how lucky had they been? Was it even fair? Why were they allowed to survive when some were doomed?
With long strides, he went to Kanrel's room; he opened the door and found Gor sitting on his chair, pen against paper, words formed upon it. The once-professor was so focused. He looked terrible. Ink-stained fingers, shallow cheeks. Much skinnier than before, but at least he was alive. At least there remained a fire within his eyes.
"We need to leave, now," Y'Kraun said. He stood by the door, holding on to its handle; his breath was quick.
"Not now. Not now. I feel that I am so close to breaking the code," Gor muttered and kept writing. It was as if nothing had happened. The Atheian still lived within the memory of someone else.
"But you will be buried alive if you do. You heard the voice, right?" Y'Kraun said through his teeth.
"Yes, but…"
"Then pack your things. Now."
Finally, Gor stopped writing. His gaze met Y'Kraun's. Perhaps, he could finally see just how important it was. A sigh escaped his lips, and he got up from his chair. He walked to the shelves and looked at them for a moment before he started picking up books and stacking them onto the table.
"What are you doing?"
"Packing... Don't just look, help me, we need to take as many as we can; we must," Gor said, there was such... urgency in his voice, such that was akin to devotion.
"No, we can't. We haven't the time. Two at most."
Gor stopped and looked at him. "But—but, this is Kanrel. This is what might be left of him. These are his memories. Without them, he might as well be lost for good."
Y'Kraun gritted his teeth; he felt blood gush within him. He stepped closer, seized the stack, and hurled it to the floor. The books scattered between them; memoirs of a man now lost.
"These are not him. He is not within them. If he still is, he is far away from here. And if he is alive, then we will run into him, or his corpse," he almost hissed. "Either way, we must go east. We must go. Now."
Gor looked at the books on the floor. His hairless brows quivered, and tears had swelled. And he swallowed as if trying to hold them in. He looked like ruin, tense, almost shivering because of it. But then, he at last met Y'Kraun's gaze. Their eyes locked, and the tears that were within subsided. Gor stopped shivering; realization had set in. "East," he whispered.
He stepped over the books on the floor and grabbed two books from the table; one that still had wet ink on it. He wove a minor spell to set the ink; he closed the book and met Y'Kraun's stern gaze once more.
"I'm ready," he said. "Let's go find Kanrel," he added, and stepped past Y'Kraun, making his way outside, keeping his eyes from what they were leaving behind.
Y'Kraun couldn't help but shake his head. Kanrel didn't matter at this moment. Only survival did.
But even then, he quickly took the books from the floor and placed them back on the table. Closed the door behind him, leaving Kanrel's room. Perhaps it would still be here decades from now, and someone would find the books—and solace in them? If they managed to decipher the strange Darshi language.
Y'Kraun soon stepped out of the store and locked the door behind him.
No more detours.
And for a moment, Y'Kraun merged with the flood of Atheians escaping the city. He reached his family and Gor, who stood in the stairwell, waiting for him. He looked at them all. The kids were confused, but excited. His wife was worried and scared, but hid it well; she held L'ek'ral in her arms. Gor... he was not all there, his eyes scanned the pages of a book he had brought with him, but at least he was here.
Y'Kraun picked up L'enu'n, knowing that it was the only way to make sure that their children would be safe. That they would not get lost or trampled by the members of the Second Exodus. He felt his little girl's warm breath against his neck; for her and the rest, he must survive. They must survive.
Without a word, he took the initiative and stepped outside, U'Ran'Ui and Gor right behind him. It was time to leave the home they had known and shared for so long.
Farewell, O City of Last Light.