North Drake
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Full Epilogue
🕑 Added 2025-07-24 13:18:22 +0000 UTCSo I’m back! I actually wrote quite a lot during the flight, but now I really need to edit it. I don’t know if you’ve experienced this, but sometimes I reread what I’ve written and come across sentences like: 'This was the most credibile, the most, credible the most credible record[...]' And I just stare at it thinking, how did that even happen? Sometimes the brainlag is huge haha (:
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Epilogue
“They say you could taste the dawn that day. The air over Valewick shimmered not with heat, but with history. I remember the red banners, the way they danced in the wind like blood and fire—bright, defiant, and cruelly joyful. We didn’t know, not then. We clapped for a child. We drank for a birthday. And we watched, smiling, as the world quietly shifted beneath our feet.”
These are not my words, but those of a colleague, a fellow historian who was there with me in the courtyard of the Citadel of Valewick, that day of Firstlight, the 2nd of Liriane, Year 646 of the Seventh Era. Like many others, I stood among nobles and commoners alike, witnessing a celebration we thought merely grand. It was the sixth birthday of Lady Grace of House Ashford, daughter of Duchess Liliana, heir apparent by virtue of bloodline and birthright. But in truth, none present could have fully understood what we were about to witness.
The Seventh Era of Nyras had been one of unprecedented stability—at least, this is how our scholars prefer to record it. They named it the Era of Calm, noting the rare unity among the six gods, their lack of direct interference, and the relative peace across the realms. Yet, I must respectfully disagree with this interpretation. The so-called calm was superficial; beneath it lay currents of deep unrest, conflicts kept quiet only by willful blindness.
On that morning, as the banners unfurled and the city of Valewick draped itself in festive red and gold, the illusion of peace was still intact. The streets were vibrant; smiles were genuine. It was a rare spectacle. Never in my memory had House Ashford celebrated a child's birthday with such extravagance. Valewick overflowed with joy, laughter, and innocence. And perhaps innocence was indeed the greatest blindness of all.
Standing shoulder-to-shoulder among knights and commoners, I joined in that innocent ignorance. I clapped and cheered, unaware that our world was poised on the precipice of a great change. The Ashford banners above us rippled proudly, displaying the stag on red fabric—a symbol soon to be retired forever. At that moment, however, we knew nothing of what was about to unfold.
The gates of the citadel opened with majestic solemnity, allowing nobles from all corners of the Duchy of Ashford to pour into the main courtyard. The gathered crowd watched eagerly as the balcony doors high above opened to reveal Duchess Liliana herself. Beside her stood young Grace, her small figure a miniature reflection of her mother’s presence; golden hair, perfect posture, and eyes that seemed impossibly knowing for a child of only six. I felt then, for the first time, a strange weight settles over us all. Scholars and historians later debated this presence, attributing it to Liliana, the legendary Duchess whose charisma was known throughout the kingdom. But looking back now, I am no longer certain. Perhaps the pressure we felt that day belonged not to the mother but to her daughter, already a nascent force, unknown but undeniable.
As Grace lifted one delicate hand, the crowd fell silent as though commanded. Her voice, clear and composed beyond her years, carried effortlessly across the courtyard.
"I thank you all for celebrating my birthday today," she said. Her speech, simple and brief, pledged her dedication to the welfare of Ashford. A child’s promise, perhaps. But the sincerity—the certainty in her words—struck the crowd profoundly. Even then, some deeper instinct within me stirred uneasily, sensing the future in those small words.
It was Duchess Liliana’s movement that snapped the spell, as she gently placed her hand on her daughter's shoulder. The courtyard held its breath; Liliana’s voice rose then, calm but resonant, echoing with the authority of centuries of lineage.
"My friends and subjects," Liliana began, "today is more than merely the birthday of my daughter. Today marks the awakening of our heritage. After centuries, the blood of Ashford has been restored to its rightful strength." The crowd stirred, a murmur swelling among nobles and commoners alike. We knew that Duchess Liliana never spoke idly. Her declarations were law, and her truths shaped the reality we all inhabited.
Liliana continued, her voice growing colder, edged with quiet fury. "For too long, the crown—the Wyrm—has trampled upon our honor. They have killed our sons, mocked our traditions, and insulted our dignity. Only days ago, soldiers of the crown dared to humiliate my own son, striking him openly and murdering his companion, a loyal son of House Redlane."
A harsh silence settled over the courtyard, broken only by a faint sound of steel, armor shifting nervously. The Baron Redlane himself stepped forward, grief and fury etched in his expression. "They will pay for what they've done to my son!" His voice cracked with raw emotion, and the crowd erupted into cries of outrage and sympathy. Liliana raised her hand again, and silence returned instantly.
"This cannot and will not stand," she declared. "The crown is corrupt. They worship false gods, abandoning Iras, the Mother of Light, betraying the faith that made our kingdom great. Ashford has tolerated this disgrace long enough."
In the silence that followed, Liliana’s voice rose to a resounding crescendo, echoing off the ancient walls. "Today, we step out from the shadow of the Wyrm and into the Light. We reclaim our dignity and our destiny."
As if summoned by her words, a sphere of brilliant golden light appeared above her outstretched hand, bathing the courtyard in radiance. Awe rippled through us all. The presence we felt was undeniable: the divine favor of Iras herself. Liliana's next words rang with clarity and confidence.
"I hereby declare that Grace of Ashford, my daughter and true heir, is now Princess Grace of Ashford, sole heir of a newly founded empire—an empire that will cast down the chains of the old kingdom and restore light and honor to our world."
The crowd roared, swept up in the grandeur, forgetting caution in favor of fervent pride. The proclamation was bold, impossible, and yet inevitable. Liliana's eyes blazed with righteous certainty as she delivered her final declaration:
"I, Liliana of Ashford, name myself the first Empress of Ashford, ruler of a reborn empire. The age of weaklings is over. The age of Ashford begins today!"
At that moment, something fundamental changed. We felt history shift beneath our feet, a ripple extending far beyond Valewick's walls. On cue, the banners of Ashford—the proud stag of centuries—fell away. In their place, the new imperial colors rose: black and crimson, dark silk rippling defiantly in the wind.
Then, from deep within the citadel itself, came a low, rumbling growl—a sound none of us would forget. A wyvern, symbol of Ashford's new might, emerged onto the highest rampart, spreading its wings majestically against the dawn. The symbolism was unmistakable: a new era had been born, forged not in peace, but in pride, ambition, and inevitable conflict.
Years have passed since that morning. Our scholars now mark the beginning of the Eighth Era—the Era of Strife—with the Empress Grace's official coronation day, years later. Yet, I believe they are mistaken. The true beginning was there, in that courtyard, under the red banners, in the echoes of Liliana’s speech and Grace’s small, calm smile. I was there, and I am certain: the Eighth Era began on that morning, at the sixth birthday of Grace of Ashford.
Today, as we look upon the empire our Empress Grace rules with unquestioned authority, we call our time the Era of Strife. Yet I reflect often on how close we came to something darker, an Era of Despair, had the winds of fate blown differently. Our Empress protects us now, but the fragile peace we enjoy was born in conflict, ambition, and bold defiance. It began on a day meant to celebrate a child—a child whose birth reshaped our history and whose destiny forever changed our world.
Let future generations debate what I have recorded here, but let no one doubt its truth. I was there. I saw. I felt the dawn of a new world beneath my feet, tasted its promise in the air. And I watched, smiling like all the others, as the empire of Ashford rose from the ashes of innocence.
--::--
Krayden gently set the history book down, its leather cover cracked and worn, the scent of ancient parchment lingering in the air. Dust motes swirled lazily around him in the pale shafts of sunlight that pierced the broken stone walls of the ruin. For ten years, he had scoured libraries, abandoned archives, and forgotten ruins seeking records from this very timeframe, the birth of the Eighth Era. And here, at last, was the account written by Lord Albrecht, a historian who had been dead for five centuries. Lord Albrecht had witnessed firsthand the dawn of the empire, capturing with vivid clarity the ascension of a girl whose birth had altered the course of history.
As Krayden carefully placed the book into his storage ring, his brow furrowed with deep uncertainty. This was the most credible record he had found yet, but it offered little new insight, only the chilling confirmation of his darkest fears. If the account was accurate, it meant the Empress he knew today was indeed the same child mentioned by Lord Albrecht, placing her at well over six centuries old. The thought alone sent a cold shiver down his spine.
Could this truly be our Empress? Could the woman who rules the Empire of Light today have risen from such humble yet ominous beginnings?
He swallowed hard, aware of the danger these thoughts alone posed. Imperial inquisitors had eyes everywhere, their ears attuned to whispers of doubt. Questioning the Empress's divinity or her origin was heresy of the highest order, punishable by death or worse.
Yet, Krayden knew he had no choice but to continue his dangerous path. Ever since that day ten years prior, when a mysterious stranger appeared bearing a warning and an impossible truth, his life had changed forever. The stranger had insisted the truth of their world lay buried in the past, on a single day: the 2nd of Liriane in the Year 646 of the Seventh Era.
Taking a deep breath, Krayden extended his hand, allowing pure, clear mana to flow effortlessly from his fingertips. With practiced precision, he traced glowing runes into the stone floor, each symbol shimmering with quiet intensity. These runes were different, not aligned with any specific affinity; they were null mana, the only safe way to avoid detection by imperial authorities.
As he stepped into the completed teleportation circle, the runes flared brightly, and reality shifted. In a heartbeat, the ruined walls and dust vanished, replaced by the familiar surroundings of his office in Tyranore—the capital city of Elenor, a modest but significant province within the sprawling Empire of Light.
He was, after all, a respected professor at the Academy for Imperial Magicians, a position he had cultivated carefully as both cover and genuine pursuit. Yet now, standing amidst shelves of neatly organized books, illuminated maps, and softly glowing crystal lamps, he felt a dissonance. The truth he sought had begun to erode the comforting familiarity of his everyday life.
Turning toward the large world map that dominated one wall, Krayden's eyes traced the Empire’s vast reach, territories spread like ink across continents. Elenor, his home, was a mere speck within the Empire's shadow. He sighed, preparing himself for the responsibilities of the day, but paused once more.
With another delicate wave of his hand, Krayden drew a new set of shimmering runes into the air. As they floated silently, glowing a brilliant blue, he spoke softly yet urgently:
"I found the book. It seems to be true. The date is indeed the 2nd of Liriane, Year 646 of the Seventh Era. The report, however, is vague. Inform her immediately—tell her I'll prepare. The stars align favorably now. We will force this date."
The runes pulsed once, then vanished completely, leaving only a faint echo of their presence in the air. He exhaled slowly, heart racing not with fear but with resolve. Yes, it was dangerous—possibly suicidal—to meddle with forces beyond mortal comprehension. Yet, if the stranger's words from ten years ago held any truth, they had an unprecedented opportunity.
A chance for Elenor, for the entire world, for history itself to be rewritten.
Yet, as a scholar first and foremost, Krayden understood one fundamental truth above all else: if they succeeded in altering history, the world he knew, the very fabric of his existence, would cease to exist. The life he'd led, the memories he cherished, all would become nothing more than whispers of an erased timeline.
But Krayden had long since accepted this price.
For the sake of truth, and for the possibility of a world free from shadows, he was ready to sacrifice everything he knew.
Krayden stood quietly in the center of his office, eyes lingering on the fading glow of the runes. They hung in the air for a brief second before dissolving into silence. The stillness left behind felt heavier than usual, weighted with secrets and implications far beyond his comprehension.
He turned slowly, looking once more at the map of the world. The Empire of Light stretched broadly across continents, territories taken by conquest or treaty, all bound together beneath the watchful gaze of a singular Empress—The Empress of Light. Her reign was long, impossibly so, and shrouded in mystery. History books spoke of her as immortal, divine, a goddess made flesh. But the pages he had read painted a different picture, one more human, more complicated.
“Six hundred years,” Krayden murmured, letting the enormity settle over him. If Lord Albrecht’s account was accurate, and he had no reason to doubt it, the Empress had ascended from a child born into the old Duchy of Ashford. Not a goddess, but a mere girl at this time.
Krayden felt a chill creep down his spine, his fingers trembling ever so slightly, not from fear, but from the crushing weight of forbidden knowledge. He had always understood that his research into the Empress’s past was dangerous; questioning her divinity was heresy, punishable by the harshest measures. But this pursuit had long surpassed mere scholarly curiosity. Now it was irrevocably tied to the fate of Elenor, and perhaps to the survival of their entire world.
His mind wandered back ten years, to when he was still a student at this very academy, young, skeptical, and quietly ambitious. He had been engrossed in a late-night study session when a strange woman, hidden beneath a heavy cloak, approached him silently in the deserted archives. She had spoken softly but with a voice heavy with confidence:
"I'm the last hero of this era, I was searching you," she'd said simply, as though such a declaration were common.
Krayden had laughed outright at her. Heroes? Such concepts were laughably archaic, something from legends, not reality. He'd begun to walk away, dismissing her words as the ravings of a lunatic.
Yet she'd stopped him with a quiet yet compelling certainty. Her next words had pierced him deeper than he'd thought possible: "You are the first in generations to bear a unique connection to mana. Your core is not aligned to one affinity, but contains all affinities equally. Do you realize what that means? You can master every school of magic."
Krayden had turned then, intrigued despite himself. She spoke with precision and knowledge no ordinary charlatan could possess. As a student of magic, how could he not listen?
But it was the moment she'd drawn back her hood that had forever imprinted itself into his memory. A cascade of fiery, crimson waves spilled forth, framing a face marked by piercing, predatory eyes of vibrant green. Her lips curled into a smug, knowing smile as she reached out her hand confidently.
"Nice to meet you," she had said. "My name is Elen Trivelle, Avatar of the Goddess Lirien, and the last true Hero of this Era."
He'd staggered backward, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. An avatar? A hero? The concepts spun wildly in his mind. The goddess Lirien was worshipped, certainly, but he'd never heard of the gods intervening in mortal affairs through something as archaic as avatars.
After a stunned pause, he'd taken her outstretched hand hesitantly. "Krayden Me'Crony," he had replied, almost apologetically, "without any fancy titles."
Elen laughed warmly, the sound resonating with genuine amusement, yet Krayden’s sharp eyes studied her carefully for any sign of deception. Despite his wariness, he allowed her to continue. That night, she had spoken of secrets he had never imagined: the lost art of null-magic, a power drawn from the balanced presence of all mana affinities, a power that resided uniquely within him these days. She had shown him how to wield it, her lessons clear and deliberate, as though she had prepared for this very encounter for years.
Over time, Elen had revealed hidden chapters of history, stories buried by time and suppressed by empire decree. And over the following decade, she had become one of his closest friends and most trusted confidants. Yet, even after all these years, he couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right about her. She had never truly explained her origins, and he had learned early to stop asking. Even stranger, she never seemed to age; the woman who stood before him today looked identical to the fiery-haired stranger who had first approached him in the library ten years ago, forever poised in her early twenties.
The thought suddenly struck him sharply, forcing him back into the present: if the Empress could have lived for centuries, couldn't Elen be hiding a similarly extraordinary lifespan? The realization was unsettling, casting an uncertain shadow over his friendship and alliance with her. Could he genuinely trust Elen, a woman whose mysteries only seemed to deepen with time?
But then again, he reminded himself, what choice did he have?
Elen represented something he desperately wanted to believe in: salvation, not just for himself, but for the empire, perhaps for all the world. And despite the unease growing in his chest, he clung to the fragile hope that, in the end, this enigmatic woman might truly be their only chance.
And after all these years, they finally had a plan.
Magic, Krayden had come to understand, was far more profound than scholars had ever theorized. It wasn't simply a force harnessed through mana, it was woven deeply into the very fabric of existence, interacting with everything, touching every life and every moment. This realization, however, brought more questions than answers. And it was Elen who had finally provided him with the key.
Just a few months ago, Elen had suddenly appeared before him, her presence as striking and unchanged as ever, with an expression both resolute and strange.
"The gods are no longer watching," she'd told him quietly, her voice heavy with meaning.
Krayden had stared at her blankly, unsure of the significance behind her words. "What does that even mean?"
She'd smiled enigmatically. "It means only one thing, that our plan will succeed."
Their plan. Krayden took a slow breath as he reflected on it. After years of meticulous preparation, they now had a chance to alter history itself. Elen had long ago convinced him of a single, pivotal truth: the world they lived in—the entire timeline they inhabited—wasn't the original. According to her, the course of history had already been tampered with, shifted onto a divergent path that led to their current Empire of Light.
She had told him that the world's true destiny had been corrupted centuries ago, on the exact date she kept repeating: the 2nd of Liriane, Year 646 of the Seventh Era. Whatever was supposed to occur that day had not transpired; something else, something entirely unexpected, had replaced the intended moment, causing a ripple that echoed throughout centuries.
The concept was profoundly difficult for Krayden to grasp. Even among scholars, time and space remained abstract and nearly incomprehensible topics. His best understanding was this: there could only be one truly original timeline. Any attempt to travel through time would not simply place one into the past but would shift one into a parallel timeline. It was, he reasoned, like riding in a carriage alongside another, moving at exactly the same speed. In his carriage was one woman, and in the carriage beside theirs, her younger sister, identical in appearance. Jumping from one carriage to the next didn't reunite him with the younger version of the original woman; it merely introduced him to another individual entirely, someone who looked identical, but whose life, memories, and experiences were her own.
But the paradox went even deeper. If everything occurred simultaneously across infinite realities, then traveling back in time was a one-way ticket to an entirely separate existence. Everything that happened—or was supposed to happen—could become meaningless, rewritten, or never happen at all once they interfered.
It was enough to give him a persistent headache.
Elen, however, seemed undisturbed by the paradox. Her confidence remained steadfast. Her proof was simple yet unsettlingly profound: gods were timeless beings, bound by no singular reality. If they had chosen to turn away from this particular moment, this particular timeline, then it must mean Krayden and Elen's effort would truly lead them to the original, unaltered history, the one timeline that could not itself be altered through travel.
Krayden wasn’t sure he fully grasped all of Elen’s explanations. The idea of traveling through time at all had always seemed absurd, a fantasy conjured by dreamers rather than something within mortal reach. Yet, Elen insisted, with absolute certainty, that due to his unique mana core—a singularity of null-magic—he alone could form the bridge between realities. He was the only one who could connect their present with the original timeline and correct the course of history.
Krayden rubbed his forehead, feeling suddenly weary. His position as a respected instructor at Tyranore’s Academy had started as little more than a convenient cover, allowing him to explore ancient texts and hidden records without arousing suspicion. But gradually, inevitably, he'd grown attached to the illusion of normalcy, the peaceful routine, the familiar rhythms of academic life, and the bright-eyed enthusiasm of his students. Could he truly abandon this existence, this comforting, if fleeting, peace, for a chance that could be nothing more than a mad gamble?
A gentle knock at the door startled him from his thoughts.
"Professor?" called a soft, respectful voice. It was Mira, one of his brightest students, a diligent young woman whose curiosity far outpaced her peers.
He composed himself instantly, pushing aside lingering doubts. "Yes, come in," he called softly.
Mira stepped inside, her face alight with youthful enthusiasm. She hesitated briefly, noting the subtle fatigue in her professor’s eyes. "Forgive the intrusion, Professor Krayden," she said politely. "But today's class… it’s still on schedule?"
Krayden offered her a reassuring smile, warmth returning effortlessly to his eyes. "Yes, Mira, of course," he said gently. "I’m just preparing."
She nodded; relief visible in her expression. "Good. I’ll be looking forward to it," she said with a respectful bow, before quietly exiting the room.
Krayden watched the door close, a pang of regret catching him unaware. These students were the embodiment of the future he wished to preserve, yet he understood that the very future they represented depended on his actions now.
He sighed deeply, steadying himself. Elen's confidence echoed once more in his mind, her fiery determination grounding him.
They had only one chance, she had warned him repeatedly, one fragile, critical opportunity to slip into the original timeline and set history back on its true course. Any misstep, any mistake, and they would find themselves stranded forever in a different reality, or worse: they could irreparably damage the very fabric of existence.
He clenched his fists, resolve hardening. He was no longer merely a scholar or teacher. He was the only hope, the linchpin around which the fate of countless lives pivoted.
It was a burden heavier than any he'd ever imagined, but he could not—would not—turn away.
Taking a final steadying breath, Krayden straightened himself, returning to the final preparations for the day. Soon, very soon, he would leave behind the comfortable mask of Professor Me'Crony and step fully into his role as the catalyst for change.
Whether history would judge him a savior or a fool, he did not know, but he was ready to risk everything to find out.
