The world was remade in stillness.
For the first time since the dawn of his curse, Sid heard nothing — no screams, no hymns, no thunder of collapsing heavens. Only the soft breathing of creation trying to remember itself. The fractured sky mended in slow motion, its cracks glowing faintly like molten glass cooling in the night.
He stood on the edge of the new Seal — the ring of memory he had woven from light and shadow. It drifted above a void that was no longer empty but alive, breathing in rhythm with his pulse. Every ripple of that light whispered names: Nox, Alfred, Yara, Eryon, and countless others who had burned, fallen, or chosen differently.
They weren't gone.
They were part of the memory.
Sid closed his eyes. For the first time, his heart didn't ache from the weight of loss — it ached from holding so much life.
Then the wind changed.
It came from nowhere and everywhere — a cold whisper that carried with it the faint scent of ash and old dreams. A voice rose from the horizon, calm, timeless, and familiar.
"You stand where gods were born and broken, Sid."
Eryon emerged from the dawn, not as the blazing god who once ruled over light, but as a man draped in tattered robes of starlight. His eyes were tired, but they held a serenity Sid had never seen in any divine being.
"Is this what you meant?" Sid asked softly. "The moment where even gods must decide what to be?"
Eryon smiled faintly. "No, child. This is the moment where you must decide whether the story ends or begins again."
Sid turned toward the Seal, its rhythm pulsing through his bones. "I don't want to be a god."
"I know," Eryon said. "That is what makes you different. But the world cannot remain empty. Someone must bear the balance — not to rule, but to remember."
Sid looked down at his hands — his veins were laced with black fire and golden threads, both fading and renewing in cycles. He was neither god nor mortal, neither daemon nor man.
"Then what am I?"
Eryon's voice softened. "A bridge."
The word lingered.
Sid knelt at the Seal's edge, tracing its patterns with his fingers. The light responded to his touch — flickering images of Nox laughing, Yara praying, Alfred fighting beside him. Every soul that had walked beside him lived here, woven into the weave of what he had chosen to keep.
He could feel the universe listening.
Waiting.
If he willed it, he could take the reins — ascend beyond mortality, remake the laws of Dominion, and hold existence still in perfect balance. No chaos. No pain.
But then there would be no choice.
No free will. No imperfection.
No life.
And if he let it all go, if he stepped away — the Seal might hold for a time, but Velgrin's corruption would return. The Eighth Flame would burn again, and there would be no one left strong enough to stop it.
His hands trembled. He remembered Nox's dying words:
"The difference between control and understanding… is compassion."
Sid looked up. "If I take this burden, I stop the pain. But if I hold it too tightly, I become the next Ravh'Zereth."
Eryon nodded. "And if you refuse it, the world will burn again. That is the truth of creation — it always hungers to begin anew, even through ruin."
"So there's no right answer?"
"There never was. Only meaning."
Sid stood.
The Seal pulsed once more — brighter than ever before.
He walked into the circle. Each step left ripples of light, echoes of his heartbeat spreading across the weave. He could feel everything — the hum of stars, the sorrow of rivers, the laughter of children not yet born. He could hear the world asking what it should become.
He spoke not as a god, not as a ruler, but as a man who had seen every end and still chose to care.
"Then let it choose itself."
He knelt, placing both palms flat against the Seal. The Dominion's symbols flared, not in command, but in permission. The power flowed through him, no longer bound, no longer caged — it was memory, compassion, and freedom combined.
The Seal responded, splitting into eight rays of light, each flying outward to different horizons — into oceans, mountains, void, and dream. They embedded themselves in the heart of the world, becoming seeds of remembrance.
The Last Seal was no longer a prison.
It was a covenant.
A pact that every soul would carry a fragment of balance — that no god, no daemon, no mortal could ever again claim all of it.
The age of absolute power was over.
When Sid opened his eyes, the dawn was real.
The wind was warm.
The horizon shimmered with the first sunrise of a world reborn.
Eryon watched him, pride and sorrow mingling in his expression. "You've done what even the gods could not."
Sid gave a faint smile. "I didn't destroy them. I just gave them a choice."
"Exactly."
Eryon turned toward the light. "Then my work ends here."
Sid looked at him, alarmed. "Wait—"
But Eryon was already fading, his body dissolving into threads of gold. "Do not grieve. Every god must one day become a prayer."
And then he was gone.
Sid stood alone, surrounded by silence and light.
He looked toward the horizon — where the Eight Seals pulsed faintly like stars across the world. Somewhere beyond them, Velgrin still lived, his essence scattered but watching. The war was not entirely over. But the rules had changed.
The gods would rise again, someday.
The daemons too.
But this time, they would not be bound by one man's will — nor by fear.
They would remember.
Sid took a deep breath, the last of the Dominion fading from his skin. For the first time in his existence, he felt human.
"This is what freedom feels like," he whispered.
And as he began to walk toward the light, the world exhaled — the beginning of a new era born not from conquest, but from choice.