“Countless tales detail the end of Atlantis. None ever spoke of the end of Alti. The beasts, in the end, seem to be right. In our modern age, Alti might still exist.”

~ Bek Trent, M.A.S.O

A peaceful hush had descended over the world, comfortable, lazy, and gentle. Sunlight shimmered from the dark walls of the Grand Castle of Altiannia, cascading with the glittering falls from the towers above and casting shadows against the plants that scaled the stone tenaciously. Cevora stood at the center of it all, dressed for the winter chill, surrounded by the skeletal trees of the castle gardens. In the summer, they would be vibrant with life. Now, they were vibrant with winter, their boughs weighed down with frost flowers and ice.

A weary smile graced her lips. Only the lines around her eyes betrayed the sorrows she carried from Alti’s end. It had been hard for her to break the news to those from Libertia that none of them would ever see Bek or Silver again. There was a part of her that thought their usual entourage must have known; Sori had been too composed, Ren too quiet, Hiyein too angry. The council was furious. It would be years before they accepted that the sole wielder of Izathral had left them, even if they should have no need of the sword which rested, once more, beneath the castle – they had nothing left to fight against. They had planned to use Silver, Cevora had no doubt. Use her as the greatest pyromancer they had ever known, and the most dangerous.

Cevora’s weary smile grew wry.

Silver would have been a thorn in her side for the rest of her life. It was no wonder Illian had gone to Etrion with the express request that the two time-travelers be returned home if Alti was saved. He would have had no difficulty imagining how things would turn out if they remained…not if he had saved Silver because of the curse. It was possible he had even asked Sara to have Cara go with them.

Cevora turned then, strolling through the stark gardens with their narrow, wooden bridges and crisp winter blossoms, crimson and periwinkle and gold. It was not long before she came to a slow halt before a rustling line of magilace trees. The bottoms of their silvery leaves lay exposed to the sun, whispering tales of ages long past. Silent, she stood and listened, until gradually the shadows around her lengthened and the sky overhead grew pale.

Then she turned her sea-green eyes beyond the trees. Ahead of her lay an entire world over which she had no power at all. There, wheaten grasses bent beneath a chill breeze, bleached of color by the sun until they appeared to burn beneath the heavy heads of multi-hued flowers. An eerie hush held sway, devoid of bird song or the buzz of insects. There, nothing lived. Nothing died. Even winter was powerless. There, all things came to find their end, and often found their beginning. It was a place that bespoke the vibrancy of life as much as it did the unknown nature of death.

The burial ground at the heart of the castle.

Something waited for her at the edge of the dry grasses, sometimes dwindling like smoke in the wind, others billowing grandly until it threatened to consume the grasses and the magilace trees and everything else. It was a ghost, a spectre, the Uritikain of the vampires at times, the caretaker of the grounds at others. No words passed between them, and yet the Uritikain guided her when Cevora stepped past the line of the magilace trees. It took her out to the place where Illian’s sword had been re-forged, and now stood as a monument to all those who had given their lives for the peace of Alti. Between the swaying stalks of grass, it was thrust deep into the earth, blade gleaming bewitchingly in the shifting nets of sunlight that filtered down from above.

This was his selfishness.

Cevora stopped before it, loosely curled hair gently caressing the pale curve of her jaw, eyes burning and at the same time empty, brilliant in the way that a caged bird was brilliant – as if everything that filled them with life was beyond their reach. When she finally moved, she was pulling Zeharial’s necklace from around her throat to drape it around the hilt of the blade. It hissed softly against the metal of the blade as it left her fingers.

There were no grave markers in Alti. To mark a grave was to bind a soul to their world forever. That was what the Altians believed.

Somehow it was fitting, this time. Illian had gone, but his work remained undone, his legacy carried into a distant future. The man that she had loved, and the man that she would forever love…he had wanted this. Whatever she had wanted from him or for him, he had always put his duty to their kingdom first. He was one of the Trents, through and through.

Even in death.

And now his final wishes were granted.