After departing Pivuseon, Fyren had headed north to the snowy land of Yurozu, homeland of the dwarves, and, more pertinently, the region of Berodyl his sister had favoured. Mirimgard was a quiet, ghostly city right on the cusp, built on a peninsula that extended from the Evervirgin Drift and out into the thinnest, most precarious part of the Bleeding Sea that encompassed the world, within clear view of the inscrutable abyss known as Low’th.

Nobody had noticed his arrival, nor was there anyone else in the now-abandoned sanctum built in Mirim’s name, where her honourary throne stood empty. Empty it had been for almost its entire existence; the Decakon had not shown themselves often— some not at all. Now Fyren knelt before it, looking up with misty eyes at the stained glass mural of his sister. Where have you gone, I wonder. The question did not trouble him. Once I am done here, I will use my final traversal of the severance to leave this world; I will find you, and I will complete my task. He had no compunctions with killing his own blood, for it was his sworn duty. Did you know? When our eyes met at the ceremony, you in the crowd and me on the stage, where I was anointed as an executioner… did you know? Perhaps she did. Why else would you have fled Berodyl just prior to my return? There could be no other reason.

Of course, Berodyl was not the only world Mirim was charged with caring for. Shahartstah was another, a very important world, a frontier of radical new ideas and inventions that was almost as old as the gods themselves, a seneschalty befitting a goddess of invention— even a low one. So far away, so long ago, Fyren pondered. Through vast spans of convoluted time have we laboured and grown… was it so convenient? Did Shahartstah demand the attention of its seneschal so timely? He truly did not know. It makes no matter. Your sin still has you marked, dear sister mine, and your time come sooner or later.

He stood, and for the first time, he felt his age in his bones. Low we may be, but we are ancient and timeless… and rich are we in wisdom and cunning. He wondered now, though, if his younger sister had the better of those qualities between them. In the end, I am the better fighter… and that is all that will matter when we meet for the next and last time.

He reached up with an open palm, and from his hand came an invisible force that shattered the stained glass mural. “Heed my words, Mirim; on the blood of our father, and by the grace of the high gods, I will make you apart… just like your cohorts I have laid to waste thus far.”

Our cohorts, he corrected himself silently. I, too, bear some of the blame. He had helped build Berodyl, had been there at her side in Shahartstah when all those dreadful mistakes were made, and no matter how hard they tried to do it right, their sins continued to haunt all creation. The ennui… the algafae… unforgivable sins… oh Mirim, why could you not have remained here, on this perfect stage? Many entire worlds fell under the individual purviews of the ten who called themselves the Decakon - Shahartstah, Minnesang, Azrus, Sirventes, Rolluaj, Tenso, Tounoumek, Aubade - and Berodyl had become their heart through the virtue of being their greatest collaboration, a platform for their most brilliant works. A shame it was not meant to be, Fyren lamented. For such a huge shared domain, many entire worlds all in the palms of their hands, it was all paltry and laughable when compared to the resplendent infinity in which this tiny bubble of theirs floated. Shahartstah, Berodyl— these worlds were supposed to be favoured in the totality of the divine design… but set adrift now, Fyren wasn’t sure what it all had been for. Gods we may be… but low such as we are, how could we have ever dared to dream so grandly? How did we ever delude ourselves so deeply? Were we ever so powerful as all that? Did we contribute anything of value to the big picture in the end? Such things were not for him to know, he supposed. All I can do now is my duty, and not worry about a future that will hold no place for me.

He only hoped that the order of things could be set right by his actions, that the scars upon these worlds would spread no further than this, for only then would it all be worth it in the end. When the time came to end his own existence and complete his mission, he wished only for the last thing he saw to be a better reality. They couldn’t understand… young and full of self-righteousness… Mirim, what were you thinking? A creation pantheon composed of such idealistic, naive fools… but again, he couldn’t escape his own participation in this debacle. I should’ve seen it coming. Maybe I could’ve stopped this.

Now, though, it was too late… and Fyren knew there could’ve been no other way. What would have been the point of our lives if not to dream? He knew it then, in that moment. Someone had to bear the burden of our mistakes… it just happened to be us. He almost laughed. Oh gods on high, unknowable in your plans and weavings of destinies… I thank you for making this our burden alone, so that none others should have to shoulder it in our stead. If only the other nine had the same clarity of sense that he did. They may not know what they die for, but they die for it all the same, and that is all that matters.

He had never felt more sure of his task than he did here, now, in this moment.