---
Kaelith stumbled into the heart of the Dreamspire—its throne room untouched by battle, its walls lined with mirrors that did not reflect reality but memory.
Each pane showed him a path he had not walked. A life he did not live.
One where he forgave Aelric.
One where he stayed beside Lyra beneath the nightflowers.
One where he burned the throne instead of claiming it.
He dragged himself to the throne of mirrors, carved from obsidian and memory. As he sank into it, the jagged seat tore into his flesh, drawing thin lines of blood across already ruined skin.
"This is what I was meant to be," Kaelith whispered, barely audible. "Not a monster. Not a martyr. Just… inevitable."
The doors creaked open.
Lyra stepped forward, weaponless, voice trembling but true. She sang—an old lullaby, from the forests of their youth. The same melody that once made Kaelith weep under the stars. The room softened.
His fingers twitched.
His eyes closed.
Then opened.
He stood and, with perfect cruelty, drove his blade between her ribs. Not deep. Not fatal.
Just enough.
"You should have sung a dirge," he said.
She caught herself against him, her blood staining the gold thread of his robe.
"I still loved the man you were," she murmured, and collapsed.
Kaelith turned his face away.
Selene came next, radiant with divine flame from her pact with the forgotten gods. The chamber howled with power as her essence burned through illusion after illusion.
For a single, shattering instant, Kaelith stood exposed.
Young. Frightened. Human.
He stared at his own trembling hands. Looked at Selene with wide, hollow eyes.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Then the moment died.
Selene crumpled to her knees, soul spent, weeping. "Now they'll see you," she said. "As you are."
Aelric entered without fanfare.
No words.
No illusions.
Just the wind-scarred paladin and the seer who had once been his friend.
Steel met steel in that sanctified ruin. Kaelith fought with vicious grace, but his foresight was gone. He was mortal now. And Aelric had nothing left to lose.
Blades flashed.
Pain bloomed.
And at last, Aelric's sword plunged through Kaelith's heart.
The golden oracle choked, then smiled.
"I saw this too," he said softly. "I came anyway."
He collapsed, exhaling as if letting go of the stars.
His body did not bleed—it shimmered, dissolved, became light and dust. The Lunavynx gave one final cry and vanished, its starlit eyes dimming.
All that remained was Kaelith's rapier, the Eclipsed Thorn, embedded in the stone floor before the shattered throne.
The war was over.
---
The Six scattered to the winds.
Thorin returned to rebuild the Blackflame Forge.
Vaelorith disappeared into the scroll-vaults of the dead.
Korrak led his clan to forgotten honor.
Selene prayed less, dreamed more.
Lyra sang again—songs that bled.
And Aelric walked alone, sword at his side, crownless by choice.
Sometimes, beneath twin moons, illusions shimmered over still lakes or between trees. Not weapons.
Whispers.
Echoes.
Kaelith was gone.
But some stories outlive the seer.
---
In the ruins of a forgotten temple, moonlight bathed an ancient pool. A child knelt there, golden eyes wide with wonder.
He smiled.
And beside him, sleek and silent, the Lunavynx purred.
The boy touched the water. Visions bloomed.
And in the shadows of eternity, Kaelith's legacy stirred once more.
Still the storm.
Still the seer.
Still watching.
---
THE END.