As the first break rolled in, the audience started to talk.

Up in the boxes, pleasant perfumes were sprayed and elegant fans were waved to keep the stuffy air at bay. Many a noble snuck a glance toward the stiff silhouette of the personage of the evening. Fingers drummed with expectations on armrests.

Time passed, and nothing.

Not an invitation, not a courtesy visit. The Guildmaster stood still like a statue, not even bothering to send his valets to oblige to the duty of politeness. There was much scoffing. So rude! Who this newcomer believed himself to be, snubbing the cream of Blackstone like that?

Ladies averted their attention with disdain, lords solemnly scoffed or stroke their whiskers with sardonic smirks. It seemed that the general consensus had been accurate. The man was an antisocial fop.

Unheeding of the nobility’s gossipping, the people underneath laughed, cheered and talked. The work of Zan always managed to stir the citizens’ hearts, pulling at their national pride. After all, even if it was the Flamelings to pull down the demon-speakers, it was them that came out from the Catastrophe on top, them that rebuilt the world while the Kingdom struggled with the Scars, them that repelled the Winter and re-established civilization. And finally, it was them that welcomed the good people escaping from the East, with all their traditions and memory. The Flamelings may have been the hammer that squashed the corruption, but they were the true heirs of the passage, keeping true to the ancient doctrines while the Flamelings had abandoned them all in favor of their Radiant God. If there was a place where that which had been betrayed by the Old Kingdom had gone, it was Avurran; if there were heirs to the true greatness of old, it was the Avurrani.

People celebrated that fact with cheers and laughter or by calling at the vendors making their rounds between the audience, buying roasted corns or smoking sausages. A group even started to sing a raucous version of one of Blackstone’s traditional songs.

The ruckus only lessened when the curtain rose, announcing the end of the break. Above, nobles invited for small discussions to that or this box hurried back to their seats.

After the dazzling but darkening chambers of Truvian power, the stage now showed a simple city scene: a square circled by the shops and stores of honest people doing honest work. A cobbler could be seen through a tiny window as he worked on the sole of a shoe. The crooked figure of a Bonespeaker crouched in a corner, intent on reading the bones scattered around his feet. A couple of children played in the street. A storekeeper haggled with two costumers. A group of miners returned from work, their clothes dusty and stained. Guards walked by, a noble lord leading them. A woman carried a bucket of water, a babe‘s wide eyes peeking from the bundle of cloth at her back.

The opposition with the power-crazed ambiance of earlier was immediate. There was no unholy magic here, no overreaching for things that men should not touch. It was how life should have been: humble, hard-working and healthy.

A cheering rose from the audience. They recognized their own world and celebrated it.

The sound only picked up as four new figures marched on stage. Whooping cries and applause surged from the crowd, followed by the nobles. Some of the martial lords even stood up from their seats. Soon, the entire Theatre shook at the ovation with which the audience welcomed the heroes of the play.

The four came walking from four different directions. Initially, they looked wary, but as soon as they saw each other their steps became firm and quick. They met at the center of the square, each feverishly watching the others like he was trying to read a secret on their features.

A most differently-looking group couldn’t have existed.

The first member was a man, tall and with massive shoulders. He wore a leather jerkin and pants stitched in many points. A leather cap covered his disheveled mane of black hair. The weathered axe he carried at his belt identified him as a lumberjack. His mask showed a big beard, and a curious expression: the eyes were wide and the mouth slumped down slightly, like whoever wore that expression was perpetually surprised.

The second was a noblewoman, small and well-formed. Her gown was beautiful, stiff blue brocade embroidered with delicate patterns. A dazzling necklace ornated the soft curve of her neck; the earrings at her ears glittered like drops of gold. She frantically waved at herself with an elegant fan. Her mask, small and elegant, showed an attentive expression, even if somewhat smug.

The third was a woman as well. Tall and thin, she held herself with an excellent poise that spoke of long training. A white tabard embroidered with a rampant dragon covered her doublet, reaching to soft buckskin boots. Her gloved hand rested easily on the pommel of the rapier she wore at her belt. Beneath a tricorn hat, her mask frowned with concentration

The last was an old man, with a noble and kind bearing. He had to lean against a staff to stand but that didn’t take anything from his aspect as a gentle grandfather. His robe was white as snow but still fell short of the brilliant color of the luscious beard that covered his chest. His mask smiled gently, the eyes narrowed with kindness.

As the applause of the people subsided, the four warily glanced at each other. Slowly, each reached for the others, until their hands were joined at the center of their small circle.

There wasn’t need for words to feel the commonality of intent that passed through, to recognize how those four were people that have been long searching for each other and that now they reached to form a fellowship, their bond made unbreakable by having been sent on a mission by the same higher power.

Still holding each other’s hands, the four turned to the audience; and then, as the orchestra filled the air with a triumphant note, as one they spoke.

“A God will rise!”

“A God will rise!”

The cry was picked up by all in the Theatre. Commoners and nobles, they all shouted those words in triumph. They stomped their feet, laughed and cheered and waved their hands until the Castle was trembling under that chorus of enthusiasm.

The only one not joining in, Gorren watched the stage with feverish intensity, drinking each feature replicated by those masks, each detail of the costumes.

He knew those people. He knew them.

“You were there,” he murmured. That fateful day, when he had lost everything; when the destroyers had come and made ashes of his life. Those four, they were there.

Almost clinging to his seat, Gorren kept on watching. He couldn’t have stopped even if he wanted to.

The four newcomers were quickly presented. The savage-looking man’s name was Huniu. He was a lumberjack hailing from a hamlet far away in the forests. The noblewoman was called Veleia, and belonged to one of the richest and most powerful families of the kingdom. The thin woman replied to the name of Ursula. She was an armiger and duellist employed by nobles. The old man was Grigori. He was a priest that had left the religious life behind to become a hermit.

Four different people, with different lives, coming from different places. They all shared a mission, given to them by a God that nobody knew. They were to save the world from the darkness that tried to envelop it and bring this new God to the people, so that the tragedy that was about to unfold would never happen again. Unlikely heroes, forming a mismatched group brought together by an inscrutable will.

Still, they accepted the task, willing to do everything they could to defeat the evil that had overtaken the Kingdom and save as many people as possible. Ruin couldn’t be avoided, the culprits had brought their machinations to such a point that nothing short of divine retribution would wash clean what they had wrought. But life could still be saved if people with righteous hearts were willing to fight for it.

These four heroes rose to the challenge.

That was the first time that the name of the Flaming Light touched the ears of the masses. Many, corrupted by decadence, refused to listen. But the Four never gave up. Differently from those that had come before them, they knew that the King’s heart could not be swayed, nor the final tragedy be averted. Instead of embarking in a foolish venture, they spoke to the people directly, talking of the danger of power unchecked and the need for the Kingdom to return on his steps before it was too late.

The play presented the four as men and women of great heroism and still deep humanity. They cried, struggled and argued, laughed, celebrated and came together. And they tried and tried, again and again, no matter what obstacle came in their way or what failure threw them down. They pursued their god-given mission with relentless faith and courage, without ever giving up. Each brought their own special expertise to the endeavor, nurtured into them by their different background, each showing himself fundamental to the success of their mission.

The Flaming Light had chosen well.

Eventually, a great following was formed behind them. Even the priests of the other Gods, concerned with the fate of the Realm, stood behind the four. It wasn’t enough, it wouldn’t ever be enough, but it didn’t matter: the seeds of the future were being planted and nurtured.

As their success grew, the King and the Sorcerer realized the danger they posed, and unleashed their forces upon them.

The play twirled and turned between the four Heroes dodging and escaping from Jenar’s retribution while at the same time facing and destroying the monstrosities of the Sorcerer. Dialogues had them try in vain to reason with the fallen King or frustrating the attempts of the Sorcerer to silence them.

And as this continued, time inexorably drained away.

As the Truviani’s blasphemies grew, so it did the Gods’ rage. In the end, it became an unstoppable avalanche. Grimok’s words rang true: the skies turned red as the might of Aria was mustered to strike. Storm clouds filled the horizon, forming into furious faces looking down on the sins of man. Winds carrying the voices of angry spirits buffeted the land.

The people were scared and confused, but the time wallowing in vice had taken away from them any ability to fight back. They cowered in their opulent houses, covering their eyes to not see the incoming storm.

Only Jenar remained unafraid.

Standing on the top of his castle, the Great King challenged the storm. Lightning crashed down on him, just to dissipate harmlessly against his enchanted armor. Many thought of him as a God already, and that was taken as another confirmation of the justice of his cause.

Under their sovereign’s gaze, the armies of Truvia mustered, immense hordes of mechanical monstrosities, fanatical soldiers and mutated beasts, ready to repel and destroy any who dared to attack the palace, no matter who he was, no matter if mortal or divine.

“Oh Golden King!” Arcont, standing at his side, said with devotion. “You truly are the pinnacle of humankind. A God arisen to his station not by being born into it, but by conquest! Land and sky bow to you. You are the Heavenly Conqueror!”

“Heavenly Conqueror! Heavenly Conqueror! Heavenly Conqueror!”

Jenar smirked as his hordes’ praise wished over him. In his heart, he truly believed to have become a divinity.

On Aria, the Gods watched the mustering. Whatever mercy they were willing to grant was long gone. Now, the Golden Mountain was wrapped into a deadly silence, the Gods’ dark thoughts enveloping it in a heavy pall.

A last, desperate attempt to stave off disaster was made. Aiudara, beloved of the King and First Queen, felt in her heart the full magnitude of the calamity that was about to come. Stricken, the Queen pleaded with Jenar to check his ambition before it was too late.

Doubt touched the King, and, for a moment, Fate hang in the balance.

But Jenar was a slave to his pride. Instead of seeing it as the act of desperate love that it was, he considered the Queen’s plead as a betrayal. He had her taken away from his presence, and executed.

The Queen’s last cry was the last drop.

Ur lifted his laws, and the Gods were free to enact their vengeance. They smote the land, breaking the fabric of reality. Countless Scars appeared, flooding the Kingdom with devastating energies. Rivers were poisoned and ran out of their beds in raging floods. Mountains heaved and crumbled. Cities burned into blazes of fire. Truvia reeled like a wounded beast, thousands upon thousands died.

And with his Kingdom burning around him, Jenar stood on his throne. In his pride, the King refused to accept defeat. He thought that as long as his palace stood, he could still emerge the winner. His armies clustered around his seat, waiting for the assault even as their King turned a deaf ear to the desperate pleads coming from all the corners of his Kingdom.

But Jenar thought as a mortal general, thought of the Gods’ vengeance as an assault upon a well-defended fortress. He was mistaken.

The Gods’ spirits loomed over his capital. As their will fell upon it, mechanical monsters slumped in the dirt, unholy life fleeing from their frames. Mutants’ twisted bodies revolted against their owners. Wracked by pain, monsters fought in the streets, destroying each other as they seek to escape the agony.

Truvia itself writhed in torment.

And that was when the Sorcerer made his move.

The monster struck Jenar down in his own throne room and took control of all soldiers that remained. Then, he started to weave his foul magic in a ritual of incredible power. He intended, using the energies he had amassed along the centuries, to fell one of the Gods and siphon his divine spark for himself. His spells kept him hidden and protected even from the rampaging Gods, and so nothing could interfere.

But, as Jenar had been before him, he too was mistaken.

Ur knew; the Flaming Light knew as well. But they couldn’t act. The Sorcerer’s barriers protected him from divine intervention. But not from mortals.

Calling to the Four, the Light tasked them with storming the palace and put an end to the twisted ambition of the warlock.

The palace was still surrounded by brigades of monsters and soldiers but the Heroes didn’t hesitate. With the people of the city behind them, they blazed a path through any opposition.

In his arrogance, the Sorcerer hadn’t thought possible for simple mortals to face him. When he realized the danger, it was too late.

The great doors slammed open, the Four Heroes storming inside.

The throneroom of Truvia, once dazzling, was a shadow of its former self. Opulent curtains and carpets had been torn to shreds. Bloodstains marred the veined marble. The throne had been toppled and thrown against a wall. Arcont’s mangled form laid in a corner, blood pooling beneath. Evil energies poisoned the air like heady smoke.

Jenar’s golden frame slumped against a wall, a hand still pressed against the chest wound that had taken his life.

And, at the center of that scene of devastation, the Sorcerer, a towering thing of darkness and unholy power.

The monster turned eyes blazing with fury and malice upon the Four.

“You!” He rumbled, his voice blasting the room like a thunderclap. “How dare you to interrupt. How dare you stand in my way when my triumph is at hand!”

The Four stood undaunted.

Grigori came forward, the old man‘s kindly mien unfazed. “No triumph will come to you in this hour, demon. We will defeat you and free this world from your wickedness.”

The Sorcerer laughed, the distorted sound reverberating innaturally.

“Flies buzzing at the wolf. Come, let us see how your bravado keeps up when i hold your heart in the palm of my hand.”

Grigori fell to his knees with a cry. The old man clutched at his chest as the Sorcerer’s power tried to overcome his divine protection and crush his heart.

Crying defiance, the Heroes attacked, but the monster scattered them. Engorged with innatural power, on the verge of ascending to divinity, the Sorcerer seemed invincible.

But then, the unexpected happened.

The monster cried out in pain, a golden blade sticking out of his side.

His beautiful armor rent and broken, blood streaming down from his wound, Jenar stood behind the monster, a golden colossus of furious pride.

“Deceiver!” He shouted. “With what nerve you tricked me, the King?”

He pulled out his sword and reared back to strike again but before he could, the Sorcerer whirled around, slamming a fist against his chest. The King was thrown against a wall and crashed to the floor, falling motionless.

But the damage was done.

Black blood streamed down from the terrible wound on the monster’s side.

Overcoming their shock, the heroes advanced to take their chance. But the Sorcerer wasn’t finished yet. For all his bluster he was a coward at heart and seeing that defeat could very well catch him, he resorted to trickery.

Children huddled in a corner of the room: princes and princesses of the royal household that had stood at their father‘s side when the end had come.

Flying like a ghost, the Sorcerer hid behind the group, putting the frightened children between himself and the heroes.

“Wretches!” The monster barked. “Intruders! Are you ready to keep vexing me even at the cost of your whelps?”

The heroes bristled at that cowardice but none of them dared to make a move, lest they endangered the children. Nor they could linger for long as every moment that he bought the Sorcerer used to further weave his magic.

It was the brave Huniu that broke the impasse. Having snuck closer, the lumberjack took a moment during which the Sorcerer was distracted to assail him. Unconcerned for his own life, the brave man smashed his axe against the monster’s back. He was felled a moment after by a terrible blow but it was too late. The Heroes sprang into action, forcing the Sorcerer to step away from the children.

The monster fought like a demon clinging to life but the three were too powerful for him to face alone now. He was forced down and bound.

Once the battle was over, Veleia ran to the fallen King.

“My King!”

Still holding his sword stained with black blood, the King held her back with a hand.

“Keep your pity,” he ordered, his authority intact despite his weakness. “Our eyes have been opened at last. We see now that we have been tricked and deceived. All that we believed was nothing but the nightmare of a fool.” He fell silent for a moment, panting deeply. Veleia kneeled at his side. “But, alas, too late, far too late. The blood of our Kingdom pours from our hands. We, the King, we, the destroyer.” He grabbed the woman’s wrist, pinning her with an intent gaze. “We go now to face our punishment. We do so out of our will, as we deserve whatever the Gods have prepared for us. But before that, heed our last order: don’t let this happen again. Don’t let another disaster befall this poor land. Heed our last words or be cursed as we are now.”

After a last, long glance, the King let her go and rested against the wall, closing his eyes.

“Farewell, my Kingdom. Farewell, my Crown,” he said, and drew his last breath.

The last High King was dead and the Kingdom had died with him.

“Rest, great king,” Veleia said, bowing her head. “May you find your redemption on the other side.”

Leaving the children to cluster around their father’s fallen form, the woman strode away. She joined Ursula at Huniu’s side. The thin woman shook her head sadly. The brave lumberjack wouldn’t return.

Veleia’s expression turned stricken at the loss. The noblewoman covered her face with a hand, a tear shimmering in her eye. It was thanks to Huniu that they had won. Such a shame that he wouldn’t have been able to join them at the end of the journey.

Her sorrow turned to righteous anger. She turned and marched forward, any shred of mercy slipping away from her aristocratic features.

The Sorcerer struggled like a wild animal against his bonds but he couldn’t break them. He snapped at Grigori like an angry dog, the old man keeping him back with his staff.

As Veleia came closer, his gaze of fire snapped toward her.

“You think you have won?” He barked, inhuman malice and loathing intermingling. “You think you have accomplished anything? Death means nothing for me! I will return! I will always return!”

Unimpressed, the woman looked down on him with disgust.

“We know, and we are prepared for that. We won’t kill you, monster. We will seal you in a place from which none of your wicked power will help to come back from. In there you will wallow until the Gods decide that your time has come. Then your prison will become an anvil upon which their vengeance will fall. When that hour strikes, nothing will remain of you. You will never haunt this world again.”

The Sorcerer, that had been listening with growing dismay, now erupted into mad laughter.

“The height of foolishness!” He said. “Don’t you see? I will always be with you. In one form, in another form, i will always return!”

Veleia cut the air with a gesture of prideful disdain. “And then we will stand vigil, so that when you return, we will recognize you and throw you away again, until the end of time.”

The Sorcerer snarled like a beast, but it was all for nothing. Bound, his evil power nullified, he was escorted out, disappearing forever from the story.

“The world will remember his passage,” Grigori said once the monster was gone. “The Disaster strikes even as we speak. Nothing will ever be the same.”

“That is so,” Veleia agreed. “But even the grievous wounds heal in time. Even if this world is gone, hope didn‘t die with it. Together, we will build a new one, one where men and not monsters hold sway; where honest work and humbleness rule and not vice and unbridled ambition. Together, we will build a world of peace, a world where the light of the Gods shine bright, a world in which men do not live by power and for power, but for the good of the many. Today twilight falls upon this land but know that tomorrow the dawn will return, and the sun will shine upon the new, brave world that we will make.”

As she said this, the characters raised their gazes, like they were already seeing that fateful dawn rising on the horizon. The orchestra played an accord full of hope and, on that promise for a brighter tomorrow, the curtains fell.

The audience exploded. Hats were flung. Feet were stomped. Cheers filled the air. Flowers were thrown from the balconies and the audience, raining on stage.

The cheering only redoubled when the curtain opened once again, revealing all the actors of the play arrayed in rows. The four Heroes, their now uncovered faces flushed, stod at the front. Smiling, holding each other hands, they bowed, basking in the crowd’s appreciation. All the actors did the same as flowers rained upon them.

People stood up from their seats, clapping with wild enthusiasm.

The play had been a wild success, and how it could have been different? The citizens of Blackstone had stood witness to their own cultural heritage, to the beginning of the world they worked and lived in, to the celebrations of all the ideals they lived for. Enthusiasm was absolute.

The cheering kept going for minutes, the audience going wild. It escalated to such a point that some people down in the seating even smashed their seatings in fits of enthusiasm.

Only one person didn’t share in the general joy.

Gorren climbed at his set like it was the only thing keeping him afloat. He wanted to scream, to say that it wasn’t true, that it was all a travesty, that they were all being deceived and he wasn’t that… that leech skulking in the shadows. Only by a supreme effort, he managed to keep words from pouring out, his wide-eyed gaze pinned on the actors.

And then, something happened.

He heard a distant sound, like the tinkling of a great bell hidden underground. Every sound turned muffled, every movement of the wild crowd become slower. As if trapped underwater, colorful flowers traced a sluggish path through the air. Nobles were caught in the act of slowly crying their cheers.

And then, as Gorren watched with a feverish intensity, the four actors playing the Heroes looked up to him. No flushed cheeks; no gazes filled with the joy of success. What looked up to him, unerringly piercing through the gale of flowers and the distance, had sallow faces, their skin chalk-like. Dead, fish-like eyes stared up to him in dread silence. Gorren felt the rot of ages waft across his nose, a clammy touch upon his forehead.

And the aura of his enemy. Nothing but an echo of what he had felt at the church, but with the same immense loathing, the same dreadful intensity, the same divine hatred.

Gorren reeled in disgust as that horrible presence brushed against him. But then, he remembered who he was, and he steeled himself.

Slowly, he got up.

“I see you,” he murmured, watching straight into those four pairs of dead eyes. “Whatever you are, i see you. And i know. You can have deceived them all, but not me. I know the truth, and i will make you pay.”

A sound, something twisted and distant, echoed in his mind, unintelligible but charged with mocking scorn.

Then, the moment passed.

Sounds reasserted themselves, everything retook its normal speed. The four actors were once again normal people, basking in the adoration of the crowd and without an inkling of knowing he was even there.

Gorren stood there, jaw and fists clenched firmly.

An influence? An echo?

It didn’t matter. It was gone. As in the church, it couldn’t reach from behind the veil to truly touch the world.

He slumped down on his seat, everything giving way to sheer shock.

He remained there as the cheering thundered around him, unheeding of everything. Even as the curtain fell, and the crowd started to stream out, he didn’t move.

In the end, he was still there when the Theatre remained empty, a storm of emotions raging inside.