Galak stepped over the rocky ground and found himself face-to-face with the dying body of a vetrak.
The massive beast of stone lay collapsed on its side, the protrusions on its chest—resembling ribs—shattered and cracked. The monstrous creature had a vaguely skeletal form, with abnormally long limbs sprouting from granite shoulders. Its eyes, glowing a vivid red, seemed as if they had been born from a fire burning deep within stone.
But that fire was fading.
Even after all these centuries, seeing a vetrak up close made Galak shudder. The creature's hands were the size of a man—he had once been killed by hands like those, and it had not been pleasant.
Then again, death rarely was.
He skirted around the beast and continued cautiously through the battlefield. The plain was littered with jagged stones and twisted boulders, where natural pillars rose like forgotten sentinels and corpses blanketed the ground. Few plants grew here.
The rocks bore countless scars. Some were splintered, blown apart in places where the Flow Manipulators had clashed. Less frequently, Galak passed gaping holes—marks left where the vetraks had torn themselves from the earth to join the fray.
Many of the fallen were human. Many were not. Their blood mingled on the soil—red, orange, violet. Though none of the bodies moved, a faint mist of sound still lingered in the air. Groans of pain. Cries of mourning. They didn't sound like the voices of victory.
Smoke curled from scattered patches of vegetation or from smoldering heaps of bodies. Even some of the rocks still steamed. The Pulverizers had done their work well.
But I survived, Galak thought, clutching his chest as he hurried toward the rendezvous point. I actually survived this time.
And that was dangerous.
When he died, he was always sent back—no choice in the matter. When he survived a Calamity, he was supposed to return as well. Return to the place he feared. That place of pain and fire. But what if he simply... chose not to go?
Dangerous thoughts. Perhaps even traitorous ones. He quickened his pace.
The rendezvous lay in the shadow of a towering rock formation, a spire that pierced the sky. As always, the Ten had chosen it before the battle began. Survivors were to gather there. Yet strangely, only one figure waited for him: Jasriel.
Had the other eight fallen? It was possible. The battle had been brutal this time—one of the worst. The enemy was growing more relentless with each Desolation.
But no... Galak furrowed his brow as he approached the base of the spire. Seven magnificent swords stood planted in the stony ground, their graceful forms inscribed with glyphs and flowing patterns. He recognized every one. If their owners had perished, the swords would have vanished.
Their power surpassed even the Soul Blades. These were unique. Sacred.
Jasriel stood before them, facing east.
"Jasriel?" Galak called.
The man in white and blue turned to him. Even after all these centuries, Jasriel still looked young—barely past thirty. His short black beard was neatly trimmed, though his regal robes were scorched and stained with blood. Folding his arms behind his back, he turned to face Galak.
"What happened, Jasriel?" Galak asked. "Where are the others?"
"They've gone," Jasriel replied, his voice calm, deep, and dignified. Though he hadn't worn a crown in centuries, he still carried himself like a king—and always seemed to know the path forward. "Call it a miracle. Only one of us died this time."
"Vanitas," Galak said softly.
His sword was the only one missing.
"Yes. He fell defending the pass near the northern canal."
Galak nodded. Taln had always had a tendency to choose hopeless battles—and more often than not, to win them. Though usually at the cost of his life. Now he was back in that place they all dreaded. The place between Calamities. The place of nightmares.
Galak realized he was trembling. When had he grown so weak?
"Jasriel... I can't go back this time," he whispered, stepping forward and clutching the other man's arm. "I can't."
The confession nearly broke him. How long had it been? Centuries? Millennia of torment? It was hard to say. The fire, the hooks tearing into his flesh day after day. Stripping the skin from his arms, searing the fat until they reached the bone. He could still smell it. Almighty, he could smell it!
"Leave your sword," Jasriel said.
"What?"
He nodded toward the circle of weapons.
"I was chosen to wait for you. We weren't certain you'd survive. We... made a decision. It's time for the Sacropact to end."
A spike of dread pierced Galak's heart.
"What will come of this?"
"Ishtar believes that if even one of us remains bound to the Sacropact, it may be enough. There's a chance we can end the cycle of Calamities."
Galak met the immortal king's gaze. Black smoke rose from a small shrub nearby. Behind them, the groans of the dying echoed faintly. In Jasriel's eyes, Galak saw sorrow. Weariness. Perhaps even fear.
There stood a man on the edge of a precipice, clinging to a thread.
Almighty, Galak thought. You're broken too, aren't you?
They all were.
Galak turned and walked to the cliffside overlooking the battlefield below.
The ground was thick with corpses, among which moved the living. Men in crude cloaks wielding spears tipped with bronze. Others, beside them, wore shining armor. A group of four men, clad in rough leather and animal hides, approached a tall figure in gleaming silver armor—an intricate masterwork, out of place in this brutal landscape.
Jasriel came to stand beside him.
"They see us as gods," Galak said. "They trust us, Jasriel. We are all they have."
"They have the Lightners," Jasriel replied. "That will be enough."
Galak shook his head.
"He won't stop. The enemy. He'll find a way around this. You know he will."
"Perhaps."
The King of Heralds offered no further answer.
"And Vanitas?" Galak asked.
Burning flesh. Fire. Pain after pain after pain…
"Better one man suffer than ten," Jasriel murmured.
He sounded cold. Like a shadow cast by heat and light over something once noble, now a pale imitation.
Jasriel stepped back into the circle of swords. His own weapon appeared in his hand, shimmering with condensation as it formed from the mist.
"It's done, Galak. We walk away, and we do not seek each other again. Our swords will remain here. The Sacropact ends now."
Lifting his blade, he drove it into the stone beside the others. He looked at it for a long moment, then bowed his head and turned away, as if ashamed.
"We chose this burden willingly. We may choose to abandon it as well."
"What will we tell the people, Jasriel?" Galak asked. "What will they say of this day?"
"It's simple," Jasriel said. "We'll tell them they finally won. It's an easy lie. And who knows? Perhaps it will even become true."
Galak watched as Jasriel walked away through the scorched landscape. At last, he summoned his own sword and planted it in the rock beside the other eight.
Then he turned and walked in the opposite direction.
But he couldn't help but glance back—at the one empty space in the circle. The spot where the tenth sword should have stood.
The one they had lost.
The one they had abandoned.
Forgive us, Galak thought. Then he walked away.