Ash.

It was the only thing that Willem could taste, burning acrid in his mouth. No, he decided nearly after a moment, there was more than just ash. There was the metallic tang of blood, of fresh blood that oozed slowly, of dry blood that congealed in chunks and scabs. His entire being seemed to be swallowed by fire, seemed to be ripping apart under some malicious force. He was broken, burning, blinded, and he struggled to rise.

When at last he tore himself out of that dazed state, it was with a desperate breath of cold air that scalded his throat. Everything around him was a ruin, little more than broken earth and charred rubble strewn about after the Devastation. The scarred stones were humming with wild energy, the air buzzing with the presence of unchanneled mahji. Deep fissures ran through the ground like gouged wounds, illuminated from below by deep earthfire.

Wild, ruined—everything was broken now. The world itself was shattered now. Willem could still feel the lingering power that coursed through his flesh, that tore through his veins and ripped away at his body. Some part of him wanted to rejoice for living, for surviving. After all, he had seen the death of two gods, had witnessed the sundering of the world. He opened his mouth to laugh, his dry throat twitching with little more than a gasp before choking on dust and sand.

Yet there was another part of him that knew—that knew from his screaming muscles and torn sinew and shattered bone. He was dying, would die here in the gods-forsaken desert. There would be no carrion birds to caw in mourning, no buzzards to peck out his eyes, no worms to feast. The sands would blow over his corpse, would bury him unspoken for an eternity.

Lucky. The thought was sudden, amusing. He was, after all, lucky in a way. How many people could say that they had helped to kill a god? How many people could say that they lived to watch the world shatter? Willem laughed coarsely, bubbling blood and spittle dripping out of the corner of his mouth.

Not bad for an orphan, eh? His head lolled back in laughter, his chest now filled with a heated burning sensation. It was like his lungs were aflame, and every breath only fanned the fire deeper into his body. Not bad for a beggar. Not bad for a cripple.

His gaze fell over the sands, over the ruined earth that was crackling with heat and flame. There were bones scattered throughout them, strewn amongst twisted, half-molten metal where men had died. Discarded swords and shields, bent and mangled, were all that remained of where they had once stood. Their bodies had been ripped apart by the wild mahji in the air—the same thing happening to Willem now. He watched as those flickering serpents of purple and green ripped into the flesh with voracious hunger, sinking into the skin like so many burrowing worms. Bit by bit, even the bones were broken apart, cracks and fissures splintering down their side before finally shattering completely into wind-blown piles of dust.

Willem wanted to stand up and gaze out further over this wasteland, yet as he tried to move, his muscles screamed with a searing pain. He looked down only to find his skin mottled and cracked, a purple-white light glowing from underneath the skin. Bit by bit, smoke began to drift off the sloughing flesh, the skin blackening and crumbling away. He reached out tentatively to touch his legs, but the skin flaked off with even the gentlest of touches from his claws.

“So I’m to die here then… like this.” he coughed out, the movement enough to have his entire torso suddenly howl in pain. Tiredly, Willem collapsed against the ground, his scales and skin scraping against the stone. His mind felt hazy, delirious. Every part of him was in some stage of decay, slowly falling to pieces in an agonizing death. He would be torn apart into dust, into sand, and no one would ever know of the demon that had died here.

Demon, or man? His thoughts turned to that question once more as he felt consciousness beginning to slip away from him. Demon in flesh, and man in heart? But it was more than that; it was hardly that simple. Willem let out a soft sigh as the last bits of sensation left his legs. He tried to raise his arm desperately, only for the limb to break at the elbow under its own weight.

Neither, then? Aye, perhaps I’m neither. Just… something else. Just another broken, sorry thing in this world. He felt a certain peace settle over him with that thought, and he tiredly opened his eyes one last time to see the sky over him. His chest tried to drag in another breath, only this time his lungs were unresponsive.

Just another broken thing, and now I say goodbye.

And so he died, his eyes open and empty, his body crumbling away to join the desert.

End of Book 3