Anagonian Maintenance & Troubleshooting (CLOSED / PG-13)

[Anagonia]

Anagonian Maintenance & Troubleshooting
An Effort to Rectify and Reestablish Canonical Material & Events

PURPOSE

The purpose of this thread is to serve as a repository for short stories, slice of life stories, and other writings I deem worthy of adding to canonical events. These writings will therefore serve to rectify certain confusions or misunderstandings I currently have with my canon, for myself in particular only, and thereby provide me with some sense of relief. The present canon of Anagonia is awash with a mess of failed starts and horribly initiated threads - present year of 2021 excluded. It is full intent of this thread to fully conclude those failed starts and establish a theme of productive writing through a patient and positive approach.

I will thereby utilize the purpose of this thread to explore themes that have been, for the lack of a better word, blatantly ignored for the past few years. These themes, described through my preferred writing medium of choice, should be considered canon works of my nation. The events described may or may not be linked to prior events from the nearly 18 years I've been on this website, both off and on. Through the description of these events, it is intended that clarity of plot and canon shall be established while at the same time providing an outlet for creative potential. All entries into this thread will be cataloged in order of choice rather than order of posting.

WARNING: Some material may not be suitable for a young audience. Writings that are considered adult in nature shall be marked with (PG-13) to signify their status as possibly unsuitable for a young audience.

TABLE of CONTENTS

The following is a table of contents to this thread, wherein each post shall be linked in the appropriate category. Writings that include specific characters and themes will be marked as such. Writings deemed of a PG-13 nature shall be marked as such as stated in the above warning. All entries are to be considered canon. Linked entries can also be from different threads, in which case it shall so be marked for clarification as (OFF THREAD) to prevent confusion.

Slice of Life Writings
1.) The Wife of a President
Characters: Auristi & Mileethus Canisilus
2.) A Midnight Post
Characters: Various

Short Writings

Episodic Writings
1.) A Warning from Melkos - Part 1
Characters: Auristi & Mileethus Canisilus; Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír); Various
2.) A Warning from Melkos - Part 2
Characters: Ethan Wheeler (Sergeant, CSMP), Layla Wheeler (Wife), and Aiden Wheeler (Son); Preachers Alden Verros & Abel Ren; Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír); Various
3.) A Warning from Melkos - Part 3
Characters: Preachers Alden Verros & Abel Ren; Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír); Eleuthería (Drekamythian); Various
4.) A Warning from Melkos - Part 4 (Final)
Characters: Preachers Alden Verros & Abel Ren; Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír as Charles Matthews); Preacher Eliura (Eleuthería - Drekamythian - Komodren Form); Various
5.) Voratharox's Reflection - Part 1
Characters: Voratharox - High Drekamythian; Eleuthería - Drekamythian; Various
6.) Voratharox's Reflection - Part 2
Characters: Voratharox - High Drekamythian; Eleuthería - Drekamythian; Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír); Various
7.) Voratharox's Reflection - Part 3 (Final)
Characters: Voratharox - High Drekamythian; Rhaekaroth - High Drekamythian; Eleuthería - Drekamythian; Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír); Various
8.) The Reconciliation - Part 1
Characters: Oscar Vladinchi - Original Drekamythian - Original Rudavian; Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír); Various
9.) The Reconciliation - Part 2 (Final)
Characters: Oscar Vladinchi - Original Drekamythian - Original Rudavian; Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír); Various
10.) Reconciliation of the Saints - Part 1
Characters: Drakomis Nokomis Reign - Komodren Main Character; Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír)
11.) Reconciliation of the Saints - Part 2
Characters: Mileethus Canisilus - Komodren Main Character; Drakomis Nokomis Reign - Komodren Main Character (briefly); Melkos Unchanos (Isilindil Mithrandír)

Canonical Fixes
1.) The Neverending Tale (FINISHED; MT; Attn. Northrop Grumman) (OFF THREAD)
Characters: Various; Northrop Grumman and Anagonian Characters

[Anagonia]

Wednesday, September 8th 105 AUR
0900 Hours Anagonian Standard Time
Confederate National House, Liberty City, LY

Auristi Canisilus gently hummed to herself outside the main entrance to the National House, watering a few of the hanging plants that lined the top of the tetrastyle. She had chosen them herself when Mileethus first took office. A few Chenille plants lined the side she was presently on and, upon second look, she'd have to prune later on in the week. They were a common sight back in her native tribes, where the climate was warmest and the rains were heavy when the seasons changed. That was at least the folklore of the Komodren, of the times when they lived in their ancient homes before their species - or what was left of them - had been rescued by United Republic forces centuries prior. She had chosen them specifically because of their importance to her native culture, to symbolize that even here at the heart of the Nation, the needs and memory of her heritage were not forgotten. If nothing else, they made a spectacular display piece for visiting dignitaries.

Carefully she maneuvered the watering can to pour what she felt was the required amount inside the Chenille's pot. This task was typically reserved for the National House butlers, but after they had seen how easy it was for her to tend to the high-hanging plants due to her natural height, they had stifled most of their complaints. There were still grumblings here and there and admittedly they were in the right - after all, they were paid to do this! However Auristi had promised herself that regardless of where Mileethus' life took them, she would always tend to the things most needed for her husband and mate. This, to her, was one of those things needing tending to. After a short conversation with the Head Butler a few weeks back, most of those that had grumbled had quieted down. It was her zen time, her "me" time, and they'd be well and good to allow that to her for the sake of her sanity and constant worrying for her husband.

She moved to the front after tending to the last one along the right side underneath the tetrastyle. Here was dominated a few Boston Fern's, intertwined with the line of Chenille's. This was a repeating pattern to the other side as well, something she hadn't particularly planned on, but for the most part didn't argue. There was no special significance to the Boston Fern's being here other than Mileethus' stating one time that he, "rather liked the look of them". That was enough reason for her to request them being here. She continued her quiet, hummed song as she watered those as well. A soft rustling sound caught her attention as she finished the last pot on the front, her body stilling for a moment as only the gentle rustling of her tail on the concrete caught her ears. She heard the noise again, turning her head to the right to view the figure just behind the Rosa Knock Out bush.

"Sorry, Ma'am," the Military Policeman said once he saw he had been spotted. He quietly slipped behind the bush, and became obstructed from view by a Little Giant just behind the line of two Rosa Knock Out's.

Auristi sighed, pondering a moment before continuing her morning ritual. It hadn't been the MP's presence that had bothered her, rather the fact that he was donned in full battle uniform with weapons and Melkos knew what else at his disposal. Ever since that Chief Admiral Evans had taken over the Military, she had seen more of these Military Policeman than ever before. They watched her constantly, following her, always at a safe distance. It was four days ago when she finally had enough that she confronted one, telling him in not-too-stern of a tongue that following a lady was very impolite and that they're best off staying hidden. Ever since encounters like the one she had just seen took place, always with an apology, and always retreating back from view. It must of been a game for them, she concluded. Considering how fearful the young MP had been who she had originally confronted, maybe this was some sort of dare. Her mind wandered with possibilities as to why and how as she concluded her watering, observing the healthy dose of sunlight on her plants as she gazed around the front of the National Lawn.

Everything was in order. She felt good about the way it looked. The Butlers and Lawnskeepers would tend to the rest, but she had done her part. As if on cue, she felt a gentle tug on her shirt, turning to see one of the Maid's. They exchanged a bow of the head as Auristi handed over the watering can, quickly then left in silence as the Maid retreated inside without so much as a noise from the impressive two-door entryway. Instead of pondering on the mystery of it, her mind and eyes were firmly placed on the driveway that gently curved just a little ways off the front lawn. As if on cue, she saw the motorcade pull up from the street and briefly hidden by a few trees and the famous Weeping Willow that had been planted decades back. She clasped her hands to her chest, an excited hop to her gait as she stood there underneath the ceiling of the tetrastyle before gently taking the steps down onto the concrete path to greet her husband.

He emerged from the main car, followed by two MP's who - upon seeing her - looked away. Auristi ignored the possible slight of ignorance or, perhaps, fear and persisted her gait to her husband. The two met halfway, gently placing the tips of their snouts to the others in a show of intimacy and greeting before clasping each others hands.

"How was the meeting, my mate and husband?"

"It went fine," Mileethus replied to his wife, giving what in their kinds eyes was a clear smile. "The Emperor of Imperius took my assurances well. I believe this Confederal Union shall persist our current crisis."

"On that I do know," Auristi sated firmly, glancing briefly at the MP's with a quick scowl. "Come then, follow me inside. You must be famished."

"At once, my love."

Mister and Misses President held hands firmly as they both turned, locking arms in unison to walk together up to and just under the tetrastyle. Mileethus stopped briefly, his wife perplexed at first until she noticed him looking at the hanging plants. His smile seemed to broaden as he looked at each one, admiring them, admiring the work of his mate and love. Auristi couldn't help but feel a growing sense of relief that her hard work was recognized, and a blossoming sense of love for her husband who seemed to take the time to appreciate it. He gently placed his free hand to hers, giving a pat as he gazed into her eyes.

"You have done fantastic with the plants, my dear," he stated. "I enjoy it each time I enter this building."

They shared the touching of their snouts again, this time for an extended period, before they each resumed their walk inside. The two MP's that had followed the President were swift to open the doors for him, granting them entry before they closed the doors and stood guard outside. The day was beautiful, the sun shined, and a few birds flew between the hanging plants above them. One if the Military Policeman took brief note of a robin flyig by his field of view before returning his attention to his post.

[Anagonia]

Dragons Berth Mountain Range Imperial State Park
Second Slope, a few miles from the Drekamythian Dragon Den #5915
Confederate Army Ranger Outpost #2595
Bravo Company, Foxtrot Squad, routine watch
Sometime in 45 AUR

Tiberius Farus dismounted the M2101 IFV from topside after grabbing a few more ration packs for his squad, the four-foot tall lizardman plumping to the ground with a gentle thud as he scurried back over to the active campfire. Surrounding it were five other members of his squad, with a sixth in the IFV watching the nightvision scopes. It was his first deployment since entering voluntary service, a liberty granted only to the non-human tribes of Anagonia. He had wanted to see more than the little few scant hundred-acre reservation that his tribe lived on and, following a ride from a Military Policeman, signed up at the nearest towns Army Recruitment Center. Four years had passed since then and, despite the intensity of his training, his eyes still looked on the world with eager wonder and awe.

"Thanks Chip!" called out their squad lead, "Go ahead and disperse the supplies. Grab yourself one too and join us."

Tiberius gave an eager nod, panting a bit through exertion as he scurried to hand out a ration pack to his squadmates. He had originally intended to follow the letter of his commanding officers orders and only grab enough for his squad, but being the smart little Kroman he was, he had thought ahead and grabbed himself one as well. After the last had been dispersed, he sat on a provided log on the other end of the campfire and sorted his equipment. Grabbing the necessary tools from his carry-pounce, he opened his ration and, like everyone else, began preparations to eat.

The others around him were all human, of different varieties. He had found out early on that, unlike Kromen, humans appeared in various sizes and colors that would put the most elaborate Kromen ritual display to shame. He also found out the hard way that trying to separate definitions between these differences was not acceptable and extremely frowned upon. Unlike his people, who had separated Kromen into separate castes dependent on their size, stature, scale color and posture, humans practiced no such thing in Anagonia if rarely at all. So he had adapted, noting that some "cultures" of human emphasized these differences in jokes but never in a capacity to cause division. Once he had figured out the practicality of it, it hadn't been hard to adapt to.

"Hey Chip, what's it like where you come from?"

His thoughts disrupted, the small lizardman tilted his head up so one eye glanced at the squadmate who had asked the question. It was their heavy weapons expert, Corporal Hudson. A Native Anagonian with a rough streak in his early life, all sorts of tattoos still visible where his combat uniform couldn't hide skin. The question itself was innocent enough, considering Tiberius had only been attached to this squad for little under a month now. Their objective had been to watch over the Drekamyhthian Dragon dens in the area, in cooperation with the Imperial Park Rangers. It was an excellent task for newly graduated recruits to the Armed Forces, gaining experience in the field while also acclimating themselves to their new military lifestyle. As Tiberius recalled, Hudson had only graduated from his mandatory - a term Humans used to describe their service time - only two months ago.

"It not fun like this," Tiberius replied, his voice hoarse and broken while using the Anagonian tongue. "Much hurt, boredom, no fun. Nothing to do. No machine to tinker. I like tinker with machine."

Hudson gave a simple appraising nod, returning to his meal. Tiberius had been assigned to Foxtrot Squad at the request of Sergeant Alonso Patterson, their present squad leader. The previous technician had moved on to bigger and better things after finishing their six months in the mountains and, left with few choices, Alonso had opted to try a different route for once. Kromen were famous for their ability as expert technicians and mechanics, Tiberius no different. Their obsessive nature with ensuring things worked correctly and finding out how things ticked made them perfect for ensuring the smooth operation of mechanical assets. What few Kromen were in the military currently all partook in some level of mechanical repair. Last week Tiberius had gained the appreciation of his squad when the M2101 had broken down. Without being ordered, Tiberius had opened the engine compartment and found the issue - a bad carburetor valve. A spare had been included and using that, he had spared his squad from an excruciating experience in sweltering heat.

"Why did it hurt?" came another question.

Tiberius didn't look up this time, offering a shrug instead. He knew the voice. The squad demolition expert, Private Zaney. He had initially been one of the few who hazed Tiberius a lot for his appearance and stature. After last week, however, he had shown nothing but respect to the small lizardman. After chomping down a particularly large piece of meat and rice, Tiberius remained silent for a moment longer, eyes looking up to fixate on the fire.

"It not fun, lots of hurt," the Kroman clarified. "You different, your scale different, you put lower than all else. Sometimes beat. I was beat. Taught to serve. No like. Saw Policeman, begged to escape. Came here for new life. No more question on hurt, okay?"

His eyes met those of Zaney's and, for a brief moment, Tiberius thought he saw sympathy. The human gave a nod, returning to his meal as Tiberius did the same. For a long thirty minutes no one said anything. The fire crackled, the sounds of nature flowed around them as crickets reached a crescendo. Then, all at once, everything became quiet. It was as if a switch had been turned as Tiberius watched his squad, all of whom had far better instincts trained into them than he, immediately set their plates down and grab their weapons to go prone. Tiberius followed suit, grabbing his M4A1 Carbine from the back of his shoulder and readying his weapon. The sound of the turret atop the IFV whine gently as the automated pumps worked to ensure the swivel worked correctly was all that was heard for a few seconds.

"Report," ordered the squad leader in a hushed tone, but he spoke only into his mic receiver. A few more seconds went by of the turret checking again and again every point of its three-hundred and sixty degree radius.

"Nothing Sarge," the reply finally came back from within the turret. The gunner, a Corporal who had opted to stay with his machine for several rotations now, kept slowly moving the turret as its optics scanned the night. "I ain't seeing nothin. No movement. Maybe it was a Dreka?"

"Probably," replied Sergeant Patterson. The thought seemed to relax him a little, if only just. Dragons didn't just hunt humans for no reason and this specific cave had been monitored for decades now, granting the Anagonians a slight immunity to their ire - or so common belief held. It would be a first if a dragon attacked a human unprovoked. Until that time, there existed an unspoken trust between the two races.

A slight noise of wind fell over the campsite and, for a moment, the soldiers there grabbed cover as they held their heads. It was too quick to track for the turret who had only a few brief instances of a lock, but the night and campfire light played havoc on the visuals no doubt. After a moment, the gunner reported.

"I didn't get a good spot but I'm pretty damn sure that was a dragon," he reported. "Probably a vising pair, went to the den and behind the mountain near the front entrance. Just a few flakes of dusk, no emissions I can tell."

"At ease," the Sarge ordered the squad and, quickly, all those around the campfire returned to their prior activities of finishing their meal. They had been smart enough to at least set their plates down without spilling much, and other than a stray ant or two, nothing had been lost. "Keep a watch but don't provoke them," Sergeant Patterson ordered to his gunner.

"Roger Sarge, playing nice."

"Hey Tim, jot down the arrival," the Sergeant said to the squads operator. The small, thin man gave a nod as he got out a PDA of sorts and began to catalogue the encounter as was protocol. The Sergeant looked at the rest of the squad, giving an appraising nod. "Finish your meals, then myself and Tiberius will take first watch. Rest of you when your done form your cots in the IFV. No bunk sharing....Susan. Tim."

As his head turned to the two known culprits of fraternization, the squad emitted a soft laugh in unison. Time waned in the night, with another event of the crickets going silent but overall no indication that nothing mechanical or man-made had flown by. By the time the crickets once again felt safe to resume their song, Tiberius and his commanding officer watched over the burning embers of a previously waning fire. The two utilized their night-vision goggles to scan the horizon, occasionally taking notes if they saw any movement from the vicinity of the dragons nest on a notepad. Time of incident and date of happening were included, all information critical to understand the Drekamythian Dragons better so cohabitation between humanity and dragons - insofar as within Anagonia - could continue unabated.

"You have any plans after your tour here?" Sergeant Patterson asked, quiet and hushed in tone. His eyes remained on his surroundings, but he was clearly interested in passing time with conversation.

Tiberius shrugged, "Make home and family, maybe," was what he managed. He wasn't directly used to conversing much, just tinkering. Tinkering and fixing things. "Maybe fix things for living, maybe stay and fix more things. Bigger things. Flying things. Get degree, experience, learning. Yeah, maybe that. You?"

Alonso thought for a moment, then, "Retire."

The rest of their watch was similar in scope. Small snippets of conversation, short talk, little explanation with very blunt ramifications. It was an interesting exchange that had repeated for the past week, one which Tiberius didn't seem to mind. Eventually, however, the shift changed and after sorting his backpack and weapon, Tiberius drifted off for a few hours of sleep in the larger than comfortable cot inside the IFV. He felt more comfortable here, like he really belonged and was valued. Not like home. Not like where the hurt was. Silently as the last branches of consciousness submitted to sleep, he promised himself he'd build himself a better future without that hurt.

[Anagonia]

A Dream
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

Gasping, choking—Auristi’s lungs burned as cold, suffocating water pressed against her chest, forcing its way down her throat. Her arms flailed, trying to swim, but every movement felt as though she were submerged in a heavy, unseen current. The crushing pressure wrapped around her like iron chains, every muscle screaming with the effort to break free. Panic gripped her heart, each thud in her chest a painful reminder of the air she could not reach. Her throat constricted painfully as icy tendrils of water coiled deeper into her lungs. The world around her was a dark, deep abyss, the water pressing in on all sides, no direction to follow, no air to breathe. Her limbs felt like lead, her strength draining with every frantic kick, her vision swimming as consciousness began to slip away, replaced by the slow, suffocating darkness.

Just as she thought she could bear no more, her vision fading, her body on the verge of surrender, a skeletal hand broke through the black waters, glowing faintly against the shadows. It hovered above her, an eerie beacon in the abyss, its pale bones sharp and unnatural against the swirling dark. In desperation, she reached for it, her fingertips brushing against cold bone, a chilling numbness spreading through her hand. The moment she made contact, the water around her vanished in a rush, as though some unseen force had ripped her from the abyss. She shot upwards, her body weightless, propelled by an unseen power, as the cold, suffocating grip of the deep released her. Breaking through the surface with a gasp, the air hit her lungs like fire, burning yet filling her with life once again. She coughed and sputtered, her senses overwhelmed by the sudden flood of air, her chest heaving as she lay still, suspended between the terror of drowning and the relief of survival.

The sky above her stretched endlessly, an infinite expanse of cosmic beauty, the stars shimmering like distant beacons in the deep purples and blues of the Milky Way. They seemed closer here, larger, their light casting a soft, ethereal glow over the landscape. Auristi lay on soft sand, finer than anything she had ever felt, each grain slipping like silk between her fingers. Her chest heaved from the breath she’d long been deprived of, but her eyes were drawn to the horizon, a place where the sky and sea melted into one another in hues of violet and silver. The beach extended far into the distance, its curve disappearing into a misty, shimmering haze, as if the world itself faded at the edges of her vision. The water was unnaturally still, a perfect mirror reflecting the vast expanse of stars above, broken only by gentle ripples that seemed to vanish as quickly as they appeared. No wind stirred, no waves crashed—there was only silence, a stillness that hung in the air like a held breath, as though this place had existed long before time and would continue to exist long after.

It was unearthly, and yet, eternally mesmerizing. The sky seemed to pulse with life, the stars shifting and swirling ever so slightly, as if the heavens themselves were alive, watching, waiting. Though the scene was peaceful, there was an overwhelming sense that she was standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, a world beyond worlds, where time had no meaning and the boundaries between existence and nothingness blurred.

Slowly, she sat up, her eyes adjusting to the dim, ethereal light. Before her stood Melkos—Isilindil Mithrandír, as he was once known—his form shifting and shimmering between two opposing aspects of his being. One moment, he appeared as a Snow Elf of unparalleled beauty, pristine and ageless. His long white hair flowed over his shoulders like silver threads, framing a face of timeless wisdom and elegance, with eyes that held the knowledge of millennia. His skin glowed faintly under the starlight, every feature sharp yet serene, as though he had stepped out of a legend from forgotten ages. But in the next breath, that vision twisted, his body decaying into something far more terrifying. His visage became that of a hooded spectre, the embodiment of death itself, his fleshless face now a grinning skull, with two glowing red orbs floating in the voids where eyes should have been. They flickered with an unnatural light, as if each ember of red could see into the very depths of her soul, weighing her essence.

His cloak, no longer a thing of cloth, became a shroud of pure dark energy, swirling and shifting around him like a living thing, its tendrils reaching out only to disappear into the night. His skeletal hand, still outstretched from pulling her from the abyss, now hung at his side, the fingers long and bony, etched with ancient power. The air around him seemed to warp, as if reality itself bent to his presence, and the temperature dropped, a chill radiating from the darkness that cloaked him. He was both life and death, beauty and decay, a being whose very existence transcended the boundaries of mortality.

Yet to Auristi, there was no fear in this presence. Though his form was the embodiment of death, it was not terrifying, but comforting. Melkos, in all his spectral majesty, radiated a divine power that did not threaten, but reassured. In her heart, she knew that to stand before him was to stand in the presence of something deeply good, a being who guided souls to their rest, not their doom. His shifting forms were simply different faces of a cosmic truth, and she found solace in that presence. She watched, heart and soul eager, as Melkos spoke.

"Auristi, wife of the President, mother to the Nation," the figure’s voice echoed across the sands, a mixture of warmth and coldness, of life and death. His words seemed to resonate not only in the air but within her very being, touching her soul. Auristi felt a deep pull in her chest, as if the gravity of his message had taken root in her heart. "You have been summoned, for the path ahead is fraught with peril, and your heart must bear the weight of these trials."

Auristi’s throat tightened, her body stiffening with the weight of his words. She rose slowly to her feet, her legs weak beneath her, though her gaze never wavered from him. Her mind raced. What peril? What trials? Her love for Mileethus surged within her, a fierce, protective fire. But even that strength seemed to falter under the enormity of what Melkos spoke of. She swallowed hard, her voice trembling slightly, yet steady. "What trials? What is it that awaits?"

Melkos’s form shifted again, his spectral face softening into the serene features of the Snow Elf. His once skeletal visage now held a look of deep sorrow, as though the burden of what he knew weighed heavily even on him. "Your mate, Mileethus, stands on the edge of a precipice," he said, his tone low and ominous. His gaze darkened, the red orbs flickering with a grim intensity. "Dark forces gather in the shadows, conspiring against him. The fate of the Confederation, of all of Anagonia, hangs in the balance. Soon blood will spill."

A wave of cold washed over Auristi, though the air around them remained still. Her chest tightened as if an unseen hand were squeezing her heart, and a sudden, icy fear gripped her. She could see it in Melkos's eyes—the unspoken tragedy that lay ahead. "Blood?" she echoed, her voice a whisper. "Is there nothing we can do to stop it?"

For a moment, Melkos’s spectral face returned, a grim smile curling at its unseen lips. His eyes—those burning red orbs—seemed to penetrate deeper into her. "Not all battles are won through foresight," he whispered, his voice now carrying a softer, almost regretful tone. "Some must be endured. Even with warning, fate cannot always be changed." He paused, his gaze shifting to the distant horizon where the stars met the shore. "Warn him. Stay vigilant. But know this: the enemy hides not just in the open, but within. Trust carefully, for betrayal waits where you least expect it."

Auristi felt a hollow ache in her chest, a mixture of dread and helplessness. The idea that someone close—someone trusted—could betray them filled her with an icy fear. Who could it be? Who could they trust if not those closest to them?

The sands beneath her feet stirred as if the very earth was reacting to the gravity of the moment. A cold wind swept across the shore, causing her skin to prickle with an unnatural chill. Her heart thudded against her ribs, the realization of what was to come sinking in like a stone. She opened her mouth to ask more—about who, about when—but before she could speak, Melkos began to fade, his form dissolving into the darkness of the night. His voice lingered in the air like a distant echo, carrying one final warning: "Prepare yourself, Auristi. The storm is coming."

She stood there, alone beneath the endless sky, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a heavy cloak. The stars above her glittered with cold indifference, and she felt, for the first time in her life, the enormity of her duty—not just to Mileethus, but to the entire nation.

---

Friday, September 27th 108 AUR
0600 Hours Anagonian Standard Time
Confederate National House, Liberty City, LY

The Madam President woke with a start, her reptilian form shivering in an unnatural cold. Her thick scales, usually resistant to the chill of the early morning air, felt vulnerable, almost fragile, as if the cold had seeped into her very bones. Her lungs heaved, and her long, muscular tail twitched involuntarily beneath the covers, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like a suffocating fog.

She blinked, her slit-pupiled eyes adjusting quickly to the dimness of the room, but the comforting familiarity of the Confederate National House did little to ease the lingering dread. Auristi lay still, the ridges along her neck vibrating subtly as her breathing began to slow. The dream—no, the vision—had been vivid, more real than any she had ever experienced before. The chilling presence of Melkos, the voice that had echoed in her mind, warning of trials to come. Her thoughts spiraled, turning over the cryptic message. Her instincts, honed over a lifetime, told her it was no mere figment of her imagination. It was a warning.

Her heart thudded against the firmness of her chest, the fear of what might happen to Mileethus gnawing at her. She rolled to her side, her sharp claws gently grazing the sheets as she turned to look at her husband. Mileethus lay still, his powerful frame at rest, his deep, slow breaths steady. His dark green scales caught the faintest hints of the sunrise through the window, the muted glow reflecting off his strong features.

She envied him in that moment—his peaceful sleep, the unawareness of the impending storm that threatened them both. But how long could this peace last? She knew it wouldn’t be for much longer.

Auristi carefully slid out of bed, her long tail gently brushing against the wooden floor as she rose to her full height. The chill still clung to her, but she pushed it aside, drawing her silk robe around her shoulders, the fabric barely brushing her muscular frame. Her clawed feet clicked softly on the floor as she moved toward the large window that overlooked the gardens of the National House. The mist still hung low over the distant trees, wrapping the grounds in a thick, early morning haze, the air cool and still.

For a moment, she stood in silence, her hand resting on the cold glass. Her eyes, sharp and reflective, scanned the horizon as if seeking some answer in the growing light. The peace of the gardens, the beauty of the weeping willows, the neatly arranged paths—all of it felt surreal to her now. It seemed like a fragile illusion, something that could be shattered at any moment.

"Dark forces gather in the shadows..." Melkos’s words echoed in her mind, causing the ridges along her back to stiffen. Her tail flicked in agitation. There were always shadows in politics, but now—now she feared those shadows had faces, enemies that lurked far closer than she had ever imagined.

She flexed her clawed fingers, the sharp tips clicking lightly as her hand pressed against the window. The realization of betrayal gnawed at her. Who could she trust? Who among them had hidden their true intentions so deeply? And worse, how could she explain this to Mileethus without him dismissing it as simply a bad dream?

Her reptilian tongue flicked briefly between her lips, a subconscious habit when she was deep in thought. She had to tell him—there was no way to avoid it—but the timing had to be perfect. The enemy was already close, and any wrong step could give them the upper hand.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, the sound breaking through the heavy silence of the morning. Auristi's head turned sharply toward the sound, her jaw tensing, a sudden alertness rippling through her frame. Her instincts flared—it was too early for anyone to be here unless it was something urgent.

"Enter," she called softly, her voice firm, though her eyes remained narrowed.

The door opened quietly, and one of the human aides stepped in, bowing his head respectfully. He was dressed in the formal attire of the Presidential staff, his every movement precise and measured. In his hands, he carried a tray with tea and a light breakfast, but his posture suggested more than the usual morning routine. Behind him, a Military Policeman stood at attention, waiting just outside the doorway.

"Madam President," the aide spoke softly, his voice respectful but tinged with urgency. "Apologies for the early intrusion, but there is a staff meeting scheduled for 0630. I was instructed to bring your morning tea and inform you that the meeting will begin shortly."

Auristi nodded, the tension in her body lessening slightly. The formality of the situation reassured her, though the weight of Melkos’s words still lingered heavily in her mind.

"Thank you," she said, offering a brief but polite nod. Her voice remained controlled, though her mind still churned with the events of the night. The aide, sensing her need for privacy, quickly placed the tray on the table by the window and bowed again before retreating from the room. The Military Policeman gave a brief nod before stepping back and closing the door.

As the door clicked shut, Auristi remained standing by the window, her claws flexing lightly at her side. The morning mist outside had begun to lift, revealing more of the gardens, but it only seemed to reflect the rising fog in her own mind. She gazed at the steaming cup of tea, its scent wafting toward her, but found no desire to partake.

The storm Melkos had spoken of—it was closer than she had imagined. She could feel it, like the charge in the air before a thunderstorm, that electric tension that made her scales prickle. She had to act. There was no more time for doubt. Mileethus had to know what she had seen, what she had been warned of, and together they had to be prepared.

Turning away from the window, she padded softly across the floor, her tail swaying behind her with quiet determination. Mileethus still lay in peaceful slumber, but that peace wouldn’t last for much longer. She moved to the side of the bed, her hand resting gently on his shoulder, her claws grazing the edge of his scales. He stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open to meet hers.

"Good morning, my mate," Mileethus rumbled, his voice deep and soft, though still groggy from sleep.

Auristi’s eyes softened for a moment, but the urgency in her heart remained. "Good morning, my love," she replied, her voice low but steady. "There is something we must discuss."

Mileethus blinked, sensing the seriousness in her tone. He pushed himself up, his large frame towering above the bed as he regarded her with a concerned expression. "What is it?"

Auristi hesitated, her throat tightening. The words hung on the edge of her tongue, heavy with the weight of what was to come. "I had a dream," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "Or rather, a vision—a warning."

[Anagonia]

A Dream
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

With a sudden, violent gasp, the Marine awoke, his chest heaving as he coughed up lungs full of water. Each breath tore through him like fire, burning as his lungs desperately refilled with air. His body convulsed, shivering violently as the cold crept into every inch of him, leaving him trembling on the shore. The sensation of drowning still clung to his skin, as if the water had etched its cold fingers deep into his soul, even though his lungs were now painfully clear. He rolled onto his side, his body weak, muscles aching from the effort of survival. The wet sand beneath him was cold and unfamiliar, clinging to his skin as he dug his fingers into it, trying to ground himself in this strange place. He gasped for air, every inhale sharp and raw, his mind spinning from the shock of survival.

The air around him was unnaturally heavy, still as death, the sound of his labored breathing the only break in the silence. His pulse pounded in his ears, loud and erratic, but slowly, as he gripped the soft grains of sand beneath him, his breath began to steady. The cold, though, remained—not just in his skin, but deep within his bones, as if some part of him had been touched by the abyss and would never be warm again.

He blinked, his vision slowly clearing, and he looked up. The sky above him stretched endlessly, a vast canvas of stars scattered across the deep purples and blues of the cosmos. They shimmered and pulsed like distant fires, their light casting faint, ethereal glows over the still water beside him. There were no clouds, no wind, only the vastness of the universe, each star shining with a brilliance that felt too close, too real. The constellations, unrecognizable to him, seemed to shift and swirl in slow, deliberate patterns, as if they were alive, moving in ways that defied logic and understanding.

He coughed again, the faint taste of salt still lingering on his tongue, and sat up on his knees. His body ached with every movement, but the disorientation faded, replaced by awe. The sky was not just a blanket of stars—it was alive with motion. Nebulas stretched across the heavens, vast clouds of pink, blue, and gold, swirling lazily as though time moved differently here. In the far distance, the edge of a galaxy spiraled, its core a bright, glowing center that sent soft ripples of light cascading through the night. It was a view beyond anything he had ever known—as if he had been placed at the very edge of the universe, where time and space bent in ways incomprehensible to the human mind.

The water beside him was eerily still, its surface as smooth as glass, reflecting the starry expanse above in perfect clarity. The reflection was so flawless that for a moment, he couldn’t tell where the sky ended and the sea began. It was as though he was suspended between two infinite worlds, trapped in the liminal space between them. The horizon stretched far beyond what his eyes could see, disappearing into a thick, shimmering mist that blurred the boundary between earth and sky, leaving him stranded in an otherworldly realm. And yet, there was no fear in his heart—only a deep, profound awe, as if he had been touched by something far greater than himself.

Galaxies spun in the distance, their spirals glowing faintly against the backdrop of stars. Clusters of light seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat, as though the very fabric of the universe was responding to his presence. It was as if he had been placed at the very edge of creation, where the known world ended and the vast, eternal unknown began.

Suddenly, the silence deepened, and with it, a presence made itself known. The Marine's sharp instincts, honed through battle and service, flared. But this presence did not bring danger—it brought something else entirely. A pull. An undeniable weight, ancient and powerful, that drew his very soul toward it, like a long-forgotten melody remembered from a distant past. He could feel it in his bones, a magnetic pull that tugged at his spirit, urging him toward what was to come.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, he turned his head, and there, just beyond the crest of the shore, stood Melkos.

The figure shimmered between forms, but it was the skeletal shape that gripped the Marine's heart, for this was the Melkos he had always known—the god of death, the eternal guide of souls. His long, bony fingers stretched out from the swirling darkness, red orbs floating within the void of his eye sockets, casting a faint, mesmerizing glow that pierced the Marine’s very essence. This was no mere myth, no legend recounted in the sacred texts. This was the god himself, a presence beyond comprehension, standing before him.

Melkos's form shifted only briefly to that of a regal Snow Elf, but the Marine hardly registered it. The fleeting image of the elf was something out of the writings, something many overlooked or dismissed, but it was the skeletal visage—the hooded spectre—that resonated with the Marine’s soul. It was the Melkos he had been raised to revere, the embodiment of death, whose hand guided the living toward their inevitable end. His cloak was not fabric, but an ethereal shroud of swirling dark energy, spiraling outward like tendrils of night, as though the very air warped under the sheer gravity of his presence. The Marine felt the world around him bend, the space between them contracting as if time itself had stilled.

His throat tightened as he stared at the figure before him, but not from fear. No, there was no fear—only awe, reverence, and a strange, profound joy. This was Melkos, the god of death, the lord who watched over them all, not just as the final embrace, but as a protector, a shepherd for the soul. To see him here, in the flesh—or rather, in the bone—was an experience too sacred to comprehend.

The Marine’s heart pounded, but not with anxiety—with overwhelming bliss. His soul, steeped in the teachings of Drekanity, recognized the pull of Melkos immediately. It was like coming home, like standing in the presence of an undeniable truth. He felt a deep, instinctual need to submit, to honor the figure before him in the only way he knew how.

Without hesitation, his legs gave way, and he dropped to one knee, bowing his head low. It was not out of weakness, but out of reverence. The weight of Melkos’s presence demanded it, and his heart welcomed it. His voice, usually steady and sure in battle, now trembled with awe. “Lord,” he whispered, the word falling from his lips like a prayer. “Melkos, Lord of Death, Shepherd of Souls, I am in your presence.”

Melkos's red orbs flickered faintly, their light bathing the Marine in a soft, ethereal glow. The skeletal figure seemed to grow taller, his presence expanding, as if the very fabric of reality struggled to contain him. The Marine could feel the warmth of that gaze, the recognition of a soul who had followed the path, who had lived in service and honor.

As Melkos took a step forward, his skeletal feet brushing the sand without disturbing it, the air seemed to hum with divine energy. The Marine’s senses were overwhelmed—every breath he took seemed to fill his body with light, as though the very presence of Melkos purified the air. This was not the cold, grim figure of death that others feared. No, to the Marine, this was bliss, this was transcendence. Melkos was not merely the end—he was the beginning, the eternal cycle, and the god who would guide him through whatever lay ahead.

Melkos’s form loomed above him now, his skeletal hand outstretched as though to bless the kneeling Marine. The darkness that swirled around him did not suffocate; it embraced, it enveloped him in peace. And though the Marine trembled under the weight of it all, it was not out of fear. It was the sheer enormity of standing before the divine, of being seen by the god of death himself.

“Rise, soldier of Anagonia,” Melkos’s voice, deep and resonant, rippled through the air like a quiet storm. It echoed with the power of millennia, the authority of one who had seen the beginning and the end of all things. “You have been chosen. The path before you is perilous, and the trials ahead will demand more than you have ever given. But you are not alone, and I am with you.”

The Marine, still kneeling, dared to lift his gaze slightly, his heart pounding with a mixture of reverence and anticipation. He could feel the gravity of the encounter, the unspoken promise that something far greater than himself was about to be revealed. His voice, still trembling with awe, found its way past his lips, carried by his deep sense of duty.

“What is needed of me, my Lord?” His words were quiet but filled with determination. He was a soldier, trained to follow orders, to carry out his duty no matter the cost. And here, before the god of death, the question seemed not just necessary, but inevitable.

For a long moment, Melkos did not respond. The silence deepened, and the Marine could feel the earth beneath him vibrating ever so slightly, as if the world itself awaited the answer. When Melkos finally spoke, his voice was like the stirring of a distant storm, a sound ancient and powerful, yet carrying with it the warmth of a promise.

“You have been chosen, soldier of Anagonia,” Melkos began, his voice echoing through the still air, vibrating not only in the Marine’s ears but in his very soul. “Not for what you are, but for what you must become.” The skeletal figure took a slow, deliberate step forward, the darkness around him swirling like smoke, but never obscuring his form. His gaze held the Marine’s steady, unflinching.

“The path ahead is fraught with peril,” Melkos continued, his tone both a warning and a reassurance. “War will come, as it always does, and with it, great trials.” His skeletal hand lowered slightly, as if offering both a command and a benediction. “But your purpose is not only to fight. It is to endure, to stand firm when others fall, to be the flame that does not extinguish when the winds of war blow strongest.”

The Marine’s heart pounded harder now. War. He had been born into it, trained for it, lived it. But there was something in Melkos’s words that went beyond the battlefield, beyond mere combat. There was a weight, a truth, that he couldn’t yet fully grasp. And yet, he knew his role was greater than any individual battle.

“But how, my Lord?” the Marine asked, his voice filled with the humility of one seeking guidance. “How will I know what to do when the time comes?”

Melkos’s red orbs flickered again, and for a brief moment, his skeletal form seemed to grow taller, more imposing. The cloak of swirling darkness around him seemed to pulse, as though the very fabric of existence responded to his will. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, but filled with the weight of the ages.

“The future is not written in certainty, only in possibility,” Melkos intoned, his words cryptic, yet heavy with meaning. “What you will face, you cannot yet see. But know this: I am with you. And when the moment arrives, you will feel the pull of your purpose as surely as you feel the earth beneath your feet now.”

The Marine bowed his head once more, his spirit filled not with clarity, but with a deep, unshakable resolve. There was no fear now, only a sense of duty, of belonging to something far greater than himself. He was not alone. Whatever came, he would face it with the knowledge that Melkos watched over him, that he had been chosen for a purpose far beyond his understanding.

Melkos’s gaze softened, or at least, the Marine felt it did, as though the god of death, in his infinite wisdom, offered a moment of quiet assurance. “You are my child,” Melkos said, his voice low but filled with warmth. “And in the darkest moments, when all seems lost, remember this: hope endures. You will endure.”

With that, the air around them began to shift, the weight of Melkos’s presence starting to fade, but not entirely. The Marine could still feel the divine warmth, the pull that had first drawn him here, and he knew that Melkos’s words, though cryptic, had given him exactly what he needed—strength, and the promise that he was never truly alone.

As Melkos’s form shimmered once more, blending into the darkness, his final words lingered in the air like a quiet benediction: “Rise, soldier of Anagonia. Stand tall, for the storm is coming, but you shall weather it.”

The Marine, his soul alight with purpose, rose to his feet, his heart steady, his mind clear. He had been chosen, and he would stand firm, no matter what lay ahead. As he felt the surety within him, the world around him faded into obscurity, yet the feelings remained.

---

The Wheeler Household
Saturday, September 28th, 108 AUR
0600 Hours Anagonian Standard Time
Solara Vista, Territory of Ashilosa, CSA

Ethan Wheeler awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream still clinging to him like a shadow. His body, stiff from the vividness of the vision, slowly relaxed as he sat up in bed. The quiet hum of the early morning filtered in through the half-drawn curtains, the soft light of dawn barely touching the edges of the room. But the dream—the encounter—was still sharp in his mind, Melkos’s words ringing in his ears as if the god had only just left his side.

Beside him, Layla stirred, her breathing deep and even as she turned onto her side, still wrapped in sleep’s embrace. Her dark hair spilled over the pillow, and for a moment, Ethan found himself staring at her, trying to shake off the gravity of what he had experienced. Their life together had always been simple, grounded, and their time apart during his deployments only made these quiet mornings more precious. He hadn’t wanted to think about anything else while on leave, just the present—just his family.

But the dream wouldn’t let go.

Ethan ran a hand over his face, the stubble on his jaw rough under his fingers, and glanced over at the small digital clock on the nightstand. 0600 Hours. Too early to be fully awake, but sleep was no longer an option. Melkos’s words were branded into his thoughts: “You have been chosen. The storm is coming, but you shall weather it.”

What storm? What trials? He couldn’t shake the feeling that something vast and incomprehensible was on the horizon, and the weight of that knowledge pressed heavily on his chest.

A soft rustling from the next room caught his attention, and he knew that their son, Aiden, was likely waking up. The six-year-old boy had a habit of rising with the sun, his boundless energy impossible to contain even in the early hours of the morning. Ethan smiled despite himself, the familiar domestic sound pulling him out of the fog of his thoughts. Aiden’s bright eyes and wild curls were the essence of joy, and moments with him were a grounding force in Ethan’s life.

Quietly, Ethan slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Layla, and padded across the wooden floor to check on his son. He found Aiden sitting upright in bed, his stuffed dragon tucked under one arm, rubbing his eyes with the other.

“Morning, Dad,” Aiden said with a yawn, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning, buddy,” Ethan replied, ruffling his son’s hair. The normalcy of the scene helped ease the tension that had taken root in his chest, but he could still feel the echo of the dream in his bones.

As they prepared for the day, the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the house. Layla joined them shortly after, her warm smile greeting Ethan as she placed a hand on his arm. “Ready for Church?” she asked, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

Ethan nodded, though his thoughts were far from the quiet comfort of Drekan Church. “Yeah, I think so.” He forced a smile, though Layla’s eyes lingered on him a moment longer, as if sensing something was off.

“Aiden, go wash up and get dressed, okay?” Layla called after their son, who had already darted toward the bathroom, his small feet thudding against the floor.

As Layla moved to start breakfast, Ethan found himself staring out of the kitchen window. The sunrise bathed the landscape in a soft glow, the rolling hills of Ashilosa stretching out like a peaceful painting. But there was an undercurrent of unease beneath the calm exterior. The dream still pressed on his mind, and as they prepared for Church, he couldn’t help but think about what the Preacher might say. He needed answers—needed to understand what Melkos had shown him.

As Layla watched Ethan stare out the kitchen window, her intuition, sharpened over years of marriage, told her something was wrong. She set the pan down gently on the stove, wiping her hands on a towel before stepping closer to him.

“You alright, Ethan?” she asked softly, her voice filled with concern. She placed a hand on his arm, the warmth of her touch breaking through the fog in his mind.

Ethan blinked, turning slightly to face her. He forced a small smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied, though he could tell she wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t ready to dive into the depths of what he had experienced—at least not yet.

Layla’s brow furrowed as she studied him. “Come on, now. I know you better than that.” She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “Something’s bothering you. Was it a bad dream?”

Ethan hesitated, his eyes flicking briefly to the floor before nodding. “Yeah… you could say that.” His voice was low, almost reluctant to admit even that much. The vision of Melkos still lingered, heavy in his chest, but he didn’t want to worry her with the weight of it just yet.

Layla’s gaze softened, and she took a step closer, resting her head gently on his shoulder. “I know you, Ethan. You’re faithful, you’re strong, but sometimes even you need to talk to someone.” Her voice was calm, reassuring, as though she could sense the storm brewing behind his quiet demeanor.

He exhaled slowly, her words sinking into him like a balm, though the tightness in his chest remained. “Maybe,” he murmured, still playing coy, though the dream gnawed at him.

“Maybe, nothing,” she replied with a soft smile. “Why don’t you talk to the Preacher Counselor today? They’ll be there after the service like always. You know they’ll listen.”

Ethan paused, then nodded, grateful for her gentle understanding. Layla always knew how to navigate his silences, offering solutions without pushing too hard.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he admitted, finally relenting. “I think I’ll do that.”

Layla pulled back slightly to look up at him, her hand brushing lightly against his chest. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone. We’ve got you, you know?” Her voice was warm, a quiet assurance that no matter what weighed on him, they would face it together.

Ethan managed a more genuine smile this time, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “Thanks, Layla.”

She smiled back, a playful glint in her eyes now. “Alright, big guy, finish getting ready. We’re not going to be late for Church just because you’re daydreaming at the window.”

As the family ate their small breakfast, they finished their preparations and were dressed and out the door shortly thereafter. For Ethan, the dream still lingered, fresh in his mind. His wife had a sound advice to consult the Preacher Counselor, his mind now set on taking up the possibility.

---

Solara Vista Drekan Church
0730 Hours Anagonian Standard Time
Solara Vista, Territory of Ashilosa, CSA

The Wheeler family’s SUV glided into the church parking lot, its smooth, modern design a staple of Anagonian Motors. The vehicle was sleek, efficient, built for families like theirs who needed something reliable. Ethan parked the SUV near the front, close enough to see the quaint, brick building that housed their local Drekan Church. The grounds were well-maintained, with neatly trimmed hedges lining the walkway and freshly cut grass framing the property. Though simple, the church’s modest design exuded warmth and care—a reflection of its community and faith.

The building itself, constructed from dark red brick, stood sturdy and welcoming, its clean lines drawing the eye to the wide entrance framed by wooden doors. There was no steeple, no grand façade—just a humble place of worship nestled against the backdrop of the rolling hills of Ashilosa. A small sign outside, written in elegant script, read: “Solara Vista Drekan Church—All are Welcome.”

Ethan, Layla, and Aiden stepped out of the SUV, the cool morning air invigorating them as they made their way toward the entrance. Aiden skipped ahead, his enthusiasm undeterred by the solemnity of the church, while Ethan and Layla followed at a slower pace. The dream still weighed heavily on Ethan’s mind, but he tried to focus on the moment, on the peaceful routine of their Saturday service.

As they approached the front doors, they were greeted by Preacher Alden Verros, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a calm, reassuring presence. He stood by the entryway, arms open in welcome, his well-worn Bible tucked under one arm. A few parishioners were already trickling in, exchanging quiet greetings as they entered the church.

“Brother Wheeler, Sister Layla, young Aiden,” Preacher Verros called warmly as they approached. His voice was deep, measured, with the kind of cadence that made you feel instantly at ease. He had been educated in the Imperial Drekamythian Empire, like many Drekan Preachers, but his tone reflected the softer, more inclusive teachings celebrated in Anagonia. “It’s good to see you this morning. Melkos bless you all.”

“Morning, Preacher,” Ethan replied, shaking the man’s hand firmly. The preacher’s grip was steady, and his eyes were full of kindness, though Ethan felt a faint flicker of tension beneath his own surface.

Preacher Verros’s eyes lingered on Ethan briefly, his perceptive nature noticing something amiss, but he said nothing for the moment, merely offering a comforting smile. “May your faith be strong today, Brother.”

Layla gave the Preacher a polite nod as they passed, leading Aiden into the church. Ethan followed, though his thoughts strayed back to the vision he couldn’t shake.

The interior of the church was simple but beautiful. The wooden pews were arranged in neat rows, the smooth grain of the wood polished to a soft sheen from years of use. At the front of the sanctuary stood a modest pulpit, crafted from the same dark wood, and behind it hung symbols of Drekanity—an elegant depiction of a dragon, its wings outstretched in a protective arc, and beneath it, the symbol of Melkos, a skeletal hand cradling a flame, representing life, death, and the eternal cycle of the soul.

Ethan and his family took their seats near the middle, Aiden fidgeting with his stuffed dragon, as they settled in for the service. The familiar rituals of worship unfolded—the quiet prayers, the soft hum of conversation before the sermon. Ethan’s mind drifted, his focus flickering between the present and the distant memory of Melkos’s voice. Layla, sensing his distraction, rested her hand on his knee, grounding him in the moment.

Preacher Verros took the pulpit, the light from the stained-glass windows casting a soft glow over the room. He opened his Bible with practiced ease, turning to a passage from the Holy Necronomicon. His voice, deep and steady, echoed through the room as he began the sermon.

“Brothers and sisters, today we look to the words of Melkos, recorded long ago in the Holy Necronomicon. We turn now to the New Sacrament, under the First Disciple of Melkos, Josephus Alexandrius. He spoke to us of faith, not only in the good times but in the stormy times, when we feel lost and without purpose. ‘Hold fast to the light within,’ He said, ‘for the storm is but a passing veil, and you are the flame that shall endure.’”

Ethan’s heart stirred at the words, as though they were meant specifically for him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this message—a message of holding strong, of enduring—was directly tied to the vision he had received. His thoughts were a tangled web of fear, duty, and a deep need for understanding.

As the congregation began to sing a familiar hymn, Layla’s voice harmonizing with the others, Ethan took a deep breath and slipped out of the pew, moving quietly toward the back of the church. The Preacher Counselor's office was just down the hall, and he knew this was the time to seek counsel, to ask the questions that weighed so heavily on his heart.

---

Ethan walked quietly down the hall, the familiar sound of the congregation’s hymn fading behind him. The soft hum of voices, Layla’s harmonizing voice among them, felt distant now, as though the world behind him was slipping away, leaving only the weight of his thoughts and the words of Melkos in his mind.

The Preacher Counselor’s office was just ahead, the door slightly ajar, and through the gap, he could hear the quiet murmur of conversation. Ethan hesitated for a moment, gathering himself. He had come this far, but the dream still felt too vast to put into words. What if it was nothing? What if it was everything?

Taking a deep breath, Ethan stepped forward and knocked gently on the door.

“Come in,” came the familiar voice of Preacher Counselor Abel Ren from inside, deep and welcoming. Ethan pushed the door open and entered the office.

Preacher Ren was seated behind a modest wooden desk, his eyes lifting from a scripture he had been reading. He was a kind man in his late fifties, with graying hair and a gentle demeanor that had always put Ethan at ease. Trained in the Imperial Drekamythian Empire like his fellow clergy, Ren’s soft voice and warm nature had made him a trusted counselor for many in the congregation.

However, what caught Ethan’s eye first was the homeless man seated near the desk. His appearance was rough, his clothes well-worn and patched, his face lined with the marks of hardship. He sat quietly, eating a simple meal that Preacher Ren had provided, as was expected of Drekan Preachers to care for those in need.

Preacher Ren smiled as Ethan entered, his eyes full of understanding. “Brother Wheeler, please, come in.” He gestured to a chair across from the desk. The homeless man glanced up briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning to his meal.

Ethan hesitated again, his eyes flickering to the stranger, but he offered a polite nod before sitting down across from the Preacher Counselor. Ren, sensing Ethan’s unease, leaned forward slightly. “You don’t need to worry about our guest. He’s in good hands.”

Ethan managed a small smile. “Thanks, Preacher.”

There was a brief silence, the only sound in the room the quiet clink of the homeless man’s spoon against his bowl. Ethan cleared his throat, feeling the weight of the conversation ahead settle on his chest.

“I… I had a dream last night,” Ethan began, his voice low. “But it wasn’t like any dream I’ve had before. It felt... real. Too real.” He paused, his hands resting on his knees, fingers tapping lightly as he gathered his thoughts.

Ren’s gaze never wavered, his expression calm and inviting. “Tell me about it, Brother. What did you see?”

Ethan took a deep breath and began. “I was drowning, or at least, it felt like I was. But then I was pulled out, onto this beach. And there, standing before me, was... Melkos.”

At the mention of Melkos, the homeless man shifted slightly in his seat, but his attention remained on his meal. Preacher Ren, however, didn’t flinch. Instead, his brow furrowed slightly, his expression becoming more focused.

“Melkos, you say?” Ren asked, his tone careful but curious. “What did He say to you?”

Ethan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “He told me I had been chosen. That... that war is coming, and I need to be ready. He didn’t give me specifics, but it felt like a warning—like I’m supposed to do something, but I don’t know what.”

Ren leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced together as he considered Ethan’s words. “It sounds like a profound vision, Brother Wheeler. Melkos speaks to us in many ways, and it’s rare for His voice to be so direct.” Ren paused, his gaze flicking to the symbols of Melkos on the wall behind him—the skeletal hand cradling the eternal flame. “War, you say. Ashilosa has been tense for a long time, but if Melkos has warned you...” His voice trailed off, his thoughts clearly turning inward.

“What do you think it means?” Ethan asked, his voice filled with a mix of anxiety and hope. “I mean, why me? I’m just one man.”

Preacher Ren’s eyes softened. “Melkos doesn’t choose lightly, Brother. If He spoke to you, then there is a reason. Perhaps it’s because of your role in the Corps, your leadership, your faith. But one thing is certain: His warnings are not meant to bring fear, but to prepare us.”

Ethan nodded slowly, though the weight of Melkos’s message still hung heavy in his chest. “I just don’t know what to do. What if I fail?”

Ren smiled gently. “We are never given more than we can bear, even if it seems overwhelming at the time. Trust in your faith, trust in Melkos’s guidance, and when the time comes, you will know what to do.” He leaned forward again, his voice soft but firm. “You are not alone, Ethan. Remember that. You have your family, your comrades, and most importantly, you have Melkos watching over you. He chose you for a reason.”

For a moment, the room fell into a comfortable silence, the only sound the steady ticking of a small clock on the wall. Ethan felt a bit lighter, though the unknown still loomed large. He glanced again at the homeless man, who was now watching them silently, his eyes meeting Ethan’s for just a second before shifting away.

Ren stood up, walking over to a small shelf where he pulled out a worn copy of the Holy Necronomicon. It was a smaller version, designed for inspirational passages and texts. This one was specifically from the First Disciple. “If you wish, take this with you. I find that in times of uncertainty, the words of the First Disciple offer great clarity. Josephus Alexandrius often wrote of the trials of faith, and I believe you may find some comfort in his words.”

Ethan took the book, the worn leather cover smooth under his fingers. “Thank you, Preacher,” he said quietly, standing to leave. His heart still ached with uncertainty, but Preacher Ren’s words had provided a small flame of reassurance.

As he turned to leave, Preacher Ren spoke once more, “Remember, Brother Wheeler—Melkos’s hand guides us all. You won’t face this alone.”

Ethan nodded, giving the homeless man one last glance before stepping out of the room.

---

As the door closed behind Ethan, Preacher Abel Ren remained seated for a moment, his eyes drifting toward the symbols of Melkos on the wall. The conversation with Ethan weighed heavily on his mind, and though he had offered the man counsel, he couldn’t shake the unease settling into his bones.

A dream about Melkos was no small thing, and while Ren had counseled others on matters of faith, this felt different. There was an urgency to Ethan’s words, a clarity that troubled him. The warnings of war, of being chosen by Melkos... It was powerful, but part of him wondered if it could truly be so. Why Ethan? Why now?

Ren’s faith had always been steadfast, but the growing tensions in Ashilosa, the whispers of rebellion, the undercurrents of unrest—it all gnawed at the edges of his certainty. War. Could it really be coming?

He sighed softly, rubbing his temple as he leaned back in his chair. The scriptures often spoke of trials and tribulations, of faith in times of darkness, but this was something else. Could Ethan truly be a vanguard of something greater? Was Melkos moving in ways Ren couldn’t yet see?

Lost in thought, Abel didn’t notice the homeless man had stopped eating, his spoon now resting quietly in his bowl. The man shifted slightly in his seat, his posture changing from slouched to something more deliberate, more composed.

"You’re uncertain," the homeless man said softly, his voice carrying a calmness that sent a ripple through the room.

Ren blinked, startled by the sudden shift in the man’s tone. He looked up, his brow furrowing in confusion. The man had barely spoken when Ethan was there, and now, his presence felt... different.

"Doubt weighs on your heart, Preacher," the man continued, his voice deepening, taking on a resonance that didn’t fit his ragged appearance. "You question what you’ve just heard. You wonder if the storm will come, or if it's just a passing cloud."

Abel’s pulse quickened, his eyes narrowing as he studied the man more closely. There was something strange in his manner now, something that hadn’t been there before. The man, once quiet and unassuming, now exuded a presence that made the air feel heavier.

"Who... are you?" Ren asked quietly, though he already suspected the answer.

The homeless man smiled, though there was something otherworldly about it, something that sent a shiver down Abel’s spine. Slowly, the man’s form began to shift, his tattered clothing dissolving into tendrils of shadow. His face elongated, the skin pulling back to reveal the gleaming white of a skeletal grin. The red orbs that had once been hidden beneath a hood now flickered into existence, glowing faintly as they settled into the empty sockets of his skull.

“You know who I am, Abel,” came the voice, no longer the voice of a man, but the ancient, commanding voice of Melkos. The very air in the room seemed to warp around him, as though reality itself was bending under the weight of his presence.

Abel’s breath caught in his throat, and his hands gripped the arms of his chair tightly. There was no mistaking it now—the god of death stood before him, his skeletal form cloaked in swirling darkness, the very embodiment of life’s end and the eternal flame that carried it onward.

The air in the Preacher’s office thickened, reality warping as Melkos stood before Abel Ren, his skeletal form towering and cloaked in swirling darkness. The room seemed to pulse, shifting between the present and another plane—a sandy beach under the endless expanse of a starry Milky Way sky. It was as if the world was suspended between dimensions, each flicker of time a collision of the mortal and the divine.

Abel’s eyes widened, his breath quickening as the sand beneath his feet mixed with the cold, hard floor of the office. He could feel it shifting between two worlds—reality fraying at the edges. The stars above shimmered with ancient power, their light casting a faint glow over the beach.

Melkos, still cloaked in darkness, took a step forward. But with each movement, his form began to change, the skeletal visage melting away, giving way to something more familiar, more ancient. His figure shimmered with a soft, ethereal light, and where the god of death had once stood, now stood a tall Snow Elf, ageless and regal.

Long silver hair cascaded down his shoulders, framing a face both serene and commanding. His eyes, though filled with the same endless wisdom, were no longer hollow voids but piercing, ancient eyes that gleamed with power. His features were sharp, elegant, a living embodiment of the first teachings of Melkos, the form most known to those deeply entrenched in the faith.

“Isilindil Mithrandír,” Melkos said softly, his voice now smooth and measured, resonating with the authority of millennia. “That is my name, as it has been since the beginning of time. And you, Abel, you know me. You have taught of me, preached my word. Yet... you doubt.”

Abel took an unsteady step back, his heart racing as the god’s words sank deep into his soul. “I... I don’t understand,” he stammered, shaking his head. “I’ve studied the scriptures, I know of you. But this—this is impossible. You are here before me, but—”

“You doubt what you see, what you know to be true,” Melkos interrupted, his tone sharp now, his presence growing even more commanding. The power in his words sent tremors through the very ground, the sand rippling beneath their feet as the stars overhead pulsed in unison.

Abel could feel his faith wavering—not in Melkos, but in himself. How could he, a simple Preacher, be standing here in the presence of the god he had devoted his life to? The enormity of the moment overwhelmed him, and in a moment of doubt, he faltered.

“You think you can teach and lead without absolute belief?” Melkos’s voice cut through the air like a blade, his ancient eyes narrowing with divine authority. He raised one hand, and the air between them crackled with energy. “Do you not remember the words of Rikor Hak, the Second Disciple? He too faced doubt in the face of impossible trials.”

As Melkos spoke, the stars above them seemed to shift, aligning with purpose, their light intensifying. “Rikor Hak was given the blessing of Dragon Tongue to unite those who could not be united, to bridge the divide between the Anglo tribes and the Native Anagonians. His faith, his resolve, and his belief in me is what gave him the strength to wield that power.”

The air grew cold, and with a flick of his wrist, Melkos summoned a gust of wind that whipped through the space, forcing Abel to his knees. The Preacher gasped as the divine force pressed down upon him, the sand beneath his hands feeling as real as the stone floor had moments ago.

“Rikor spoke these words in the New Sacrament,” Melkos intoned, his voice a deep rumble. “‘Hold fast to your belief, for it is the only flame that shall guide you through the veil of the storm. Without it, you are lost, a ship adrift with no shore in sight. But with faith, you are unbreakable, a force that shall bend even the heavens to your will.’”

The words hit Abel with the weight of a thousand years of scripture, the authority behind them undeniable. The power of the Holy Necronomicon coursed through him, and he could feel the full weight of what it meant to doubt—not just Melkos, but the very foundation of his own belief.

“I... I am sorry, my Lord,” Abel gasped, his hands trembling as he knelt before the ancient god. “I did not mean to doubt. It’s just—so much is happening, so much is uncertain. How can I guide them when I myself...” He trailed off, the shame in his voice clear.

Melkos’s gaze softened, though the power in his presence remained. “Faith is not the absence of doubt, Preacher. It is the choice to believe in spite of it. You will face many storms, Abel Ren, but you will not face them alone.” He paused, his voice now carrying a warmth that Abel hadn’t expected. “Rikor Hak stood alone in his trials, but you... you have the teachings, the faith of many generations behind you. Use them. And believe.”

With that, the air around them began to shift again, the sandy beach and the starry sky receding, slowly blending back into the familiar walls of the Preacher’s office. The weight pressing on Abel’s chest lifted, but the memory of it—the raw power, the authority of Melkos—remained. His knees still dug into the floor, and as he looked up, the god’s form shimmered one last time before dissolving into shadow once more.

“Remember the words of Rikor Hak, Abel,” Melkos’s voice whispered, fading into the air. “For they will guide you in the days to come.”

Abel remained on his knees, his chest heaving as he slowly regained his breath. His hands trembled, but his heart was steady now, filled not with doubt, but with a renewed sense of purpose.

---

The Wheeler Household
Saturday, September 28th, 108 AUR
0900 Hours Anagonian Standard Time
Solara Vista, Territory of Ashilosa, CSA

The Anagonian Motors SUV pulled into the driveway, the engine quietly fading as Ethan parked. Layla and Aiden sat beside him, Aiden still clutching his stuffed dragon as he gazed out the window, his excitement from the service bubbling beneath the surface. Ethan glanced over at his family, his heart full as they all stepped out into the warmth of the day.

The morning sunlight bathed their home in golden light, casting soft shadows across the porch and yard. The scent of freshly cut grass lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of the flowers Layla had planted along the walkway. Everything about the moment felt peaceful, almost as if the storm in Ethan’s mind had finally settled after the sermon and the time spent in the Preacher’s office.

As they walked up the path, Aiden skipped ahead, clutching his dragon close, while Ethan and Layla trailed behind. Layla glanced over at Ethan, sensing the change in him, the shift in his mood. The weight that had hung over him since the dream seemed lighter now, his posture more relaxed, his steps more certain.

“You seem different,” she said softly, her hand slipping into his. “I can feel it. Did the Preacher Counselor help?”

Ethan nodded, squeezing her hand gently as they walked. “Yeah. He really did. I needed that conversation more than I thought.” His voice was calm now, no longer burdened with doubt. The certainty of his faith had returned, solid and reassuring.

Layla smiled as they reached the porch, her eyes searching his. “What did he say?”

Ethan paused, glancing back at Aiden, who was already running toward the door. He then turned back to her, his voice quiet but resolute. “I was worried—about the dream, about what it meant. But now I know. I don’t have all the answers, but I have faith. Melkos is guiding me, and I’m ready for whatever’s coming.”

Layla’s gaze softened, and she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I knew you’d find your way through it, Ethan. You always do. And we’ll face whatever’s ahead together.”

Ethan smiled, his heart full, wrapping his arm around her as they reached the front door. “I know. And I’m grateful for you, for Aiden—for everything.”

As his wife and child stepped inside, Aiden’s laughter filled the air, running ahead with his stuffed dragon clutched in hand. Ethan watched him go, a sense of quiet peace settling over him. His worries had not vanished, but they had transformed into a quiet confidence. His faith was firm, his resolve steady.

Inside the house, the sound of Aiden’s laughter echoed softly as he played, Layla’s voice blending in with the warm domestic hum. Ethan stood on the front porch, his eyes drifting over the familiar landscape—the trees swaying gently in the breeze, the golden light of morning casting soft shadows across the yard. There was a calmness here, but his thoughts were already shifting forward, to the week ahead, to his return to the Corps.

The stillness of the moment was interrupted by a sudden shift in the air—a powerful gust of wind that swept across the yard. Ethan looked up, his eyes narrowing as the sky above seemed to darken for just a moment, the silhouette of something vast cutting across the sun.

A shadow passed over him, and then he saw it—a Drekamythian Dragon, its massive wings stretched wide as it soared gracefully through the sky. Its scales glimmered in the sunlight, reflecting hues of gold and silver, and as it flew overhead, its form casting a long shadow over the house, its presence awe-inspiring.

For a moment, the Dragon’s eyes locked with Ethan’s, its gaze piercing through him, powerful and ancient. Time seemed to slow, and in that brief circle, there was an unspoken understanding. The Dragon’s presence was not a coincidence—it was a sign, a silent affirmation of what Ethan had been grappling with.

The weight of the dream, the warning of war, the words of Melkos—it all crystallized in that instant. Ethan felt no fear, only a quiet sense of purpose. The Dragon’s gaze was almost a reassurance, a reminder of the divine power that watched over him, that had called him to a greater role. It was a confirmation of his place in the world, of the trials he would face and the strength he would need.

As the Dragon flew onward, its wings cutting through the sky with a graceful rhythm, Ethan’s heart settled into a calm certainty. He stood there for a long moment, watching as the Dragon’s form became smaller, blending into the horizon until it disappeared entirely.

With a deep breath, Ethan turned back toward the house, his mind clear, his resolve unwavering. The quiet comfort of home surrounded him, but his thoughts were already on the days to come—his return to the Corps, his duty, and the unknown trials that awaited him. He held firmly to the pocket Holy Necronomicon given to him by the Preacher earlier, a quiet comfort as his thoughts fully cleared.

He would be ready.

[Anagonia]

Solara Vista Drekan Church
1030 Hours Anagonian Standard Time
Solara Vista, Territory of Ashilosa, CSA

Preacher Verros entered the office, his steps confident as he approached the desk where Abel Ren sat, deep in thought. Verros’s presence filled the room, the casual weight of a man long accustomed to leading his flock. Abel glanced up, his expression still shadowed by the recent encounter with the visitor—Mr. Matthews—who was more than he seemed.

“Abel, a word?” Verros asked, his tone casual but curious. He moved further into the room, taking a seat opposite Abel. “I heard you had an interesting visitor this morning. Matthews, wasn’t it? A homeless man?”

Abel nodded, though his expression remained troubled. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke carefully. “It wasn’t just any man, Verros. I believe it was Melkos.”

Verros frowned slightly, the skepticism clear in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Melkos? Abel, let’s not get carried away. We’re here to guide the flock, not to see visions. Matthews was likely just a man in need, nothing more.”

Abel shook his head, the conviction in his voice growing. “No, Verros. I saw him change. He confronted me—challenged my faith. This wasn’t just a lost soul looking for help. He came with purpose.”

Verros sighed, rubbing his temples as if he were dealing with a trivial concern. “Abel, you’re letting your imagination get the best of you. You’ve been under pressure lately. We both have. But we need to focus on the real work—shepherding this congregation. Don’t get lost in fantasy.”

Before Abel could respond, the air around them grew heavy, the temperature in the room dropping sharply. The stillness was palpable—a silence so complete that even the soft hum of the church grounds seemed to disappear. Verros’s voice trailed off, his brow furrowing as he sensed something was wrong. His eyes darted around the room.

Abel felt it too, his heart quickening as a strange pressure filled the space. Something was happening—something beyond them. His breath caught in his throat as his gaze shifted toward the corner of the room, where a pair of red, reptilian eyes materialized, hovering in the shadowed corner like two burning coals.

Verros froze, his hand halfway to his face. The air around him thickened, as though the very atmosphere responded to the presence now forming in the room. The temperature dropped, not from cold, but from an otherworldly stillness that seemed to seep into his bones. His entire body stiffened, locked in place as the two glowing red orbs hovered in the corner of the room, focused entirely on him.

The eyes—brilliant, predatory, ancient—gleamed with a light that was both hypnotic and terrifying, like the gaze of a creature that had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations. They burned with intensity, far beyond anything human, their fiery glow cutting through the shadows like blades of crimson light. The sheer power in those eyes made Abel instinctively pull back in his chair, his breath catching in his throat. They were not simply watching—they were judging.

Slowly, from the darkness, the creature began to emerge, his presence filling the room before his form even fully materialized. The shadows peeled away, as though the Drekamythian was stepping through a veil between worlds. His figure was immense, tall and regal, draped in scales of dark blue that shimmered faintly under the low light, each scale reflecting the glow of the red eyes with a sheen of ancient majesty.

The Drekamythian’s movements were slow, deliberate, as though each step carried the weight of countless ages. His frame—broad, powerful, with muscle and sinew that rippled beneath his scales—exuded an authority that needed no words. His head, crowned with sleek ridges, seemed to brush the ceiling, towering over both men, casting a shadow so deep that it seemed to stretch beyond the walls of the room.

The light flickered, bending around him, unable to fully touch the depths of his form. His wings, though folded against his back, twitched slightly, their sheer size evident even in repose, as if they held the power to block out the sun itself. Each talon, long and gleaming, tapped lightly against the floor as he moved, the sound both delicate and menacing.

His gaze—those glowing, unblinking eyes—remained fixed on Verros, locking onto him with a predatory focus. There was no malice, but there was no kindness either—only the weight of eons of judgment, as though the creature’s very presence was a test of Verros’s soul.

As the rest of his body materialized fully into the light, his scales shimmered like polished armor, reflecting hues of midnight blue and indigo, colors that shifted and danced with each subtle movement. His tail, long and sinuous, swayed slightly behind him, trailing the air like a serpent ready to strike. The Drekamythian’s regal posture, combined with his otherworldly power, commanded the space with a quiet, yet undeniable authority.

When he finally stepped into the full light, his form was complete—a majestic being of myth, fully realized, standing before them as though he had stepped out of the ancient histories themselves. His presence was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, a creature of legend made flesh, exuding a sense of timelessness that dwarfed anything Verros had ever known.

Verros’s breath hitched, his face paling as the creature fully revealed itself. The casual confidence he once held shattered like glass, replaced by an overwhelming, raw fear that crawled through his veins. His heart pounded, each beat a deafening echo in the silence, as the words he wanted to speak refused to come.

“What—what are you?” he stammered, his voice barely audible.

The Drekamythian’s eyes flared, glowing brighter, as if the very question had been an insult. His wings twitched, the faintest movement sending ripples through the air, though they remained folded against his back, creating an imposing silhouette that cast long shadows across the room.

Abel Ren watched silently, his heart still reeling from his earlier encounter with Melkos, now standing witness to something even more powerful. He had felt the pull of faith returning, but what he was seeing now—this Drekamythian with wings—was unlike anything he had ever read or been taught.

Verros’s mind raced, panic surging through him as he desperately tried to make sense of the situation. Wings. The Drekamythians were never described with wings. He had studied the scriptures, the ancient writings, the Holy Necronomicon itself, where the Drekamythians were mentioned in their regal, formidable forms, but never with wings. His thoughts spiraled, trying to grasp what stood before him, a being from the ancient world that defied even the holy texts.

He had prided himself on his knowledge—the history, the lore—but standing before this creature, he realized that his teachings had failed him. Nothing could have prepared him for this moment. The panic welled up, constricting his throat as he struggled to remember anything that might explain this being. But there was nothing. No passage, no scroll, no ancient writing that spoke of a Drekamythian with wings.

The Drekamythian’s gaze narrowed on Verros, his predatory eyes burning with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the man’s very soul. His wings twitched again, the movement subtle but filled with a power that seemed to make the very air vibrate around him.

“And you dare to ask what I am?” The Drekamythian’s voice was deep, reverberating through the room like the rolling of distant thunder. The weight of his words crashed over Verros, who instinctively recoiled, as if the very air had become heavier, pressing down on his chest.

“You, Alden Verros, who have studied the texts, who have spoken the words of Melkos to his flock—” the creature’s voice grew darker, colder, “have you learned nothing? Have you forgotten the power and the presence of those who serve Melkos?”

Verros trembled, his throat tightening as the enormity of the moment washed over him. He had forgotten. He had allowed his faith to become a routine, a hollow repetition of words and rituals without depth. And now, standing before a Drekamythian—no, something greater—he could feel the weight of his failure.

“Drekamythians with wings…” his thoughts stammered in disbelief, trying to ground himself in the knowledge he had once been so confident in, but everything was unraveling. His knees trembled, as the creature’s disappointment bore down on him, unspoken but palpable.

Abel Ren watched, his gaze shifting between the creature and Verros. He had never seen his fellow preacher so shaken, so broken. He had himself felt the harsh judgment of Melkos earlier, but this… this was a reckoning.

“I am Drekamythian,” the creature continued, his voice rising, though it remained as steady and powerful as the tides. “Chosen by Melkos to walk among you, to watch, to guide, and to act when the time is right.” His words filled the space, pressing into the very walls of the room. “And you have failed, Alden Verros.”

Verros stumbled back, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as though it could somehow keep him grounded, but nothing could stop the waves of dread and realization crashing over him. He had failed.

The Drekamythian’s wings flexed slightly, as though reflecting the power of his presence. His gaze remained fixed on Verros, unyielding and cold. “Your faith has withered, your purpose dulled. You stand here, and you cannot even recognize me, though you have been entrusted with the teachings of my kind.” His wings twitched, casting a shadow that seemed to engulf Verros entirely.

“You have grown complacent, Verros,” the creature intoned, his voice now like the crack of a whip, cutting through the thick air. “You question what I am, but you should be questioning yourself.”

Abel’s heart clenched as he heard the words. This was judgment, not just for Verros but for anyone who had allowed their faith to fade into habit. Abel had been saved from it—from complacency—but Verros had not. And now, the Drekamythian stood before him as an avatar of that reckoning.

The Drekamythian leaned closer to Verros, his red eyes burning brighter. “You must reignite your faith, Alden Verros. The trials ahead will demand more than hollow words and forgotten beliefs. The war that comes will consume the weak, and your flock will look to you. But you must be strong, or you will fall.”

The Drekamythian’s gaze shifted to Abel Ren, his fiery red eyes softening. Where once there had been cold judgment, there was now a sense of kindness, almost fondness, as though recognizing the man’s redemption. Abel had been corrected by Melkos himself, the Drekamythian's Lord and Master, and there was a deep understanding between them. Abel’s soul had been saved, restored to the path of true faith.

With a slow, deliberate motion, the Drekamythian raised his hand, his immense form exuding a quiet power. The very air around him seemed to hum with energy, a force ancient and overwhelming. His hand glowed faintly, and with a single, subtle movement, time itself seemed to stop.

The sound of Abel’s breath, the slight rustle of his robes—all ceased. Abel remained frozen, his mind unable to register what would follow, locked in a stillness beyond comprehension. Time was no longer his concern.

The Drekamythian, having gently removed Abel from the moment, turned his focus back to Verros. The air grew thicker once again, but now with a palpable intensity. The kindness melted away, replaced by the burning heat of judgment. Verros’s heart raced, his throat tightening as the creature’s eyes bore into him, no longer just judging, but condemning.

Without a word, the Drekamythian took a slow, deliberate step forward, his massive form towering even more ominously over Verros. Each movement was heavy, the weight of his presence shifting the very air. The room darkened, the walls fading into an oppressive blackness as the creature’s power manifested in full.

---

Judgement
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

Before Verros could react, the Drekamythian’s hand shot out, faster than he could comprehend. Massive, clawed fingers wrapped around Verros’s throat, lifting him from the ground with ease. The grip was strong, suffocating, and Verros gasped, his legs kicking in vain as he struggled for breath. The creature’s hold was unyielding, each second a reminder of the fragile line between life and death.

Verros’s vision blurred, the lack of air burning his lungs, and yet he could feel it—the shift, the transition. The room around them faded, replaced by something far more profound, more otherworldly.

The soft, silken sands beneath them glowed faintly in the ethereal light, stretching far beyond what Verros could see, endless and serene. The stars above—the same vast expanse of the Milky Way that had greeted Melkos’s other visitors—twinkled against the deep purple sky. The air was still, the world silent, save for the sound of Verros’s choking gasps as the Drekamythian continued to hold him aloft.

Verros’s eyes widened in terror as he realized where he was—the very place of judgment, the beach from the sacred texts, where those who had strayed from their path were brought before Melkos. But there was no Melkos here, only the Drekamythian, his eyes burning with divine wrath.

The creature leaned in, his face mere inches from Verros’s, his voice a low growl, echoing through the empty expanse.

“This is your judgment, Alden Verros,” the Drekamythian hissed, his grip tightening slightly, cutting off what little air remained. “You, who were entrusted with the sacred words of Melkos, have let them grow cold within you. You, who were chosen to lead, have failed in your duty.”

The stars seemed to pulse in response to his words, the very fabric of the world bending to the Drekamythian’s will. Verros’s mind reeled, his heart pounding wildly, as he struggled to comprehend the enormity of what was happening.

The Drekamythian’s grip loosened just enough for Verros to gasp in a lungful of air, but the pressure remained, a constant reminder of his tenuous hold on life. The sands shifted beneath them, as though the very ground was reacting to the weight of the creature’s condemnation.

“You stand on the edge of oblivion, Verros,” the Drekamythian continued, his voice a rumble of ancient power. “Your faith has withered, and your flock is in danger. The storm that comes will demand leaders who burn with conviction, not those who fade in complacency.”

The Drekamythian’s fury surged, a storm of pure, unbridled wrath, rolling off him in waves. The air itself seemed to vibrate under the weight of his holy rage, and Verros, still suspended in the creature’s merciless grip, could feel the agony building. His mind screamed, his body writhing as if caught in a fire that burned from the inside out.

Every breath was torture—the very act of drawing air felt like shards of glass tearing through his lungs. His vision blurred, a haze of stars and pain, the world around him warping under the weight of the Drekamythian’s fury. The creature’s hand tightened, and Verros’s throat constricted, his body convulsing as he dangled helplessly.

The Drekamythian’s eyes burned, their red glow so intense that it seemed to sear through Verros’s very soul, casting his sins, his failures, in a blinding light. There was no escape, no salvation, only the merciless judgment of a being fueled by the divine wrath of Melkos. The agony was unending, a torture that stretched beyond the physical and into the spiritual, as if his very essence was being torn apart.

Verros’s world collapsed into a maelstrom of pain and terror, his mind unraveling, his spirit breaking. He could feel it—the end, the eternal darkness pulling him under. The Drekamythian was about to snap his neck with a final, crushing blow, and in that moment, Verros knew that his time had come.

But then, in the midst of that fury, a voice—powerful, ancient, and absolute—cut through the storm like the crack of lightning across the sky.

“Release him.”

The command was not shouted, but it carried the weight of worlds, resonating through the very fabric of reality. The stars seemed to still, and the endless sands fell silent as Melkos’s voice—deep, commanding, and filled with authority—echoed through the heavens.

The Drekamythian’s entire body froze, his hand immediately loosening its grip on Verros’s throat. His fiery eyes dimmed, the rage that had consumed him receding instantly at the sound of his Master’s voice. He knew—in that moment, with terrifying clarity—that he had gone beyond his orders.

Without hesitation, he released Verros, the preacher’s body collapsing to the sands in a heap. Gasping for air, Verros clutched his throat, the searing pain still radiating through his body, but he dared not speak. His vision blurred, and through the haze of pain, he could just make out the towering figure of Melkos, standing at the edge of the horizon, shimmering with an ethereal glow.

The Drekamythian, as if struck by the force of Melkos’s presence, immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed low. His wings folded back, and his entire form seemed to shrink in submission, the overwhelming power that had filled him now replaced by a deep, reverent humility.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” the Drekamythian’s voice rumbled, his fury now replaced with a deep, trembling reverence. He did not dare to meet Melkos’s gaze, his head still bowed as the sands beneath him shifted gently. “I have gone beyond my place.”

Melkos stepped forward, his form shifting between his spectral figure and that of the Snow Elf, his ancient eyes gleaming with the weight of the ages. He looked down upon his servant, his voice calm, yet filled with undeniable authority.

“You are my chosen, Drekamythian,” Melkos said, his voice quieter now but still resonating with power. “But never forget—your purpose is to guide, not destroy.” His gaze softened for a moment, though the authority remained. “This one is not yours to condemn. He is mine.”

The Drekamythian remained kneeling in the sand, his wings tucked close to his body in a gesture of submission. “Yes, my Lord,” he whispered, the shame in his voice unmistakable. He had let his holy fury overtake him, and now, in the presence of his Master, he could feel the weight of his overstep.

The Drekamythian remained kneeling, his massive form humbling before the eternal presence of his Lord. Melkos stepped forward, his glowing eyes softening as he approached his loyal servant. His hand, radiant with otherworldly light, gently reached out to caress the Drekamythian’s snout, his touch full of both power and tenderness. The creature’s body relaxed, a wave of relief flooding through him, as though the very weight of his mistake was lifted by that simple, divine gesture. His wings folded tighter, his head bowed low in deep reverence, as Melkos’s touch offered forgiveness.

For a moment, the Drekamythian seemed to shimmer, his form briefly flickering like a shadow in the starlit sky. Then, without a word, he vanished, his presence dissolving into the sands, returning to his station as guardian and servant. The weight of his judgment lifted, but his role, his purpose, remained ever clear.

But as the Drekamythian disappeared, the tension did not leave the air. Melkos remained, his gaze now shifting with a deliberate, calculated slowness to Alden Verros, who still lay crumpled on the ground, trembling at the feet of the god he had once served without question.

Verros gasped, his breath still ragged from the agony of the Drekamythian’s grip, but the worst was yet to come. Melkos stepped toward him, each footfall impossibly light, yet echoing with the sound of inevitability. Verros could feel it, an overwhelming sense of dread building within him, knowing that whatever came next would be beyond the pain he had already endured.

Melkos lifted his hand, and from the ether itself, a scythe began to manifest. It was no ordinary weapon. Its blade shimmered with an ethereal light, impossibly sharp, and humming with a power that seemed to stretch across time and space. The handle, long and dark, was crafted from something otherworldly, material beyond comprehension, wrapped in tendrils of cosmic energy. It radiated an ancient force, a symbol of Melkos’s dominion over death and life. But this was no symbol of release, no harbinger of peace.

As the scythe took form in Melkos’s hand, Verros’s body convulsed. The weight of his sins crashed upon him all at once, like an avalanche of pain and guilt that suffocated his very soul. Every lie, every moment of complacency, every breach of faith, every betrayal of his duty—they manifested in his mind as searing flames, the guilt of them pressing against his chest, suffocating him. The Drekamythian’s grip had been nothing compared to this.

“This is the price of your faithlessness, Alden Verros,” Melkos’s voice reverberated through the very fabric of reality, cold and final. The scythe, glowing with an energy beyond comprehension, hovered just above Verros, its presence filling him with an agony far deeper than anything physical.

Verros’s soul screamed. He felt the scythe not as a weapon but as a force that severed him from everything—from hope, from light, from redemption. This was no ordinary death. Where the Drekamythian might have killed his body, Melkos’s scythe would tear apart his very soul, forever separating him from reincarnation, from the cycle of life and death that offered even the damned a chance at redemption. This was eternal torment, the severing of his soul from existence, a punishment reserved for those who had truly lost their way.

The agony was unbearable—not just the pain, but the knowledge that this was final. There would be no rebirth, no second chances. Verros’s sins were laid bare, and the weight of them crushed him in ways that made even the Drekamythian’s fury seem like a distant memory. He had failed—failed his flock, failed his faith, failed his God. And now, that failure would cost him everything.

Melkos’s eyes blazed, their glow casting long shadows across the sands. The scythe trembled slightly, as if eager to do its Master’s bidding. Verros’s soul quivered under the weight of the weapon’s power, each moment stretching into eternity as he felt the full force of his impending doom.

“This is your final judgment,” Melkos intoned, his voice cold but resolute. “To be severed from the cycle of life is to be forgotten, lost in the abyss beyond my reach. There is no return from this.”

Verros’s mind shattered as the full reality of his fate became clear. This was no redemption, no final act of mercy. This was the end, the true end—where even the gods could not save him.

Melkos stood over Verros, the scythe glowing with an otherworldly power, humming with the finality of judgment. Verros trembled, still choking on the overwhelming weight of his sins, but as the blade hovered above him, something stirred deep within his mind—a flicker of memory, a distant past that now seemed so foreign.

The scene shifted, though the sands and stars remained unchanged. Verros’s thoughts—or perhaps Melkos’s will—drew him back, unraveling his life before him, bit by bit. He saw himself as a young boy, growing up in the quiet, reverent hills of Drekamythia, surrounded by towering mountains and the ancient temples of the Drekan Church. His parents were kind, devout followers of Melkos, and Verros had felt a gentle pull toward the faith, an unspoken call that drew him closer to the divine.

He had been fourteen years old when he first stepped into the halls of discipleship, the stone floors cold beneath his feet, yet his heart warm with the certainty that he had found his path. The preachers welcomed him, their words filled with wisdom, and for the first time in his young life, Verros felt a connection to something greater—a purpose. He wanted to lead, to guide, to be a servant of Melkos.

The memories flickered, faster now, moving through his early years with the Church. He had been devout, caring deeply for his flock, visiting the sick, comforting the grieving. There had been a time when Melkos’s teachings had filled his heart with a joy so pure that nothing could sway him. Verros had led them well, guiding many to the path, standing as a beacon of light for those lost in the darkness of their lives.

But then, he saw it—the shift, the moment where his faith had begun to wane. Ashilosa. He had been assigned to the rebellious territory, a place where belief was fractured, where many still clung to their old resentments and suspicions toward the Confederation. It had been hard, harder than anything Verros had ever experienced. The people were resistant, cold, and his heart had grown weary. Slowly, without him noticing at first, his passion for the faith began to wither.

There were faces now, blurry and indistinct, but Verros knew them—people he had failed, souls Melkos had called to the faith, but whom Verros had pushed away through neglect, through his growing apathy. Melkos’s judgment was clear—Verros had not simply faltered in his own belief; he had led many astray, many of Melkos’s chosen, the souls who had been so close to finding the path, only to be cast aside by Verros’s failure.

The scythe glowed brighter, the weight of the final judgment settling over Verros. His chest tightened, the pain unbearable, as the blade’s power reached into his soul, threatening to sever him from everything he had once held dear. The punishment was not merely death—it was the end of everything, the eternal separation from the cycle of life and reincarnation that Melkos had promised to those who followed him.

But then, as the scythe lowered, a sudden shimmer appeared in the corner of the endless sands, a flicker of light in the distance. Another figure began to materialize, walking with slow, deliberate steps toward the scene. It was a Drekamythian, but not like the first. This one had no wings, her dark blue scales gleaming softly under the starlight, her form regal, yet unassuming.

She approached Melkos, her head bowed in reverence, her voice gentle but firm.

“My Lord, Melkos Unchanos, Master of Life and Death, I beg your forgiveness.” Her words were filled with deep conviction, the kind that only the most devout of Melkos’s servants could offer. She knelt before him, her large frame humbling itself before the god who ruled over all.

Melkos turned his head slightly, his eyes glowing faintly as they regarded the newcomer, but the scythe did not waver.

“Speak, my servant,” Melkos commanded, his voice carrying the weight of the universe.

“Verros has strayed, yes, but he is not beyond redemption.” The Drekamythian’s eyes flickered with a soft light, filled with both compassion and hope. “He was once a great leader, a servant who truly cared for your flock. I remember his early days. He has lost his way, but there is still light within him. Let me guide him back, my Lord. Let me restore him to the path.”

Melkos remained silent, the scythe still hovering just above Verros, but there was a tension in the air, as though the very fabric of the cosmos awaited his decision. Verros could barely breathe, the pain in his chest unbearable, his mind spinning as the memories of his failures continued to flood him.

“Why do you plead for him, Drekamythian?” Melkos asked, his voice cold and distant. “He has led many astray. His negligence cost the faith dearly.”

The Drekamythian did not falter, her gaze steady as she looked up to her Lord.

“Because he can change,” she said, her voice unwavering. “I believe in him. He is not lost forever. Let me take him under my wing—let me help him find the way back. You have sent me to guide many, and I have not failed you. I will not fail now.”

Melkos’s eyes narrowed, his gaze shifting between Verros, who lay trembling on the ground, and the Drekamythian, who knelt in perfect submission before him. The silence was deafening, the weight of the moment pressing down on all of them.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Melkos raised the scythe. The glow of the blade dimmed, its power receding as the god made his decision.

“You will take responsibility for him, Drekamythian,” Melkos said, his voice still filled with the finality of judgment. “He has been spared, but if he strays again, the punishment will be absolute. Do not fail me.”

The Drekamythian bowed her head, her relief palpable. “I will not fail you, my Lord. Thank you.”

Melkos turned away from Verros, the scythe disappearing into the ether as he strode back into the eternal sands, his form shifting and shimmering, leaving behind only the weight of his judgment and the promise of salvation for those who remained faithful.

---

Redemption
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

The world around Alden Verros felt distant and serene, as if the intensity of the judgment had somehow unraveled into this peaceful realm. The colors of the Milky Way swirled above, vibrant hues of violet, blue, and silver painting the sky, and the beach sand beneath him was soft, warm, and welcoming. The water lapped gently at the shore, its surface as smooth as glass, reflecting the cosmic beauty above.

Alden blinked, his mind slowly returning to itself, no longer teetering on the edge of obliteration. His body ached, though not with pain, but with the echo of what had nearly been—a fate so terrifying that even now, he could hardly fathom the full depth of it. He felt the warmth of a presence beside him, strong yet undeniably comforting.

He turned his head slowly, his vision still hazy, and looked up at the figure who had saved him, the one who had intervened at the moment when all hope had seemed lost. The Drekamythian stood over him, her form imposing yet gentle, her eyes glowing softly red with a warmth that belied her ancient power. Her scales shimmered faintly, dark blue under the celestial light, her expression calm and patient.

She knelt beside him, her massive form moving with grace, and her hand reached out, gently rubbing his head, the touch cool against his fevered skin. Her fingers, large and clawed, were surprisingly delicate, and as she helped him sit up, Alden felt a rush of gratitude, though he struggled to find the words.

He swallowed, his throat dry, and finally, he asked, his voice weak but filled with curiosity and a newfound reverence.

“Who are you?” The question was simple, yet laden with the weight of everything that had just transpired. This creature, this being of both immense power and profound kindness, had saved him from a fate worse than death, and Alden needed to know her name.

She smiled, a soft, almost imperceptible shift in her expression, but it was enough to ease his soul. Her voice, when she spoke, was like the rumble of distant thunder, but gentler, as though the storm had passed and now only calm remained.

“My name is Eleuthería,” she said, her voice carrying a weight of eons yet spoken with tenderness. “I am one of the chosen guardians of our Lord Melkos, sent to guide those who have strayed.”

Alden blinked again, the name resonating within him, ancient and powerful. He stared into her red eyes, eyes that held both the wisdom of millennia and the kindness of one who knew what it meant to suffer and to heal.

“Why?” he whispered, still dazed, but feeling the need to understand. “Why did you save me?”

Eleuthería’s hand continued to rest gently on his head, a motherly gesture, as she replied, “Because even in your failure, Verros, there was once light. I saw it in your past, in the way you cared for those under your charge. You lost your way, but it is not too late to find it again. Melkos, in his mercy, allows second chances—but only if you are willing to fight for them.”

Alden’s throat tightened, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. The enormity of what he had almost lost, of what he still had a chance to regain, filled him with overwhelming emotion. He lowered his head, not in shame but in humility, a silent acknowledgment of how close he had come to destruction.

“Thank you,” he managed, his voice breaking slightly. “I—I don’t know how to make it right, but I will. I will.”

Eleuthería’s eyes softened, and she nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “I will be with you, Verros. You are not alone in this. But understand, this path is not easy. It will test you, more than anything you have known before.”

Alden nodded weakly, already feeling the weight of the responsibility that now rested on his shoulders. But there was something else too—hope. The warmth of her hand on his head, the calm of the sea and sky around them, and the knowledge that he was being given a second chance—it was enough.

Eleuthería rose to her feet, her form towering over him once more, but she extended her hand to him, offering support. Alden grasped her hand, the size difference stark but the gesture profound. As she helped him to his feet, he felt something return to him, a strength he hadn’t known in years.

“We begin again,” Eleuthería said, her voice firm but kind. “From this moment forward, you walk in the light once more. Do not falter again.”

Alden nodded, his resolve returning with each passing second. “I won’t,” he said quietly but with certainty. “I swear it.”

And with that, the serene beach, the cosmos above, and the gentle waves lapping at the shore all seemed to hold its breath, as though the universe itself acknowledged the weight of the moment—a soul saved, a path restored.

And then, it faded.

[Anagonia]

Solara Vista Drekan Church
1040 Hours Anagonian Standard Time
Solara Vista, Territory of Ashilosa, CSA

Preacher Abel Ren slowly blinked as he came to, the stillness that had surrounded him moments before gently releasing its grip. The memories of the Drekamythian judgment—the towering figure, the holy fury, and the humbling intervention by Melkos—remained vivid, but as his senses returned to the present, a wave of calm settled over him. It felt like waking from a dream, one that had changed him deeply, though the details seemed to blur as reality reasserted itself.

Ren's gaze shifted, and he saw Preacher Verros, standing still but calm, his face carrying the faint traces of what might have been a deeply spiritual moment. Verros's expression was serene, not the look of a man still trembling from judgment but one who had been shown mercy. There was something different about him now, a quiet resolution in his posture, as if he too had been touched by something far greater than himself.

But most notably, Ren noticed another figure in the room. Standing to the side, her dark red robes flowing gracefully around her form, was a Komodren Preacher—a woman with soft, emerald scales that glimmered faintly in the light filtering through the window. Her eyes were a gentle, warm amber, filled with the kind of wisdom that one might expect from years of guiding and healing others. She stood confidently, though there was a subtle air of watchfulness about her, as if she were constantly aware of something deeper, something unseen.

Ren smiled at her, recognizing her presence immediately, though he couldn’t place when exactly she had joined them. Preacher Eliura, that was her name, wasn’t it? She had been there for some time now, helping them with their congregation, especially during the harder months. Why hadn’t he noticed her earlier? For a moment, the question lingered, but as quickly as it appeared, it faded—of course she had always been there. Preacher Eliura, with her calming presence and insightful guidance, was as much a part of the church as any of them.

He glanced over at Verros, and to his surprise, saw a faint smile playing on the older preacher’s lips. Verros nodded, an unspoken understanding passing between them as he acknowledged their shared experiences—though what Verros recalled exactly, Ren couldn’t be sure. It was as though the severity of the earlier events had been softened in Verros's memory, leaving only the faintest traces of a lesson learned and a faith rekindled.

"It’s good to have you with us, Eliura," Ren said, his voice steady, though there was a strange undertone to his words. He couldn’t quite place why he felt such a deep sense of comfort at her presence, but it didn’t matter. She had always been here, hadn’t she?

Eliura—or rather, Eleuthería, hidden now behind her Komodren guise—nodded softly, a knowing smile on her lips as she approached. Her eyes held warmth, but also a deeper, ancient wisdom that went unnoticed by those who saw only her outward form. “It is good to be here, Abel,” she said, her voice smooth, filled with a grace that radiated peace. She reached out, touching his arm gently, the same way she had guided him back in that realm beyond time, and Ren felt a wave of tranquility wash over him.

She turned to Verros, her smile just as kind, though there was a flicker of something deeper in her gaze—a silent acknowledgment of what had passed between Melkos and Verros. “You will do well, Alden. You are on the right path again. Trust in that.”

Verros’s smile faltered slightly, a shadow of unease passing over his face, as if somewhere deep inside, he still felt the echo of what had nearly been his end. But as quickly as the discomfort surfaced, it faded. He bowed his head slightly, his voice barely above a whisper, “Thank you, Eliura. I will not forget this.”

Eliura’s expression remained warm, though her eyes glimmered with the quiet power of her true self. “You are both under his watchful eye. The trials ahead will not be easy, but you are not alone. Remember that.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted, and for a brief moment, Ren and Verros both felt something—a presence, a guiding hand, unseen but unmistakable. And then it was gone, leaving only the serene sense that they had been given a second chance.

As Ren stood, the memory of the Drekamythian’s presence seemed to blur into the recesses of his mind. Eliura’s words echoed within him, grounding him in the here and now, the steady faith of a restored purpose leading him forward.

Verros remained standing, but his thoughts were elsewhere, his mind gently sorting through the layers of what had transpired, the quiet reminder that this was only the beginning of his redemption.

Eliura turned gracefully, walking toward the door with a calm presence that brought peace to the room. Her Komodren form remained, but beneath the surface, she was still Eleuthería, watching, guiding, and ensuring that her Lord’s will would be done.

And as the two preachers stood in silence, the memory of her presence—her voice, her kindness, her wisdom—became ever more familiar, until there was no doubt in their minds that she had always been there, just as she always would be.

---

Preacher Eliura, in her Komodren form, stepped into the quiet worship chamber. Her towering, muscular frame moved with a grace that belied her size, and her dark emerald scales shimmered faintly in the soft light filtering through the windows. The faint rustle of her robes accompanied her steady footsteps, though her presence commanded little attention from those few left in the worship chamber. They seemed at ease, as though her presence was a natural part of their morning routine, though some exchanged brief, puzzled glances before those thoughts were quietly dismissed.

Eliura’s eyes scanned the room as she moved down the aisle, and her gaze settled on the lone figure seated at the front pew. Charles Matthews, the homeless man, sat in perfect stillness, his back straight, his hands resting gently on his lap. His clothes were ragged and worn, but there was a quiet dignity in the way he held himself, as though the world around him did not touch him the way it touched others. His eyes, distant and calm, were focused ahead, as though contemplating something far beyond the walls of the church.

Eliura approached slowly, her Komodren features betraying none of the ancient power that lay beneath. To those around her, she was simply a preacher, a spiritual guide. But in her heart, she knew that Charles Matthews was no ordinary man. He was Melkos, in one of his chosen forms, quietly watching his people, being among them in ways they would never fully comprehend.

As Eliura neared, she lowered herself gracefully onto the pew beside him, her massive frame settling with a quiet presence. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them heavy yet comfortable. The air in the church seemed to still, as though the very walls acknowledged the significance of their quiet exchange.

Charles turned his head slightly, glancing at her with the faintest of smiles, his eyes soft but knowing. He said nothing, though the look he gave her was filled with understanding, as though the need for words had long passed between them.

Eliura shifted slightly, her gaze focused ahead as she spoke in a low, reverent tone, “You watch us, even now, my Lord. Testing. Guiding.” Her voice was calm, filled with respect, but there was an underlying fondness to her words, as though the familiarity between them went far beyond this moment.

Charles—Melkos in disguise—nodded gently, his expression softening further. “They need me now more than ever,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of millennia. “And some will fall. Others will rise. The trials will reveal their hearts. But they are never alone.”

Eliura’s amber eyes flickered, and she nodded, understanding the depth of what he meant. Her own heart stirred, knowing the gravity of what was to come, and her role in guiding them through it. “The trials, yes,” she said softly. “But they will find their strength. You have seen it, as have I.”

Charles remained silent, though there was a knowing glimmer in his eyes. He didn’t need to say more; his presence here was proof enough of the care he had for his people, for the souls he guided.

Eliura glanced at him, her large frame almost dwarfing him, yet there was no sense of imbalance between them. There was something unspoken between them, a shared history, a deep connection that transcended their current forms. “And what of Verros?” she asked quietly, her voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of concern. Though she already knew the answer, there was something deeper at play—Verros’s fate was intertwined with hers now, a responsibility she had willingly accepted.

Charles—Melkos—didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned his head, his human eyes meeting hers with a knowing gaze. A flicker of something ancient crossed his expression, as if time itself shifted momentarily. He had foreseen this moment long ago, and though it had played out as it must, there was a weight to the role she had played in Verros’s salvation. He had allowed her to step in, to be the hand that stayed his judgment.

“He will find his way,” Charles replied finally, his voice steady, though there was a layer of complexity beneath it. “With time. With guidance.” He paused, letting the words sink in, and then added, with a softer, more reflective tone, “Your intervention, Eleuthería, was no accident. You have always been part of his path.”

Eliura’s eyes softened, understanding the gravity of what had transpired. “It was not easy,” she admitted, her voice quiet yet resolute. “He had fallen far, and his heart was nearly lost.” She hesitated for a moment, as if reflecting on the intense moment of Verros’s judgment. “But there is still light in him, still the spark that once drew him to your service. I could not let that be extinguished.”

Melkos smiled, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but it carried the weight of millennia of wisdom. “You saw what I saw in him long ago,” he said, his voice gentle. “That is why I chose you. You are not just my servant—you are a guardian, a guide. It is through your strength that he will find his way back. And you will ensure he does.”

Eliura nodded, the weight of her role settling into her heart. She had been tasked with more than just saving Verros in that moment—she had been entrusted with his soul, with leading him back to the path he had strayed from. Her eyes glimmered with quiet determination. “I will guide him,” she promised, her voice firm but soft. “He will not fall again. Not while I watch over him.”

“I know,” Melkos replied, his tone carrying both the certainty of divine foresight and the warmth of trust. “You have always known when to act, Eleuthería. That is why you were chosen, not just for Verros, but for many more.”

A subtle shift passed through Eliura’s features, a quiet acknowledgment of the depth of the task before her. It wasn’t just Verros she had been called to protect—her role in this time, in this place, was far greater. The trials to come would require her strength, her patience, and her unwavering faith.

“Thank you, my Lord,” Eliura whispered, bowing her head slightly. “For trusting me with this. With him. With all of them.”

Charles—Melkos—nodded, his eyes glowing faintly with the light of ancient power. “It is not trust, Eleuthería,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “It is certainty. You are the flame that endures, and in your light, they will find their way.”

For a moment, silence returned, both of them sitting side by side in quiet contemplation. The world outside the church went on as it always had, but here, in this small, sacred space, time felt suspended, as though the moment held the weight of eternity and purpose. Eleuthería’s mind reflected on her charge, the role she had been given, and the souls she had been entrusted to guide. Verros’s salvation was only the beginning of what was to come.

Eliura turned her head slightly, studying Melkos’s human guise. The form he wore was humble, and yet she could see the vastness of his power, the ancient knowledge and wisdom that resided beneath the surface. “It must be strange, my Lord, to walk among them like this. To wear their form,” she said softly, her words filled with both reverence and curiosity.

Melkos smiled, his human features softening even more, though the intensity of his eternal nature lingered beneath. “It is a reminder, Eleuthería,” he said quietly, using her true name once more, a gesture of deep trust and affection. “A reminder of what we protect. What they must learn. Their strength comes from knowing they are guided, yes—but they must walk the path themselves. We can only show them the way.”

Eliura nodded slowly, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she absorbed his words. The trials were not just for Verros, or even Ethan—but for all of them, for all who stood on the precipice of the coming storm. “And we, your guardians, will ensure that path remains clear,” she said, her voice filled with resolve. “They will not falter. Not while we stand.”

Charles Matthews—Melkos—turned his gaze forward again, his expression once more quiet and contemplative, though there was a deep, ancient love in his eyes. “Not while we stand, indeed,” he echoed, his tone soft yet resolute. The future was uncertain, but his faith in his chosen guardians was unwavering. The strength they embodied was not just their own, but drawn from him, and through them, his will would be done.

The silence that followed was one of mutual understanding. They sat together for a few more moments, side by side—a goddess in disguise and her Lord—both watching over the congregation in their own way. The church was still, but in the stillness, there was a quiet hum of faith, of strength, and of the trials yet to come. They were ready.

And as they sat, the world around them seemed to breathe, the weight of the moment held in the quiet sanctuary of a church that had been chosen for something far greater than itself. The air was thick with purpose, with the unspoken knowledge that the storm was on the horizon, but the flame would endure. It always did.

---

Solara Vista Drekan Church
1200 Hours Anagonian Standard Time

The traditional time for the homeless feeding began, as it did every midday at the Solara Vista Drekan Church. A gentle buzz of activity filled the small kitchen and shelter area, where volunteers moved quietly, preparing trays of food and setting up tables for the coming guests. The scent of warm bread and hearty stew drifted through the air, a simple but comforting meal for those in need.

Preacher Alden Verros stood at the center of it all, overseeing the preparations with a renewed sense of purpose. His face, once drawn and distant, now carried a quiet resolve. Ren watched from a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression a mix of contemplation and admiration. There was something different about Verros, something that hadn’t been there before. The light had returned.

For so long, Ren had been the one to handle these duties, taking up the slack as Verros had slowly fallen away. But now, seeing Verros at the helm once more, organizing the volunteers, greeting the homeless as they entered the shelter—it felt like a shift in the air. Ren couldn’t help but be impressed, though he kept his thoughts to himself for now. Something had changed in Verros, and he saw it clearly now.

Eliura, in her Komodren form, moved gracefully through the room, her large frame blending into the familiar rhythm of the church as she helped serve food. Her presence was calm, almost maternal, and the homeless who passed through the line seemed comforted by her kind smile and gentle demeanor. Charles Matthews, the homeless man who had been there earlier, sat at one of the tables, quietly eating his meal. His eyes, as ever, carried an ancient wisdom that seemed out of place, but here he was simply another soul among the faithful.

Verros glanced at Matthews, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. There was something in that look—recognition perhaps, or maybe a faint echo of memory—but it passed as quickly as it came. The preacher shook it off, returning his attention to the task at hand. There were meals to serve, people to care for. He was back in his element, and it felt good. The light had found him again, and he would not lose it this time.

As Verros continued to move through the room, handing out bowls of stew and offering quiet words of comfort to those who came through the door, Ren approached quietly. The two preachers exchanged a brief nod, a silent acknowledgment of the change that had come over Verros. Ren could feel it too—the light was brighter now, the faith more tangible in this place.

“You’ve really turned things around, Alden,” Ren said softly, his voice carrying an unspoken respect.

Verros looked up, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It was long overdue, Abel,” he replied. “I lost sight of what mattered, but not anymore.”

Ren nodded, a weight lifting from his shoulders as he recognized the sincerity in Verros’s words. The darkness that had clouded their work, their faith, was gone. In its place, there was a renewed sense of purpose, not just for Verros but for the entire church.

Across the room, Eliura’s eyes flicked to Charles Matthews, who sat quietly, finishing his meal. The two exchanged a subtle look—one that only they could understand. Melkos’s work was done here, for now. The light had returned, and they would continue to watch over this small congregation, guiding it when needed, as they always had.

But there was still one more test that needed to be administered.

Verros had just finished serving the last bowl of stew, wiping his hands on a towel when Charles Matthews stood from his seat and slowly approached. The room had quieted, most of the homeless now sitting down, enjoying their meals in peace. Eliura observed silently from across the room, her eyes focused on the interaction to come.

Charles’s footsteps were soft, and yet there was an unmistakable presence as he came closer. Verros glanced up, the brief flicker of recognition crossing his face once more, but he said nothing, simply waiting for the man to speak.

“Preacher Verros,” Matthews began, his voice steady but carrying an underlying weight. “I’ve been coming here for some time now. I’ve watched your sermons, listened to your words. And today… I feel it’s time.”

Verros blinked, a slight frown crossing his features. “Time for what, Mr. Matthews?”

Charles’s eyes, those ancient, knowing eyes, locked with Verros’s. “Time for me to turn back to the light. I’ve been lost for a long time, you see. But… there’s something different here today. Something I haven’t felt in a long while. I want to be guided again. I want to find my way back to faith.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Verros could feel the weight of the moment, the challenge inherent in it. This was a test, though he wasn’t entirely sure of the source. The old Verros—the one who had lost his way—might have faltered here, hesitated, doubted his ability to minister to a man so seemingly steeped in knowledge and experience. But this Verros, the one who had been judged and spared, now stood resolute.

“You’re not lost, Charles,” Verros said, his voice soft but sure. “You’ve always known where the light is. You just needed to remember how to find it again.”

Charles’s gaze remained unwavering, as if searching for something deeper in Verros’s words. “And you believe you can guide me?” he asked quietly. There was no malice in the question, but rather a profound sincerity, as if he were seeking reassurance more than an answer.

Verros didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, his eyes steady, filled with the certainty that had once been absent. “I believe we can walk that path together. You’re not alone, Charles. None of us are. The light is there for all of us. And I will help you find it.”

For a moment, Charles was silent. Then, slowly, a smile—a genuine, warm smile—crept across his face. “Thank you, Preacher Verros. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

Eliura, watching from the other side of the room, felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. The test had been passed, and with it, the certainty that Verros had truly returned to his calling.

Charles extended his hand, and Verros took it firmly, a handshake that was more than just an exchange of pleasantries. It was an understanding—between two men, one who sought guidance, and one who had finally found the strength to offer it.

As Charles turned to sit back down, Verros moved to a nearby table, retrieving a worn copy of the Holy Necronomicon. The weight of its pages felt different in his hands now—more purposeful, more alive. He opened it to a familiar passage, the words of the Second Disciple, Rikor Hak, echoing in his mind: “Lift those who fall, guide those who seek, and know that in every act of compassion, you bring the light closer.”

Verros began to speak, his voice steady, inviting Charles to listen as he read aloud. The scripture flowed smoothly, the words meant not just for Charles, but for anyone seeking to rise from the darkness of despair.

Ren, who had been quietly observing from the side of the room, took a step forward. He saw the transformation in Verros, the way he now embraced his role without hesitation. Ren smiled softly to himself, knowing that Verros had truly returned to his calling. As Verros continued to minister, Ren approached quietly, a book of job listings tucked under his arm, always ready to assist. He placed it gently on the table next to them, a symbol of the church’s commitment to not only spiritual support but practical guidance as well.

“When you’re ready, Charles,” Ren said warmly, “we’ll help you find work. There's a place for you here, and beyond these walls, if you’re willing to seek it.”

Charles nodded, gratitude evident in his eyes. He had made the choice to lift himself up, and with that choice came the full support of the church. Solara Vista Drekan Church was not just a place of worship—it was a place of healing, of new beginnings.

“Thank you, Preacher Ren,” Charles replied, his voice quiet but filled with conviction. “I think I’m ready.”

Ren smiled and looked to Verros, who met his gaze with a shared understanding. They had both changed, and together, they would help Charles, and others like him, find their way back into the light.

Eliura, still at her place in the corner of the room, watched the scene unfold with a quiet sense of satisfaction. This was the way of things—to lead those who had strayed, and to support those who had chosen to rise.

As the day moved on, Verros made arrangements for Charles, assigning him a permanent bed and locker. The church, with its small but welcoming shelter, had always been a place for those seeking refuge, but now Charles was no longer just a guest. He was on a new path, one of self-reliance, with the guidance and love of the church standing behind him.

The afternoon sunlight poured gently through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room as the three men—Verros, Ren, and Charles—continued their conversation, the Holy Necronomicon still open before them. Outside, the world continued as it always had, but here, in this small sanctuary, something profound had shifted.

As they spoke, Eliura approached them, a tray of drinks in her hands, her towering frame moving gracefully through the room. She placed the glasses before them, offering a kind smile. Matthews—Melkos in human form—met her gaze, and for a moment, their eyes locked—a silent exchange of understanding, a shared recognition of all that had transpired.

With a knowing nod, Eliura turned and moved on to help another, leaving the trio to their conversation. Her presence lingered, a quiet, yet powerful reminder of the forces always at work—guiding, watching, ensuring that none in this place would ever walk alone again. As she carried drinks to others in need, she exchanged one last glance with Verros, a silent acknowledgment of the changes within him, and the unseen hands that had led them both to this moment.

It was more than just a singular event—it was part of a much greater pattern, one that stretched across Anagonia, weaving through the lives of its people. In every town, every remote village, and every grand city, these moments repeated themselves in different forms. The faithful, like Verros and Ren, found themselves rekindling their purpose, rediscovering the light within, while others, like Charles, began their journey toward healing and redemption.

Melkos's guardians, the Drekamythians, and other chosen followers, played their part silently, guiding and protecting from the shadows. Each moment of grace, each small act of kindness, was a reflection of an eternal design—Melkos’s unwavering care for his flock. In the quiet sanctuaries of churches, like Solara Vista, the same story unfolded again and again: the broken were mended, the lost were found, and the faithful were strengthened.

This ancient cycle of redemption and guidance flowed throughout Anagonia, an ever-present force that bridged the gap between worlds, between faith and action. In hidden moments, where doubt turned to belief and despair gave way to hope, Melkos’s hand was there—steady and strong, ensuring that no soul was left adrift.

And just as the trio in Solara Vista found their way, so too did countless others across the land. In quiet homes, a father knelt in prayer, finding strength after a long night of doubt. In bustling cities, a preacher opened his doors to the weary, offering them a place to rest and recover. Across the vast expanse of Anagonia, these scenes unfolded like threads in a tapestry, woven together by the quiet, powerful presence of those who served.

Eliura continued her quiet work, but in that moment, her steps echoed far beyond the walls of Solara Vista Church. For wherever Melkos’s chosen walked, the cycle would always continue—eternal, unwavering, and full of hope.

[Anagonia]

Voratharox's Abyss
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

The vastness of eternity pressed down on Voratharox as he stood, wings furled tightly against his broad, muscular back. Before him, the swirling void seemed endless, stretching beyond even the grasp of time itself. Stars flickered like distant memories, their faint light swallowed by the immeasurable darkness, as if eternity had reduced their significance to mere pinpricks in the cosmic tapestry.

His dismissal from Melkos’ presence had been as gentle as it was absolute—there was no rebuke, only the quiet command to rest. But within that soft dismissal lay the weight of countless millennia, and Voratharox could feel it now, settling deeper into his bones. His mind drifted back across the eons, through the unending expanse of time he had served. In the cold silence, the echoes of battles fought, worlds judged, and souls guided stretched endlessly behind him like the unseen ripples of a once-still ocean.

The chamber he had been sent to was a place of reflection, carved from the very fabric of the cosmos itself. It hovered in the void, a floating citadel of stone and starlight, with walls etched in the ancient runes of Melkos' first language—a language older than this universe, whispered into existence long before the stars had first ignited. Enormous, vaulted ceilings rose high above, disappearing into the twilight mists of time’s forgotten ages. The air was cool, yet it carried the faint hum of power that reminded all who stood within that this was a place beyond the mortal realms.

Columns of dark obsidian lined the halls, their surfaces polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the infinite stars beyond. Between these columns, tapestries woven from cosmic silk hung, depicting the grand history of the Drekamythians, from their first emergence under the tyranny of their dragon overlords to their salvation under Melkos' divine guidance. Each image shimmered with faint light, as if the very threads of the fabric had been spun from the essence of stardust.

Voratharox stood on the edge of a grand platform that overlooked the endless void, a balcony that jutted out from the citadel. Beyond this precipice, the universe itself seemed to unfold like a living tapestry. Nebulae swirled in vibrant colors—blues, purples, and fiery reds—spiraling through the cosmos in slow, majestic dances that had been ongoing since the beginning of time. Galaxies shimmered in the distance, their stars gleaming like jewels scattered across the heavens. In this place, time did not flow in the way it did in mortal realms; here, it stretched thin, bending under the weight of eternity.

The stillness was not oppressive, but neither was it peaceful. It was simply… vast. Here, in this timeless space, Voratharox was forced to confront the enormity of his existence. Eons had passed since his wings had first unfurled, black as the void itself, to carry out Melkos’ will. Eons of command, of leading the celestial armies across the infinite realms, his form slicing through the fabric of space as he judged worlds and vanquished enemies beyond mortal comprehension. Yet in this quiet moment, with nothing but the stars as witnesses, the passage of time seemed less a river and more an ocean—immense, eternal, and unforgiving in its vastness.

The platform upon which he stood was carved from the same dark obsidian as the columns inside the citadel, its surface smooth and cold underfoot. Faintly, under the ever-present starlight, the floor shimmered with intricate patterns that shifted and changed, as though the very foundation of the place was alive, pulsing with the energy of the cosmos. Every so often, a soft pulse of light would ripple through the patterns, sending gentle waves of illumination across the platform, a reminder of the cosmic forces that kept this citadel suspended in the endless nothingness.

Around the platform, glowing orbs floated in silence—ancient sentinels of this sacred space. Their light was soft and warm, casting a golden hue across the dark stone and highlighting the sharp lines of Voratharox’s form. The Arch-Drekamythian’s wings, unfurled ever so slightly, caught the light, their black membranes reflecting it in shades of deep purple and indigo. His body, powerful and worn from countless battles, seemed almost at rest, though there was an ever-present tension in his posture, a reminder of the duties that still weighed heavily on him.

For a moment, Voratharox let his gaze wander across the stars. He had seen so many of them born, watched them burn with the fire of creation, and seen them die in cataclysmic bursts of energy that swallowed entire systems. He had stood witness to the rise and fall of civilizations, to the birth and death of gods. He had crossed the boundaries of time and space, battling forces that defied reason and reality. And yet, as he stood in this place, the grandness of it all seemed small compared to the eternity he had served.

Each step he took forward on this platform echoed with the weight of millennia. His taloned feet, sharp and precise, made no sound as they moved, but in his mind, he could feel the weight of every footfall. How many times had he been here, called to rest and reflect after an age-spanning campaign across the realms? How many eons had passed since he had first taken up Melkos' banner? The question lingered in the vastness of the citadel’s halls, unanswered and likely unanswerable.

Eternity, Voratharox realized, was not the absence of time, but the accumulation of it—a constant layering of moments, battles, victories, defeats, and service. It was the slow, inexorable march of events stretching endlessly before him, without end or release. And in that realization came the faintest flicker of weariness. Not physical weariness, for his body was as strong as ever, his wings unfurled and ready at a moment’s notice, but a weariness of the soul—a tiredness borne from eons of existence, of always knowing what his purpose was and never straying from it.

Yet, in the midst of that weariness, there was also peace. The vastness of the universe, the quiet hum of the void, the eternal swirl of the stars—they were all part of a design far greater than Voratharox could comprehend. And in that design, he had found his place, not just as a soldier, but as a guardian, a protector, and an instrument of Melkos’ divine will.

As the golden light of the floating orbs flickered around him, casting shadows and light across the dark stone of the citadel, Voratharox let his wings unfurl fully, their massive span stretching wide against the backdrop of eternity. His gaze returned to the endless void beyond the platform, and for a moment, the vastness did not seem so overwhelming. He was part of that vastness, as much a fixture of the cosmos as the stars themselves.

The majesty of the citadel, the quiet hum of the cosmic forces that held it aloft, and the ever-present watchfulness of the universe beyond—all of it reminded him of the eternal truth he had served for so long. Voratharox was ancient, perhaps one of the oldest beings still walking the void, but his purpose was clear.

He was Melkos' Arch-Drekamythian, his general, his sword, and his wings. And in that, there was no doubt, no hesitation—only the quiet, enduring certainty of his place in the eternal order.

As Voratharox stood on the precipice of the citadel, his wings unfurled against the vastness of eternity, his thoughts wandered deeper into the memories of ages long past. In the stillness of this sacred space, the events that had shaped not just his existence, but the very fabric of his race, rose unbidden to his mind, playing out like distant echoes reverberating through the cosmos.

He had been one of the first—one of the few who had witnessed the beginning of everything. The origin of the Drekamythians, his people, was a history carved from the bones of suffering and survival. They had once been a species chained by the will of greater forces, subjugated by the Drekamythian Dragons, creatures of terrible power and cruelty. The Drekamythians were bred as servants, soldiers, and, for many, little more than prey. Voratharox could still recall the weight of those chains—both physical and spiritual—the oppression that had crushed the spirit of his people under the shadow of those ancient, fire-breathing tyrants.

He remembered the fear, the hopelessness that had pervaded every moment of their existence. The Drekamythians had lived under constant watch, their wings clipped, their strength drained, their will shattered. And Voratharox had been among them, a young warrior—proud but powerless—condemned to a life of servitude. His scales had once been dull from the ash and smoke of the dragons’ lairs, his wings heavy with the burden of forced labor. He had believed, as had so many of his kin, that this was the way of things. That the gods had abandoned them to this fate, and that there would be no salvation.

But then he came.

Voratharox’s gaze shifted to the endless stars, and in the shimmering lights, he saw the faint memory of the one who had changed everything—Melkos, once a mortal being, born of a race long forgotten in the eons that followed. Voratharox had learned of his origin over time, through whispered stories and visions shared by Melkos himself. The great god who now commanded the fates of worlds had once been a Snow Elf, one of a proud and ancient race, long before his ascent to godhood.

Melkos, in his mortal years, had known loss, suffering, and rage. The death of his beloved wife had driven him down a path of unimaginable power—power that twisted him, that made him something far beyond mortal. He had become a Lich, a master of the darkest energies, and in his despair and anger, he had consumed everything around him, including his own world. Voratharox often wondered if the sorrow in Melkos’ eyes, glimpsed in quiet moments, was born from those ancient memories—a god reflecting on the loss that had propelled him toward godhood.

But Melkos had not remained in darkness. Through time and conflict, he had been tempered, transformed from a Lich into something greater—something more than a demigod or a creature of shadow. His rage had been halted by Siri O’Neill, a name that Voratharox barely knew, a figure whispered in only the deepest lore. Melkos had been reborn from the core of a planet, forged anew in the fires of molten rock and divine energy, his soul cleansed of its anger and shaped into something far more powerful.

Voratharox remembered the first time he had heard Melkos' voice—soft but immense, like a whisper that carried the weight of eternity. The god had come not as a conqueror, not as the tyrants who had once enslaved the Drekamythians, but as a savior. He offered them freedom, a chance to rise above their suffering, to evolve beyond the chains of their past. The Drekamythian Dragons had fallen under the weight of Melkos’ power, not through sheer destruction, but through the guidance that Melkos gave to the oppressed. The Drekamythians had learned to fight, to stand against their former masters, and in time, they had earned their place in the cosmos as a free people.

And it was not just freedom that Melkos had granted them—it was purpose.

Voratharox had been among the first to kneel before the god, his scales still marked by the scars of battles fought against the dragons, his wings newly unfurled in the light of a world without oppression. Melkos had seen something in him—something that even Voratharox had not yet known. The god had taken him into his service, not as a mere soldier, but as a leader, a general who would command Melkos’ legions across the infinite realms. Voratharox had sworn his loyalty, and from that moment, his life had changed forever.

The Arch-Drekamythian could still remember the first time Melkos had touched his mind, the weight of the god’s presence almost unbearable, but also invigorating. His wings had grown stronger, his scales darker and harder, his eyes filled with the light of eternity. He had become more than just a warrior—he had become Melkos’ instrument, a being of judgment and mercy, of power and restraint. Voratharox had led the armies of Melkos into battle, not with the fury of a conqueror, but with the precision and wisdom of a being who understood the balance of life and death.

As he stood now, wings furled tightly against his back, Voratharox reflected on the eons that had passed since that first moment of salvation. His people had long since ascended to a higher purpose, becoming the angels of Melkos, guardians of the divine will. And yet, despite all the time that had passed, despite the countless worlds he had seen rise and fall, the Arch-Drekamythian could still feel the fire of that first rebellion burning in his heart. It had been Melkos who had given him his wings, who had lifted him from the dust of servitude and given him the power to fly.

Voratharox’s thoughts turned inward, to his own origins within the Drekamythian race. He had once been a simple warrior, a leader of a small band of rebels, fighting in vain against their dragon overlords. But when Melkos had come, he had seen more in Voratharox—a potential for greatness, a capacity for command that even Voratharox had doubted in himself. In Melkos’ service, Voratharox had grown, becoming not just a leader of soldiers, but a symbol of his people’s evolution, their rise from oppression to divine purpose.

It was Melkos who had given him his wings—wings that no other Drekamythian bore. It had been a mark of his elevation, a sign of his role as Melkos’ chosen general. The wings, dark as the void and vast as the night sky, had carried Voratharox across the realms, leading legions in the name of the god who had saved his people. And in all that time, Voratharox had never forgotten the moment when Melkos had placed his hand on his shoulder and told him that he was meant for more than mere survival. He was meant to soar.

Yet, for all his power, for all his status, Voratharox remained humble in the face of Melkos’ greatness. The god had lived eons beyond even the most ancient Drekamythian memories, his origins stretching back to a time before time itself. Voratharox could scarcely comprehend the full scope of Melkos’ existence, but he knew one thing with certainty: Melkos had seen the rise and fall of entire timelines, had watched as worlds were born and consumed, and had guided them with a steady hand.

The Arch-Drekamythian often wondered if Melkos had seen something of himself in the Drekamythians—once enslaved, now freed, their destiny shaped by forces beyond their control. Perhaps that was why the god had taken them under his wing, guiding them toward a higher calling, a purpose that transcended the mortal realms. In Melkos’ eyes, they had been more than just a race of oppressed beings—they had been kindred souls, worthy of salvation and transformation.

And Voratharox, standing on the edge of eternity, his wings casting long shadows against the shimmering stars, knew that his purpose, his service, would never end. He had been forged in the fires of rebellion, shaped by the hand of a god who had once walked as a mortal. And in that knowledge, there was a profound sense of peace.

For as long as Melkos ruled, as long as the stars continued to burn in the vastness of the cosmos, Voratharox would be there, his wings carrying him through the endless night, always watching, always protecting, always serving the one who had given him purpose beyond measure.

---

As Voratharox took his leave from the balcony that overlooked the boundless void, he turned, his massive wings folding gracefully against his back. His steps were silent as he made his way toward the halls of the citadel, a place where time itself seemed to bend and fold inward, creating spaces not bound by the same physical rules as mortal realms. The structure was ancient, yet not carved from stone or any earthly material. It was formed from the fabric of reality itself, a fluid, malleable existence that Melkos had shaped for his chosen few—spaces of rest and reflection for those who served the will of the god.

For most, these halls were impossible to understand. They were pockets of unused reality, dimensions given shape and purpose where none existed before. The walls shifted and shimmered, sometimes appearing as seamless stretches of starlight, at other times taking on the appearance of forgotten dreams, lost thoughts woven into the very essence of the place. To the Arch-Drekamythian, this was home, though the concept of a “home” was far from what mortals might recognize.

The quarters of a Drekamythian, especially one of his stature, were not humble abodes by mortal standards, nor were they grandiose palaces. They were spaces formed from their own essence, a reflection of their soul and purpose. For Voratharox, the room seemed a vast expanse of midnight sky, speckled with dim stars, soft shadows dancing at the edges of his vision. There was no floor, no ceiling—just the comforting embrace of the void itself, where he could rest his mind and body without the constraints of a physical bed. His wings could stretch freely, the weight of his form suspended in the ether, like a silent sentinel at peace.

It was here, in this boundless expanse, that Voratharox could meditate, reflect on the countless eons of his service, and prepare for the tasks to come. The void within his quarters was not empty, however. It was alive with the presence of his memories and thoughts, taking shape around him as his mind drifted. He could see the faces of those he had led in battle, the whispers of Melkos' voice, the flicker of dying stars from forgotten worlds. Each echo was a reminder of his purpose, his unending duty.

Yet, in this space beyond time, there were moments of companionship as well—occasions when he was not alone. Voratharox could feel her presence before she arrived, slipping between worlds with the grace only she could command. The fabric of reality shifted as Eleuthería, in her true form, appeared silently within his domain. She moved like the wind between stars, her dark blue scales shimmering faintly in the starlight, her red eyes glowing softly as they adjusted to the void that enveloped them both.

Eleuthería, though of a lower station, had a presence that was impossible to ignore. Her role differed from Voratharox’s, but her purpose was no less vital. Where he commanded legions and led grand campaigns, she walked quietly between realms, offering guidance and counsel to those who served Melkos on a more personal level. She had no wings to mark her as an Arch-Drekamythian, but her power and wisdom were undeniable. Her movements were as subtle as the shifting of dimensions, and her influence reached into places even he could not touch.

As she approached, Voratharox turned to meet her gaze, his own eyes glowing softly in the twilight of the room. There was no need for words between them, not at first. They had known each other for so long, their lives woven together by the threads of destiny and service. The connection between them was deep, but unlike the love mortals spoke of in their fleeting lifetimes. The Drekamythians did not perceive love as humans did. For them, it was more complex—something born of shared purpose, a familial bond of trust, understanding, and eternal loyalty.

Eleuthería paused, her wings absent but her presence filling the room. Her eyes held the soft glow of ancient wisdom as she spoke. "You have been restless," she said, her voice as gentle as the stir of a distant breeze. "Even in the silence, I can feel it."

Voratharox regarded her quietly for a moment before nodding. "The weight of time grows heavier with each passing cycle. The void between tasks stretches long, yet there is always more to do, more to reflect upon." His deep voice rumbled, as though resonating with the very fabric of the reality that surrounded them. "It is the nature of what we are."

She stepped closer, her gaze softened by an ancient wisdom. "It is not wrong to reflect. We are eternal, yes, but even we must find moments to rest within that eternity." Eleuthería’s presence brought with it a certain peace, a reminder that even in his station, Voratharox was not without those who understood his burdens.

He shifted slightly, his gaze wandering as he considered her words. In the beginning, when Melkos had first elevated the Drekamythians, Voratharox had not known her well. She had been like him—one of the few who had survived the trials of their kind's liberation from the dragons. But over time, as they each grew into their roles, their paths had intertwined. He had watched her guide the mortals, had stood beside her on countless occasions as they carried out the will of Melkos, their duties different but complementary.

For a long time, Voratharox had not understood her—her quiet, deliberate way of moving between worlds, her subtle influence on those around her. But as the eons passed, he had come to respect her deeply. She was not like him, not a commander of armies or a leader of vast legions. Yet her power was undeniable, her influence reaching into places he could never go. It was a bond forged not from romantic love, as humans might understand it, but from the deep, unspoken connection that only those who have lived through countless ages together could share.

Voratharox turned to her once more, his wings unfurling slightly as if to stretch in the comfort of her presence. "And you?" he asked, his voice low. "Do you feel the weight of eternity as I do, or is your path less burdened?"

Eleuthería smiled softly, her eyes gleaming. "We all carry our burdens, Voratharox, in different ways. My path is no less difficult than yours, but perhaps it is quieter, more subtle. I walk between worlds, I see the lives of mortals unfold in moments, but I never linger. I offer guidance, then I am gone. They do not know the burden of eternity, and sometimes that is a blessing. But for us..." she paused, her gaze distant for a moment, "for us, it is both our gift and our curse."

Voratharox nodded, understanding her words on a level that went beyond thought. The burden of eternity was not something to be shared easily, but here, in this moment, with her, it was lessened, if only by the knowledge that he was not alone.

As they stood together, in the vastness of the chamber that was more than a room but a reflection of their own timeless existence, Voratharox felt the calm of her presence wash over him. Eleuthería had always been the guiding force—the one who could find peace in the spaces between battles, the one who understood the subtle balance between action and reflection. She, too, had been there from the beginning, from the moment Melkos had saved their race. She, too, carried the weight of eons on her shoulders.

But in the quiet of this space, as the stars glimmered softly around them, Voratharox realized that even in eternity, there were moments of respite. Moments where the burden could be shared, if only for a time.

Voratharox stood in the quiet void beside Eleuthería, their forms illuminated by the dim starlight that rippled through his personal space. The silence was comforting, a balm that soothed the weight of countless eons, yet, something stirred within him—a curiosity, born from his reflections and the shared eternity they had both traversed.

His gaze shifted to her, studying her calm expression, the soft glow of her red eyes that held so much wisdom, and perhaps a hint of weariness. He wondered, as he often did in rare moments like these, how she perceived the passing of time. For one so deeply intertwined with the mortal world, how did she experience the constant ebb and flow of their brief lives? Did the endless cycle of mortal souls affect her in the same way that leading legions and battles weighed upon him?

Voratharox unfurled his wings slightly, the movement deliberate and slow. "Eleuthería," he began, his deep voice rumbling through the expanse, "how do you perceive time? You walk among mortals more than I, seeing their fleeting lives in a matter of moments. Do their brief existences make our eternity seem longer? Or... is it different for you?"

Eleuthería turned her gaze toward him, her expression thoughtful, as though she had been expecting this question. She shifted slightly, her dark blue scales shimmering as she did. "Time..." she said softly, "is a river with many currents. For mortals, it rushes quickly, always pulling them toward an end they cannot delay. But for us, it is slower, more measured. When I walk among them, I feel the press of time, yes. Their days, their years—so brief. Yet when they sleep, when they drift into their dreams, I return to where I belong. I slip back ‘home’ as you put it, to renew myself in the presence of the void and the quiet expanse."

Her gaze softened, and she turned her eyes toward the shimmering stars in the distance. "In those moments, I let go of the rush, the fleeting nature of their lives, and return to our eternal rhythm. When I am with mortals, it is like touching the edge of something wild, something that passes too quickly. But when I return here, to this realm, it is as though time no longer presses upon me. I am free to exist without it, to restore what the mortal world takes from me."

Voratharox nodded, absorbing her words. It was a delicate balance she maintained, one that he did not envy. His time among mortals was more distant—he commanded forces from above, led them into battle, but seldom did he immerse himself in their fleeting existences as she did. "Do you find it… exhausting?" he asked after a moment. "To walk between those worlds, slipping in and out of their lives?"

Eleuthería’s lips curved into a soft smile, though it was tinged with the weariness that only an ancient being like her could know. "It can be. Their emotions, their struggles, they all feel so intense, so immediate. Sometimes it is hard to remember that they are but brief flickers in the vastness of time. But I have learned to find balance. That is why I return when they sleep, to remember who I am and what I serve."

She paused, her eyes studying him carefully. "And you, Voratharox? You have walked this path for longer than almost any of us. You have seen more than most. Do you feel the same weight of time, or does the command of legions and the responsibilities you carry shield you from such things?"

Voratharox hesitated, his wings shifting slightly as he pondered her question. He had never truly spoken of this before, not even to her, but now, in the quiet of his chambers, with only the two of them present, he found himself opening in a way he rarely did. "Time does not weigh on me as it does for you. I am... focused, driven by purpose. The battles, the tasks, they ground me. I think, perhaps, that is how I manage. In each moment, there is something to be done, a task to be accomplished. When you lead armies, you do not have the luxury to reflect on time as it passes."

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as a thought crossed his mind. "But there are moments... rare moments... when I allow myself to reflect. To remember. You were there when Melkos saved us, Eleuthería. When he lifted us from the ruins of our old lives and gave us purpose. I was young then, though I hardly recall what 'youth' felt like. And yet, in those moments, when I recall the first steps of our kind, I realize how much time has truly passed."

Eleuthería nodded, listening intently. Voratharox rarely spoke of his own past, of the time before he had ascended to the position of Arch-Drekamythian. But now, as he spoke, there was a depth to his voice, a weight to his words that revealed just how much he had seen and experienced.

"I remember those days well," she said quietly. "I was not among the first to be saved, but I was there soon after. I saw how Melkos shaped us, how he guided us away from the destruction that could have consumed us. And I saw how you led us, even then, with a strength that few could match. You were always the one who stood at the forefront, the one who commanded with purpose."

Voratharox turned his gaze to her, his eyes glowing softly in the dim light. "And yet, it was you who reminded us of what we had left behind. You always had a way of finding balance, of walking between the worlds. I have always admired that about you."

There was a long silence between them, filled only by the quiet hum of the void that surrounded them. In that moment, Voratharox felt a strange sense of familiarity with Eleuthería, one that went beyond mere companionship. She had always been there, a constant presence in his life, even when he had been too focused on his duties to fully appreciate it.

"Eleuthería," he said softly, his voice carrying a weight of unspoken emotion, "you and I have walked this path for eons. You have guided mortals, and I have led legions. But... do you ever feel that we are more than what we do? That there is something beyond our roles, something that binds us together?"

Eleuthería’s eyes softened as she looked at him. She knew what he meant, though the Drekamythians did not perceive love in the same way as mortals. For them, it was not romantic or passionate, but something deeper—something born of shared experience, of trust, and an unbreakable bond. "We are bound, Voratharox," she said gently, "by more than just our roles. We have shared lifetimes together, seen the rise and fall of countless worlds. What we have is not love as mortals understand it, but it is something... more."

Voratharox nodded, understanding her words. It was true—there was something between them that went beyond duty, beyond the expectations of their stations. It was a bond forged in the fires of eternity, one that had grown stronger with each passing eon.

As they stood together in the void, their thoughts intertwined, Voratharox felt a rare sense of peace. In Eleuthería, he had found a kindred spirit, someone who understood the weight of eternity, the burden of their existence, and yet also the quiet comfort that came with shared purpose.

"We will continue," Voratharox said quietly, his wings stretching slightly as if preparing to take flight once more. "We will serve Melkos, as we always have. But know, Eleuthería, that I am grateful for your presence—for the quiet moments like these, when I can remember who I am, and what we truly are."

Eleuthería smiled softly, her eyes glowing with quiet understanding. "And I for yours, Voratharox. We are not alone in this eternity, and that is something to be thankful for."

Together, they stood, the weight of time and their duties pressing down on them, yet lifted by the knowledge that in the vastness of eternity, they had found solace in each other’s company.

---

Grand Celestial Hall
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

Voratharox and Eleuthería moved with fluid grace, their forms shimmering as they transitioned from the quiet recess of the void into the towering grandeur of the Grand Celestial Hall. The shift was not sudden, but instead a gradual manifestation, as though the very fabric of reality bent to their will, allowing them passage through the unseen layers of existence. The stars they had stood beneath moments ago bled into streams of light, swirling around them, guiding them toward the immense citadel that housed their kind.

The Grand Celestial Hall, more a construct of thought and spirit than stone and metal, rose before them in the shimmering expanse. Its walls were not built but woven from the very essence of creation—eddies of cosmic energy bound together by forces older than the stars themselves. The Hall radiated an aura of power and eternity, vast and endless, its form shifting and expanding as if it stretched far beyond what any mortal mind could comprehend. It was at once a fortress, a sanctuary, and a temple dedicated to Melkos.

The pair moved deeper into the citadel, the sheer scale of the place dwarfing even their ancient forms. Above them, arches soared into the heavens, connecting realms of thought, existence, and spirit. Cascades of starry light fell from unseen sources, illuminating the Hall with a soft, ethereal glow. Every step they took reverberated quietly, as if the very air sang with their presence.

As they walked, Voratharox’s eyes flickered toward the distant figures of others like them—Drekamythians. Some were young, barely touched by the eons of time, their forms still coalescing into the roles they would one day play. These younger Drekamythians moved with a cautious curiosity, their eyes wide as they absorbed their surroundings, their wings—if they had them at all—still uncertain in their strength. They walked slowly through the Grand Hall, guided by the elder Drekamythians, their wings shimmering in the celestial light.

Voratharox caught sight of a rare few—Drekamythians who, like him, bore wings of immense power and authority. These beings were ancient, each one a living monument to the legions they commanded, the worlds they had seen rise and fall. Their wings, vast and magnificent, marked them as High Drekamythians, the chosen few who had been gifted with a greater purpose by Melkos. Each bore their wings differently—some tightly folded against their backs, as though hiding their power, while others held them aloft in quiet confidence, their wings casting long shadows across the hall.

The bond between them was not spoken but understood. These were his brothers and sisters, the select few who had walked the same path of responsibility and strength as he had. Voratharox felt a rare sense of kinship as he watched them, a quiet understanding that, in the vast expanse of eternity, there were only so many who could bear the weight of the wings.

He nodded to one of them, Rhaekaroth, a fellow High Drekamythian who had stood at his side in countless battles. Rhaekaroth, his scales gleaming dark as a shadow against the bright halls, nodded in return, his massive wings twitching slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment between ancient comrades. Though words were not exchanged, the history between them was understood, woven into the very fabric of the Hall itself.

Eleuthería’s eyes followed his gaze, observing the winged Drekamythians with a quiet respect. Though she did not possess wings, her station was no less significant—her role as a guide, a healer, and a watcher of souls was a purpose all its own. And though she walked alongside them, she knew her path was different, more tied to the mortal world than to the legions and their battles.

"They are rare, aren't they?" Eleuthería mused quietly, her voice soft, though her words carried easily in the vast hall. "The ones with wings. Even among our kind, they are few."

Voratharox nodded. "Fewer with each passing age," he said, his tone contemplative. "Wings are not given lightly. They are earned through service, through a bond with Melkos that transcends even the ancient call of duty. And yet, they are a burden. A reminder of the responsibilities we carry. Not all seek them, nor do all survive the trials they bring."

His words carried weight, for he knew too well the truth behind them. He had seen Drekamythians perish—those who had fallen in battle, their physical forms destroyed, their souls drawn back to Melkos. Some were reborn, reincarnated into new forms, their essence reconstituted to serve once more. Others, however, remained lost, their service complete, their souls given over to Melkos to be held in the eternal fold.

It was this delicate cycle that sustained their kind. Drekamythians were not immortal in the traditional sense. They could fall, be broken, be consumed by the very forces they sought to control. But as long as their bond to Melkos remained, their souls would endure, and in time, they would be reborn into new forms, new purposes. The young Drekamythians, those whose wings had not yet unfurled or whose scales were still dull with inexperience, would one day fill the ranks of the fallen, learning their roles in the endless cycle of service.

They passed a group of these younger Drekamythians, their forms smaller, less defined. Some still walked on two legs, their wings mere stubs, barely visible beneath their nascent scales. Others had no wings at all, their bodies more attuned to the mortal realm than the celestial. They were led by an elder, one of the wingless guides, who spoke to them softly, teaching them the ways of their kind, the sacred duties they would one day fulfill.

Voratharox watched them with a sense of quiet reflection. "This cycle," he murmured, "it has repeated countless times. I wonder if they will come to understand their place as we did, Eleuthería. Or if they will seek something else—something beyond the path laid before them."

Eleuthería’s eyes softened as she looked at the young ones, her heart warmed by the sight. "They will find their way, Voratharox. As we did. As every generation before us has. Melkos’ hand guides us all, even when we do not see it. And when the time comes, they will fill the roles we leave behind."

There was a silence that followed, one of shared understanding. The Grand Celestial Hall was more than a meeting place—it was a sanctuary for reflection, for teaching, for renewal. It was where the Drekamythians found their purpose, their meaning, in the vast expanse of time. And it was here, in the citadel, that they could find solace in each other’s presence, knowing that no matter how far they strayed into the mortal realms, they always had a home to return to.

Voratharox felt the weight of his wings settle comfortably on his back. For all the burdens they carried, they were also a symbol of something greater—a connection to Melkos that was unbreakable, eternal. As he glanced at Eleuthería, he realized that, in a way, she too carried a similar weight, though her wings were invisible, bound to the lives she guided and the souls she touched.

"Come," Voratharox said quietly, his voice softer now, more reflective. "Let us speak more. There is much to consider, and I would value your wisdom."

Eleuthería nodded, her expression warm and understanding. "As would I, Voratharox. As would I."

[Anagonia]

Throne Hall
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

As Voratharox and Eleuthería moved deeper into the citadel, the luminous grandeur of the Throne Hall unfurled before them. Its vastness seemed to echo the very fabric of existence, every stone and archway humming with the resonance of a power that had shaped countless worlds. The architecture was beyond the comprehension of most, a tapestry woven from celestial threads, where even the void itself found form and substance. The Hall stretched far into the unseen reaches of creation, its towering pillars arching toward the infinity of the heavens above, shimmering with ancient starlight.

At the heart of the Hall, beneath the cascading aurora of cosmic energy that served as both roof and sky, stood Melkos. His Snow Elf form was still and composed, framed by the quiet majesty of the universe itself. Clad in robes that glowed faintly with the soft luminescence of a distant star, his long, silvery hair flowed over his shoulders, catching the ephemeral light. His sharp, elegant features held the ageless wisdom of one who had transcended mortality long ago, yet there was a softness in his gaze, a weight of contemplation that even gods could not entirely shed.

As Voratharox and Eleuthería approached, the quiet of the Throne Hall deepened, as though the very air held its breath in the presence of such beings. They had walked this path before, many times, and yet each time it felt as though the weight of the eons pressed down just a little harder. Voratharox, with his immense wings folded neatly behind him, moved with a slow, deliberate grace. His gaze, sharp and ancient, flickered toward Melkos, sensing the shift in his master's mood even before the god turned.

It was then, standing within the hallowed halls of Melkos' sanctuary, that Voratharox's thoughts drifted. His mind turned, as it often did in such moments of quiet, to the origins of his kind—of the Drekamythians.

They were once proud, he reflected, his thoughts heavy with the weight of ages. His people, known in the tongue of their old world as the Alkanai, had not always been what they were now. There was a time, far beyond the reckoning of most, when they were not angels or celestial guardians, but a mortal race, bound to the soil of their homeworld. They were strong, with scales that shimmered like the night sky and hearts that burned with the fire of ambition. His people had been explorers, warriors, artisans—the pinnacle of what mortal existence could achieve.

But as with many proud races, their ambition had been their undoing. The Alkanai had risen high, building cities that reached into the clouds, mastering magics that drew from the very veins of their world. And yet, it was never enough. They sought to claim dominion over the creatures that shared their world—ancient, draconic beings of immense power. The Drekamythian Dragons, as they would come to be known, were creatures of elemental fury, beings whose power rivaled even that of the gods.

The war between the Alkanai and the dragons was long and devastating. It tore the skies apart, shattered mountains, and drowned entire continents in fire and blood. In their hubris, the Alkanai believed they could conquer, could subdue the dragons and bind them to their will. But they were wrong. The dragons were too powerful, too ancient, too bound to the very essence of the world itself. The Alkanai were nearly wiped from existence, their cities reduced to ruins, their once-great civilization crumbling beneath the weight of their own ambition.

It was then, at the brink of their extinction, that Melkos had come.

"We were saved," Voratharox thought, a familiar shiver running down his spine as he remembered. "We were dying, but Melkos… he gave us a choice."

Melkos, in his boundless wisdom, had seen something in the Alkanai—something worth preserving. He had offered them a way out, a chance to survive. But it was not a gift freely given. It came with a price. To live, to be saved from the wrath of the dragons and from the ruin of their own making, the Alkanai had to forsake their mortal lives. They had to become something else—something more. Melkos had transformed them, elevating them beyond their physical forms, making them into his servants, his angels.

And so, the Alkanai had become the Drekamythians—the first of their kind, born again in the fires of Melkos' divine will. But not all had survived the transformation. Many of his people had perished in the process, their souls unable to bear the weight of such a fundamental change. But those who did, those who emerged from the fires of transformation, were reborn as something new—immortal, powerful, and bound forever to the will of Melkos.

Voratharox himself had been one of the first. He had stood at the precipice of death, his body broken and his spirit all but shattered. But Melkos had seen something in him—a strength, a resolve—and had pulled him back from the brink. In that moment, Voratharox had become more than he had ever been in life. He had become an Arch-Drekamythian, one of the few chosen to bear wings, to lead Melkos' legions, and to serve as his most trusted lieutenant.

Yet, for all their power, for all their immortality, the Drekamythians had not escaped their fate. They had been given new life, yes, but it was a life of eternal service. They were not free. Their souls belonged to Melkos, their wills bound to his. And in time, even they could fall—whether in battle or by the slow erosion of time. When that happened, their souls were drawn back into the fold of Melkos’ power, to be reborn or to find rest in the eternal cycle of his creation.

The thought of it filled Voratharox with both pride and a sense of quiet sorrow. "We have been saved, but at what cost?" he mused. "We are eternal, but we are not free. Our lives are bound to his will, as they have been since the moment we first knelt before him."

As they reached the center of the Hall, Melkos stirred, sensing their presence. He turned slowly, his gaze falling first on Eleuthería and then settling on Voratharox. His eyes, gleaming with the light of untold ages, softened slightly as they met the Arch-Drekamythian’s.

For a moment, the god and his creation regarded one another in silence, the weight of their shared history hanging heavy in the air. Voratharox bowed his head respectfully, his wings shifting slightly as he acknowledged the one who had both saved and bound him.

"My Lord," Voratharox spoke softly, his voice deep and resonant, "we are here, as you summoned."

Melkos smiled faintly, his expression calm and knowing. "Voratharox," he replied, his voice smooth, carrying the weight of eternity, "you never need wait to be summoned. You are always welcome here."

The words, though familiar, stirred something deep within Voratharox. There was comfort in them, yes, but also a reminder—a reminder that he, and all his kind, were bound by a duty that stretched beyond time, beyond worlds. They were eternal, yes, but their eternity was one of service.

And yet, as Voratharox stood before his master, he felt a quiet peace settle over him. For all the burdens he carried, for all the weight of his wings and his station, there was something in Melkos' presence that offered a kind of solace. The god had seen the rise and fall of countless civilizations, had lived through the destruction and rebirth of entire worlds, and yet here he stood—calm, patient, and eternally present.

In that moment, Voratharox understood, as he always had. This was his place, his purpose. He was born for this—for service, for loyalty, for eternity. And in that, there was a kind of peace, a kind of quiet acceptance that, though his path was one of eternal duty, it was a path he had chosen, and one he would walk until the end of all things.

Melkos, ever watchful, seemed to sense the shift in his Arch-Drekamythian’s thoughts. "You carry much on your wings, Voratharox," he said quietly. "But know that you do not carry it alone."

And with those words, the Throne Hall fell into a quiet stillness once more, as the ancient beings stood together in the vastness of eternity, bound by duty, by history, and by the eternal will of their god.

---

As the silence of the Throne Hall deepened, Melkos—once known as Isilindil Mithrandír—allowed his thoughts to drift, though his gaze remained fixed on the loyal figures before him. He could feel the weight Voratharox carried, the unspoken burdens of an existence bound to eternity, and though the Arch-Drekamythian had accepted his path long ago, Melkos knew that even the eternal could grow weary.

The god’s mind slipped into the deep well of his own past, to a time before he was Melkos, before he was a god. Back to when he had been merely Isilindil Mithrandír, one of the Vaeryndari—the proud and noble Snow Elves of a forgotten world. The Vaeryndari had once been a thriving race, their kingdoms nestled among the icy peaks of their ancient homeland, Eledhrimor, where the cold winds whispered the secrets of magic to those with ears to listen.

The Vaeryndari were a people of unmatched wisdom and grace, their long lives giving them a perspective that few other races could claim. They were artisans of magic, wielding the natural forces of their frozen realm with a mastery that rivaled the stars themselves. Among them, Isilindil had stood out—not only for his innate talent for the arcane arts but for his unyielding desire to transcend the limits of mortality. His thirst for knowledge had driven him to explore the darkest corners of their magic, seeking the secrets of life, death, and everything in between.

But even for the Vaeryndari, with all their power, death was an inescapable truth. When his beloved wife, Lëoriel, had fallen ill and begun to fade from life’s embrace, Isilindil had turned to the darkest of arts in desperation. He sought the forbidden knowledge of the Lich—an ancient practice of necromancy long abandoned by his people, for it offered only corruption and despair. But he could not, would not, let her die.

He had succeeded—at least in part. Isilindil had become something far more than mortal. He had transcended life, ascending into a state of existence that made him a master of death itself, but it came at a terrible cost. Lëoriel, the light of his life, was gone, beyond even his newfound power to resurrect. In his rage and grief, he had turned his unholy might upon the world, consuming it in fire and fury, leaving nothing but ashes in his wake. The Vaeryndari, his people, had perished alongside everything else he had once loved, destroyed by the very power he had sought to control.

The darkness within him had festered for ages. He became Melkos, the name whispered in terror across the stars, as he sought dominion over life and death, over entire worlds. His name spread like a plague, a god of darkness born not from divinity but from the broken heart of a Lich who had once been a man.

It had not been until Siri O’Neill, the brave mortal who had stood against him, had brought him to the brink of destruction. Their final battle, a cataclysm of cosmic proportions, had ended not with his defeat, but with his salvation. Reborn from the molten heart of a dying planet, he had been given a second chance—an opportunity to reshape himself, to become more than the sum of his grief, his rage, his unrelenting desire for control. He had become a god, but a different kind of god—a caretaker of timelines, a shepherd of existence, guiding the fates of those who followed in the paths he had once destroyed.

And so, he had taken on the mantle of the caretaker of Anagonia, bending time and reality itself to ensure its survival. He had restarted timelines, molding them, correcting them, until the world itself finally settled into the incarnation that now existed on Esvanovia. But even with his divine powers, Melkos knew that his path was not without its shadows. He had forged angels, Drekamythians, not out of malice, but out of necessity. He needed those who could stand beside him, those who could enforce his will across the stars and guide the worlds in his stead.

"But am I any different than I was?" he wondered. In his deepest thoughts, the question lingered. Was this life of servitude he had given the Drekamythians simply another form of control? Another echo of the Dark Lich he had once been? Or was it born from a place of mercy—a way to offer salvation to those who would have otherwise been destroyed by their own folly, just as he had once been?

His gaze turned toward Voratharox, the mighty Arch-Drekamythian, standing before him with wings that symbolized his elevated status. Voratharox, who had been among the first of his kind to accept the transformation, to become something more than mortal, had once been a proud warrior of his race. He had fought the Drekamythian Dragons—those primordial beings of the same world—until the brink of his own extinction. Melkos had saved him, had given him and the remnants of his people a new purpose, a new life. But what kind of life was it?

The Vaeryndari, the Snow Elves of his past, had been so full of life, full of pride. But they had been mortal, and with their mortality came the natural order of things—the cycle of life and death that even the gods could not fully escape. The Drekamythians, however, had no such freedom. They were eternal, as he was, and with that eternity came a different kind of burden.

"I wonder if they resent me," Melkos thought briefly, his eyes lingering on Voratharox. Not out of disobedience, for he knew they were loyal beyond question, but out of the quiet realization that their fate had been sealed when he had offered them his gift of salvation. "Do they ever long for the freedom of their old lives? Do they, too, question the cost of eternity?"

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Melkos pushed it aside. There was no room for doubt, not here, not now. The world needed order, and he had given it to them. His Drekamythians were the shepherds of this order, and they had chosen their path, just as he had chosen his long ago.

Melkos shifted slightly, his Snow Elf form radiating a quiet majesty as he regarded the two before him. He was no longer the angry Lich, no longer the wrathful god who had sought to consume all that stood before him. He was something more now—a being shaped by eons of reflection, of trial, of watching countless civilizations rise and fall.

The weight of his origins, the fall of the Vaeryndari, still clung to him, though he had long learned to wear it lightly. His people, his original people, were gone. Their ruins were scattered across the forgotten corners of time, their stories lost to all but him. And yet, in a way, they lived on in the Drekamythians, for in his shaping of their kind, he had drawn from his own past. He had given them the strength, the pride, and the will to survive, even in the face of annihilation.

Voratharox stirred slightly, his wings shifting as though he could sense the direction of Melkos’ thoughts. "My Lord," he said quietly, his deep voice cutting through the silence, "your burden is ours as well. We exist to serve, as we have always known."

Melkos smiled faintly at that. "I know, Voratharox," he replied, his voice gentle but edged with the weight of their shared history. "But I often wonder if you ever question what it is to serve. To carry out my will across the stars, through ages beyond reckoning."

Voratharox met his gaze without flinching, the ancient wisdom of the Drekamythian shining in his eyes. "We do not question, my Lord," he answered softly. "We are what we are because of you. And we are stronger for it."

Melkos nodded, but in the quiet of his mind, the doubts remained. He had saved them, yes, but had he truly given them the freedom he so desperately sought for himself?

Perhaps in time, the answer would come. But for now, as he stood in the grandeur of the Throne Hall, with Voratharox and Eleuthería before him, Melkos knew that their path, like his, was set. They would continue to serve, to guide, to uphold the order that he had forged from the ashes of a thousand fallen worlds.

And as the stars burned brightly in the eternal sky above, Melkos turned his gaze outward once more, toward the distant future that only he could see. "One day," he thought, "perhaps we will all find the peace we seek. But until that day comes, we will endure. As we always have."

---

As Eleuthería stood in quiet contemplation, her gaze drifting across the vast expanse of the Throne Hall, her thoughts spiraled into the ancient, intricate web of history that connected them all—Melkos, Anagonia, the Drekamythians, and all the countless souls that had lived and perished under the watchful eye of the god who had once been known as Isilindil Mithrandír. It was a history so vast, so deeply entwined with timelines and dimensions, that even her own ancient mind struggled to grasp its full scope. And yet, as she stood there beside Voratharox, her thoughts turned inward, reflecting on the one constant in all that sprawling eternity: Melkos’s obsession with Anagonia.

She had long wondered why, out of all the places and worlds in the vast multiverse, Melkos had chosen Anagonia as his people, his project, his passion. The answer, she knew, lay buried in the memories of eons past, in the time when Melkos had not yet been a god but a man—a broken man, a Dark Master of forbidden arts, driven by his grief and rage. It was in those shadowed times that the seeds of his connection to Anagonia had first taken root.

Eleuthería knew of the Galactic Federation that had once stood in the eons before the world of Esvanovia had even formed. Anagonia had not always been a singular planet; it had been a people of the stars, their influence spread across countless worlds, an empire of races, cultures, and nations bound together by the shared ideal of survival and progress. They had been explorers, warriors, diplomats, and scholars, a civilization unmatched in its reach and potential. They had built mighty ships that could traverse galaxies and made alliances with ancient races long lost to time.

And Melkos, before he had taken on the mantle of godhood, had walked among them.

Eleuthería reflected on the long-lost companions of Melkos, those whom he had admired, befriended, and even loved in his mortal days. Drakomis Reign, the towering Komodren who had risen to lead the Galactic Federation as its President. A gentle yet powerful being, wise beyond his years, who had stood by Melkos through the most perilous of times. He had given everything to keep the Federation alive, to keep their dream alive, only to perish at the hands of their ancient enemies. His death had left a scar on Melkos’s heart, one that had never truly healed.

Oscar Vladinchi, one of the original Alkanai, the ancient Drekamythians who had lived freely, openly, and proudly in those days. Oscar had been more than just a warrior; he had been a mentor, a brother-in-arms, and one of the few who understood the darkness that had taken root in Melkos’s soul. His fall, like Drakomis’s, had been a blow that Melkos never fully recovered from. Even now, as Melkos reshaped the timelines, Oscar's presence lingered—a near-immortal Drekamythian, still living, still guiding, his story intertwined with Melkos’s own.

And then there was Prometheus, the sentient robotic organism, once nothing more than a machine built for war, but who had transcended his creation, gaining a soul in the process. Prometheus had been the last line of defense when the Galactic Federation fell, leading the final stand against their enemies. His bravery, his sacrifice, had not been forgotten by Melkos, and in the current timeline, Prometheus was reborn once more, his soul restored, his purpose renewed.

The list of names, of those Melkos had once called friends and allies, stretched on through the ages: Tuloth Kobra, the fierce warrior; Jason Paladin, the diplomat; Dimitri Molokov, the savage leader; Theresa Europa, the kind-hearted ally; and Tiberius Samsus, the capable and strong-willed leader who had once guided Anagonia through its darkest days. Their lives, their stories, had all been woven into the fabric of Melkos’s purpose, their souls drawn into the endless cycle of reincarnation, brought back to life again and again, as he carefully crafted each new timeline, each new beginning, to give them another chance at survival, at peace.

Eleuthería knew that Melkos’s love for Anagonia was not born of mere favoritism. It was penance. It was a redemption arc that spanned eons and stretched beyond the comprehension of any mortal mind. When the Galactic Federation had fallen, when Melkos had allowed himself to be consumed by his obsession with transcending mortality, he had forsaken his people. He had left them to their fate, to the ravages of time and war. It was a mistake he had vowed never to repeat.

And so, when he had finally ascended to godhood, when he had gained the power to reshape time itself, Melkos had turned his attention back to the people he had once abandoned. Anagonia, in every timeline, in every incarnation, had been his passion project. He had restarted their world, reshaped their history, again and again, always guiding them from the shadows, always nudging them toward a better future, a stronger future. He had lived through countless millennia, burning through his divine essence to ensure that this version of Anagonia—the version that now existed on the planet Esvanovia—would be the one to succeed.

He had done it for them—for Drakomis, for Oscar, for Prometheus, and for all the others whose lives had been cut short in the collapse of the Galactic Federation. He had done it so that they could live again, so that they could be given the chance to rise and thrive, free from the mistakes of the past.

Eleuthería’s thoughts lingered on Drakomis, the Komodren who had been more than just a friend to Melkos. He had been a brother, a confidant, a symbol of everything that Melkos had lost. And when Melkos had restarted the timeline, he had honored Drakomis in a way that no other could. He had granted Drakomis the gift of being the father of the Komodren race in this new world, allowing his soul to be the genesis for the proud, towering beings that now walked among the Anagonians. Drakomis had lived long, guiding his people, shaping their culture, before passing peacefully into the next life—his legacy forever intertwined with Anagonia’s destiny.

Eleuthería often wondered how much of this Melkos shared with his Drekamythians. They knew of his power, of his endless patience in crafting the future, but did they know the depth of his guilt? His sorrow? Did they understand that Anagonia’s survival, its flourishing, was not merely the will of a god, but the redemption of a man who had once failed to save those he loved?

As Eleuthería reflected, her gaze returned to Melkos, standing in the Throne Hall, his Snow Elf form bathed in the soft, ethereal light that emanated from the very fabric of the dimension around them. He was still, as if lost in his own thoughts, perhaps reflecting on the same ancient history that had gripped her mind. His features were calm, composed, but Eleuthería knew better. She knew that behind that serene exterior lay the mind of a god who had seen and lost too much, who had lived for eons to correct a single mistake.

He had never truly forgiven himself for abandoning them. And so, he guided them now, shaping their world, their destiny, giving them a chance at a better future—one free from the chains of the past. Anagonia, and all those who called it home, were his redemption.

And in that moment, Eleuthería understood more than ever why Melkos had chosen this place, this people. Anagonia was not just a world to him. It was his purpose. His promise to never fail again.

And she, like Voratharox, and all the others who served him, were bound to that purpose, as much by duty as by love.

[Anagonia]

Throne Hall
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

Voratharox stood quietly, his powerful form steady, wings folded behind him as he observed his Lord, Melkos. The air in the Throne Hall was heavy with anticipation, the ancient stones seeming to hum with a tension that had not been present in countless eons. Melkos, in his Snow Elf form, stood silently before the grand, glowing expanse of his throne. The god's eyes, though calm, betrayed a flicker of concern that Voratharox had learned to recognize across the ages.

There was something on his master's mind.

After a long moment, Voratharox spoke. "My Lord, I sense unease in you. What weighs on your thoughts this day?"

Melkos did not respond at first, his gaze fixed on some far-off point in the endless realm beyond the Hall. Finally, he turned, his expression serene, though his eyes held the depth of ages.

"You know me well, Voratharox," Melkos said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of eternity. "There is much that stirs the threads of fate, and I must be mindful of the pieces in play."

The Arch-Drekamythian listened, understanding that Melkos was not speaking of mortal concerns alone. He could sense it—something larger, more intricate than any single conflict or war. Yet, it was bound to the world of Anagonia, the very place Melkos had shaped and nurtured for so long.

"Anagonia," Melkos continued, "has always been my charge. But I am not the only one watching over this universe. There are other gods, other powers that have their own designs. I am bound by the same rules they are. I must move carefully, for every action I take, every influence I exert, can disrupt the balance we gods must maintain."

Voratharox furrowed his brow, his deep red eyes narrowing slightly. "Other gods, my Lord? Do they seek to oppose you?"

"Not directly," Melkos said, his tone thoughtful. "But they, too, have their followers, their purposes. Some walk among the stars, others guide forces on worlds far from ours. Anagonia, as it stands, is but one stage in a much larger play. And I, as its Patron, can only do so much. I cannot interfere openly, nor can I tip the scales without consequence."

The Arch-Drekamythian’s wings twitched slightly. He had long known that his Lord’s reach was not without limits, but hearing it in this moment made the tension of the situation more real. The Kaskadain war, the rise of Anagonia's future leaders—it was all part of a delicate, divine balance.

"But," Melkos continued, "even in my restraint, we have achieved much. The Drekamythians have done well in their tasks—guiding mortals, comforting them, spreading my word through dreams and visions. They have upheld the Drekan faith across lands, and the churches continue to grow, strong in their purpose."

Voratharox nodded, feeling the pride of his kin swell within him. The Drekamythians, tasked with divine purpose, had long been stewards of Melkos’s will. Through their quiet interventions, they had shaped the minds and souls of countless mortals, guiding them towards faith, and offering solace in times of despair.

"The Drekan Church," Melkos said softly, "was not built overnight, nor did it spring from the earth by chance. I have tended to it, nurtured it carefully, just as I have shaped Anagonia itself. From the days when Anagonians split into the tribes that would become Nodea Rudav, Imperial Drekamythian Empire, and Anagonia itself, I have been present."

He paused, his eyes reflecting a distant time. "The Imperial Drekamythian Empire became a bastion of my word, the Holy Necronomicon spreading through the lands, giving rise to the Drekan faith. And I have guided it through my three Disciples, whose works have endured across time."

Voratharox knew these stories well—the legends of Josephus Alexandrius, the foreigner who had first cataloged Melkos’s travels; of Rikor Hak, who had united the tribes and the dragons with the blessing of Melkos’s divine voice; and of General Octavius Mavidenus, who had forged a nation from the warring city-states of Anagonia. These disciples had carried Melkos’s word across centuries, ensuring that the faith remained strong.

"And yet," Melkos said, his voice lowering, "even with all we have done, the future remains uncertain. The Kaskadain war looms, and beyond it, there are forces I cannot fully control. The gods move their pieces as I move mine. Some seek to bring conflict, others seek to shape mortal hearts. I must tread carefully."

There was a long silence as Voratharox absorbed his Lord’s words. The Drekamythians had done their part, yes, but the world was shifting. The threads of fate were tightening, and even Melkos, with all his power, was bound by the delicate balance of the divine.

"The preachers of the Drekan Church," Melkos said after a moment, "have carried the flame well. The Holy Necronomicon still guides them, as it has for centuries. But even the strongest of flames can be tested. The events ahead—war, suffering, and the choices of mortal leaders—will test the faith of many."

Voratharox felt a chill run through him, a rare feeling for a being as ancient as he. There was a sense that the days to come would be unlike any that had passed before. The Arch-Drekamythian, though steadfast, could sense the shifting of the divine currents.

"But we have prepared them well, Voratharox," Melkos said, his voice regaining its strength. "The Three Disciples built the foundation, and the preachers continue to spread my word. The faith is strong, and through it, Anagonia will find its way. But you, and all the Drekamythians, must remain vigilant. The gods move, and I must guide my people through the storm that approaches."

The Arch-Drekamythian bowed his head deeply, his wings stretching out behind him in a gesture of respect. "We will be ready, my Lord. The Drekamythians will stand firm, as they always have."

Melkos looked at Voratharox, his expression softening. "You have done well, Voratharox. Your leadership has carried the Drekamythians through countless trials. And though there are forces beyond even my control, I trust in you—and in them—to carry out my will."

The words of his god filled Voratharox with renewed purpose. He had served Melkos for longer than he could remember, through wars, calamities, and the rise and fall of civilizations. And now, as the pieces moved on the board once again, he would stand ready to serve, to guide, and to protect.

But the knowledge that other gods moved their pieces too—that was the weight he would carry with him. The game was far from over, and the outcome was uncertain.

"We must be patient," Melkos said quietly, his eyes distant once more. "The mortals will make their choices, and we will guide them as best we can. But know this, Voratharox—whatever comes, Anagonia will not be abandoned. I have seen its future, and I will see it through."

And so, in the quiet stillness of the Throne Hall, Voratharox and Melkos stood together, two ancient beings bound by duty, by faith, and by the eternal threads of fate that wove through the fabric of existence. They would play their part, as they always had. And though the storm was on the horizon, they would face it—together.

---

Eleuthería stood at the threshold of the Throne Hall, just beyond the grand doors, the quiet hum of divine energy coursing through the air. She had listened to Melkos’s words, to the revelations shared between her Lord and Voratharox, and now, as the full weight of their conversation settled upon her, she felt a deep stirring within.

She had always known that her role in the grand design of Melkos extended far beyond the mortal world. As one of the Drekamythians chosen to guide and protect, her existence was intertwined with the fate of Anagonia itself. But hearing Melkos speak of the other gods—of the divine forces moving like pieces on a cosmic board—reminded her of how precarious their charge truly was.

Stepping away from the hall, Eleuthería allowed herself a moment of reflection. In the vast eternity of her service, she had witnessed the rise and fall of many civilizations, the endless cycle of life and death, war and peace. But few moments weighed on her as heavily as her recent interventions in the lives of Preachers Alden Verros and Abel Ren. She had been called to act, not as a mere guide, but as a vessel of salvation, to steer these men back to the path of faith and devotion.

Verros had been on the brink of destruction, his soul teetering dangerously close to the abyss. He had lost his way, not only as a preacher but as a man of faith. His heart had hardened, his mind clouded with doubt and complacency. She had felt his despair, his fading light, and when the time came, she had stood by his side—first as an unseen presence, then as the very hand that stayed his judgment.

It was a delicate task, saving a soul that had drifted so far. In the depths of his judgment, when the Drekamythian with wings had nearly ended his life, Eleuthería had intervened. Her plea to Melkos, her belief in Verros's potential for redemption, had been enough to spare him. And now, Verros stood renewed—his faith reignited, his purpose restored. She could still feel the echoes of his gratitude, the weight of his redemption a quiet warmth in her heart.

But it wasn’t only Verros who had been touched by her hand. Abel Ren, his fellow preacher, had also felt her influence. Unlike Verros, Ren had not strayed so far, but his burden had been different. He had carried the weight of his congregation alone, struggling to keep the faith of his flock alive while watching his colleague drift away. Eleuthería had been a quiet presence in Ren’s life, guiding him gently, ensuring that he did not fall into the same darkness that had consumed Verros. She had seen his strength, his quiet resolve, and she had been proud of the way he had stood firm in the face of doubt.

Together, Verros and Ren had been given a second chance, their lives intertwined with the divine purpose that stretched far beyond their understanding. Eleuthería knew that their paths were still fraught with challenges—war loomed on the horizon, and the faith of their people would be tested in ways they could not yet comprehend. But for now, they were steady, their souls anchored in the light of Melkos’s grace.

And then there was Ethan Wheeler.

Eleuthería had watched him closely, though from a distance. His life had taken a darker turn, his choices leading him down paths that threatened to consume him. He was not a preacher, not a man of the cloth, but he was important to the greater tapestry of events that Melkos had woven. Wheeler’s life had intersected with the divine, and though he did not know it yet, Melkos had intervened in his fate just as he had with Verros and Ren.

Melkos’s intervention in Ethan’s life had been subtle, a whisper in the dark, a nudge here, a vision there. The great god of Anagonia did not always move with overt displays of power. Sometimes, he worked quietly, allowing mortals to make their own choices, guiding them gently toward the light. In Ethan's case, the intervention had come in moments of despair—when the weight of his mistakes threatened to crush him, when the darkness of his choices had pulled him further away from his own salvation.

Eleuthería had sensed Melkos’s hand in those moments, a quiet force that had prevented Ethan from fully succumbing to the abyss. She admired the subtlety of her Lord’s work, the way he allowed his chosen to falter, to struggle, but never to fall completely beyond reach. In her mind, she could see Ethan’s journey unfolding, the slow realization that his life had been touched by something greater, that the choices he made from this point on would determine his path.

As Eleuthería walked the quiet corridors of the Citadel, her thoughts drifted back to Melkos himself—Isilindil Mithrandír, as he had once been known. His origins as a Snow Elf, long before he had ascended to godhood, fascinated her. She had learned much about her Lord over the eons, but there were still mysteries that even she could not fully grasp.

Before Melkos had become the Patron of Anagonia, before he had guided the Drekamythians and shaped the fate of an entire world, he had been something far darker. A master of the dark arts, a Lich who had wielded his power with both cruelty and necessity. And yet, in the depths of that darkness, he had found his way to the light. Eleuthería marveled at this transformation—the way Melkos had used the very darkness that once consumed him to become a force of balance, guiding others to redemption even as he carried the weight of his own past.

The more she pondered, the more she realized how deeply connected she was to this grand design. Melkos had chosen Anagonia as his people not out of random selection, but because he had been drawn to them since the days of the Galactic Federation. He had watched, helpless, as that ancient civilization fell, his own friends and companions lost to the ravages of time and war. Men like Drakomis Reign, the Komodren leader, and Oscar Vladinchi, the proud Drekamythian, had perished in the final battles. Melkos had been absent then, too lost in his quest for transcendence to save them.

That was why Anagonia mattered so much now. It was not just a world—it was his redemption. A timeline crafted through eons of trial and error, a place where Melkos could give those he had lost a second chance. The leaders of the past had been reincarnated, their souls drawn back into this world, reborn in new forms, in new lives, to fulfill a destiny long in the making. Anagonia was his creation, his passion, his penance for the mistakes he had made long ago.

Eleuthería understood this now, more than ever. She had always known that her role as a guide extended far beyond the salvation of individual mortals. She was part of a much larger cycle, a plan that Melkos had carefully crafted over the course of countless lifetimes. Every preacher saved, every soul redeemed, was a thread in the tapestry of Melkos’s vision.

Her involvement in the salvation of Verros and Ren, in the quiet intervention in Ethan Wheeler’s life, was not just about saving those individuals—it was about preserving the grand design. The preachers were pillars of faith, just as Ethan was a key figure in the events to come. Each of them played a part in the greater story of Anagonia, a story that stretched back to the days of the stars, to a time when Melkos had first walked among mortals, long before he became their god.

As Eleuthería reflected on these revelations, she felt a deep sense of purpose settle within her. She had always trusted Melkos’s plan, but now, with the weight of all that had transpired, she understood just how intricately woven her own existence was with the fate of Anagonia. She was not merely a guide—she was a guardian of the grand design, a keeper of the divine will that shaped the destiny of worlds.

And as the storm loomed on the horizon, she knew that her role was far from over.

---

Grand Celestial Hall
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

The vast expanse of the Grand Celestial Hall stretched before them, a space that defied mortal comprehension. High, vaulted ceilings shimmered with stars that weren’t quite of this universe, and the walls seemed to hum with a resonance only the divine could hear. Here, the energy of creation, destruction, and rebirth intertwined seamlessly. It was a place where the highest of Melkos’ chosen gathered—a sanctuary for reflection, guidance, and the quiet musings of beings who had long since transcended mortal concerns.

Voratharox and Eleuthería stood together in the hall’s quiet recess, their conversation muted against the backdrop of the celestial murmurs. The wings of the Arch-Drekamythian furled neatly against his powerful form as he surveyed the hall, his gaze distant but keen. Eleuthería, her scaled form radiant under the shifting glow of the stars, stood at his side, her presence calm and steady. Despite the quiet that enveloped them, there was a weight between them—unspoken, but felt.

It wasn’t long before another presence approached—the second Arch-Drekamythian, Rhaekaroth, his wings dark and regal as they draped behind him. His eyes, piercing and ancient, flickered with a knowing gleam. He had heard the quiet conversation and had come to stand with his fellow Arch-Drekamythian and Eleuthería.

“Voratharox, Eleuthería,” Rhaekaroth greeted, his deep voice rumbling softly. “I can feel the weight of the world on your thoughts. Speak them. This is no place for silence.”

Voratharox glanced at Rhaekaroth and gave a slight nod before turning his gaze back to the shimmering starry expanse overhead. The time had come to share what he had seen—what had been revealed to him through his Lord, Melkos. His voice was quiet at first, but steady, as though the truth had been brewing within him for eons.

“Mileethus Canisilus, the President of Anagonia, will be shot,” Voratharox began, his tone solemn. “Not killed, but struck down for a time, unable to act. It will create a fracture, a moment of vulnerability that Melkos has foreseen. A doorway will open—a doorway for both salvation and destruction. Some will fall, and through their fall, they will return to Melkos. Others… they will be given the chance to rise again. Reborn, if they are willing.”

Eleuthería shifted slightly, her amber eyes narrowing with concern. She had felt the coming storm, but hearing the specifics from Voratharox gave it form. “The President…” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of her contemplation. “He is a good man, one of Melkos’ chosen. But even the chosen are not immune to the trials of life. His fall will test the nation—test its very soul.”

“Yes,” Rhaekaroth added, his wings unfurling slightly as he stepped closer, his gaze keen. “Anagonia has been on the precipice of something for centuries now. This moment—this injury to its leader—could either unite them or see them fall deeper into the divisions that already plague them.”

Voratharox's voice deepened, resonating with a somber certainty. “Melkos has not left this to chance. The President’s mate, Auristi Canisilus, has been shown a dream—one from our Lord himself. She knows, Eleuthería. She knows of her husband’s impending fate. She shared it with him, and though he took it seriously, there is still uncertainty in his heart. He does not yet see the full scale of what is to come.”

Eleuthería nodded, her thoughts turning to Auristi. She had watched the Komodren woman from afar, her resilience and her love for Mileethus. She had been a quiet but constant force at her husband’s side, strong in ways few could comprehend. “And yet, even in uncertainty, she has been prepared,” Eleuthería said thoughtfully. “Melkos has seen to that. Her dream was no mere warning—it was a beacon, a guide for what is to come. She will be tested as well.”

Rhaekaroth’s gaze darkened, his mind drifting over the broader implications. “It’s not just about Mileethus. His incapacitation will spark something larger—an opportunity for Melkos’ hand to shape Anagonia’s destiny once more. Those who have strayed far from the light will find themselves swept up in this storm. Some will perish. Others will be reclaimed, and still, others will rise anew, given the chance to redeem themselves through the fires of tribulation.”

“Those who perish,” Voratharox added, “will not be lost. Their souls belong to Melkos, and he will welcome them. Whether in his eternal embrace or through reincarnation, their journey continues. But those who persist, those who survive the storm… they will be forever changed. Anagonia will never be the same.”

Eleuthería could feel the weight of their words, the enormity of what lay ahead for the mortals she had guided. “We must prepare,” she murmured, her thoughts drifting to the Drekan Churches, to the preachers like Verros and Ren. “The Drekan Faith will need to be strong. The preachers must carry the burden of truth as they lead their people through this storm. Verros and Ren—they have been tested, but their trials are far from over. They, too, will play their part.”

Voratharox nodded. “Melkos has tended the Drekan Churches carefully, as he has always done. They have thrived, despite the hardships of the mortal world. And now, they stand as the foundation upon which faith will be tested. The preachers, the disciples—they carry Melkos’ word to those in need. Through dreams, through visions, through comfort in times of despair. And it is through them that Melkos’ will shall be enacted.”

Rhaekaroth’s wings flexed as he stood taller, his gaze hardening with resolve. “The Drekan Churches have always been his bastion. From their origins in Drekamythia, through the tribal splits that formed Anagonia, Nodea Rudav, and Drekamythia, Melkos has ensured that his faith would endure. He has tended to the Imperial Drekamythian Empire with particular care, crafting it into a beacon of his teachings. The Holy Necronomicon has preserved the truth, and his disciples—Josephus, Rikor Hak, and General Mavidenus—were the pillars of his guidance.”

Eleuthería smiled faintly at Rhaekaroth’s words. “Three Disciples, yes. Each one a cornerstone of the Drekan Faith, carrying the weight of Melkos’ truth across time. Josephus Alexandrius, who first heard the call of Melkos on the shores of the Sea of Liberty. Rikor Hak, who united the Anagonian tribes and their Dragonkind brethren. And Mavidenus, who forged unity through war and faith alike. They are the foundation upon which the Drekan Faith was built.”

Voratharox looked out across the Grand Celestial Hall, his mind tracing the long line of history that had led them to this moment. “Melkos has been patient, but now, the time for action draws near. The Kaskadain war will push Anagonia to the brink. The President’s fall, the aftermath—it will be the beginning of something greater. And the Drekan Faith will either be the light that guides them through the darkness or the hammer that strikes down those who stand in the way of progress.”

Rhaekaroth’s gaze turned to Eleuthería, his expression thoughtful. “And what of you, Eleuthería? Your connection to the mortals is deep. You have guided them with care, saved their souls from the brink. How do you see the coming storm?”

Eleuthería met Rhaekaroth’s gaze with quiet resolve. “The storm is inevitable, but it is not without purpose. The mortals will be tested, yes, but in their testing, they will find strength. Those who fall may find their way back through Melkos’ mercy. And those who rise… they will rise as something more.”

Voratharox’s wings shifted slightly, his gaze distant as he considered the words of his companions. “Anagonia’s fate is tied to Melkos. It always has been. But now, as the storm approaches, it will be up to them to decide whether they are worthy of the path he has laid before them.”

“And we will be there to guide them,” Eleuthería added softly, “as we always have. In the quiet moments, in their dreams, in the visions that stir their hearts. We will be their light in the darkness.”

The three Drekamythians stood together, their forms bathed in the soft glow of the Grand Celestial Hall. In the vastness of eternity, they shared a quiet understanding—a knowledge that the coming events would shape not only Anagonia but the very fabric of existence itself. And though they were bound by duty to their Lord, Melkos, they also knew that in the end, the mortals they watched over would play the greatest part in deciding their own fate.

The storm was coming, but so too was the light.

---

The Grand Celestial Hall shimmered with a timeless light, its grandeur shaped from the very fabric of the cosmos. The high ceilings, adorned with constellations, shifted like rivers of stars, silently witnessing the gathering below. At the heart of the chamber stood the Arch-Drekamythians—Voratharox and Rhaekaroth—their imposing forms cast in the glow of ancient celestial power, wings folded with the dignity of eons.

Before them stood legions of Drekamythians, beings forged in the fire of duty and tempered by the will of Melkos. Their figures were strong, exuding reverence and readiness, yet there were no wings to carry them aloft. These Drekamythians did not take to the skies as their commanders could; instead, their gift was subtler, more profound. They slipped between realms as easily as one might walk between rooms, passing through the unseen folds of reality, from the celestial to the mortal plane, to deliver their cryptic messages.

Voratharox stepped forward, his wings catching the light of distant galaxies. His voice, deep and resonant, filled the hall with a purpose as old as the stars themselves.

"Brothers and sisters of Melkos, we stand on the precipice of another turning. Our Lord’s will, like the tides of time, pulls us forward once more. The world below stirs in its uncertainty, and the faithful look to the heavens for guidance. We shall be their beacons in the night. We shall speak to them in dreams, in whispers borne of starlight. They shall not see us, but they will feel our presence. They will know the hand of Melkos upon their souls."

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, time itself seemed to still. The Drekamythians stood silent, their eyes gleaming with ancient understanding. Their power lay in their ability to transcend the mortal coil, to move between realms unseen, their touch subtle but profound. They were shepherds of the weak and those seeking redemption. Their tasks equally as important in their Lords eye in the salvation of Anagonia and its people.

Rhaekaroth stepped forward then, his presence as commanding as Voratharox’s, his voice softer but no less potent.

"In the mortal realm, they search for meaning, for hope in the darkness. It is our task to guide them—not with force, but with wisdom. We will enter their dreams, walk the corridors of their minds, and place within them the seeds of faith. We will be the fire that rekindles their spirit when all seems lost. Some will rise, others will falter. It is not ours to judge, but to guide, to offer a path back to the light."

The words of the Arch-Drekamythians resonated deeply with their kin. They were not commanders of armies, but shepherds of souls, guiding the mortals through the trials of their existence. The world below was teetering on the edge of turmoil, and it was their duty to ensure that those worthy would find their way through the storm.

Voratharox’s gaze swept over the gathering once more, his wings fluttering slightly as he continued.

"The time has come. You will not be seen, but you will be felt. You will not speak plainly, but your words will stir their hearts. Go now, slip between the folds of reality and deliver the will of Melkos to the faithful. Guide them through the coming storm, but allow them to walk the path themselves. For in struggle, they shall find their strength."

The gathered Drekamythians, though silent, felt the weight of his words. Their task was not to impose, but to illuminate, to show mortals the way back to the light, even if they could not yet see the path clearly.

Rhaekaroth spoke again, his wings casting long shadows across the shimmering floor. "Remember, our touch must be gentle, for the mortal soul is fragile. Some will seek redemption, and we shall guide them to the embrace of Melkos. Others, who have strayed too far, will face the truth of their fate. Be merciful in your judgment, for each soul you encounter is part of the great design."

With those final words, the Drekamythians began to move. They stepped into the spaces between moments, slipping effortlessly between the folds of time and space. The light around them shimmered, as though reality itself bowed to their passage, allowing them to transcend into the mortal realm. They would visit the preachers, the dreamers, the faithful who clung to hope in their darkest hours. They would enter the dreams of leaders, of soldiers, of those on the brink of despair, offering them cryptic wisdom, fleeting glimpses of truth, and the guiding hand of faith.

As the legions dispersed, vanishing one by one through the veil, Voratharox and Rhaekaroth remained. Beside them stood Eleuthería, her presence calm and watchful. She, too, understood the delicate balance they must maintain. The world below would soon face a reckoning, but through it, there would be salvation for some.

"It begins," Rhaekaroth said softly, his eyes following the last of their kin as they disappeared through the veil. "The faithful will be tested, and we will guide them through it."

Voratharox’s gaze was distant, his thoughts already with the mortals below. "They have always looked to us, even when they did not know it. We have shaped their destiny for eons, and we will continue to do so. But this time, they must find their strength in themselves. We are their light, but they must walk the path alone."

Eleuthería’s soft voice joined theirs. "The journey is theirs to make, but we will always be there to catch them if they fall too far. This has always been our task—to guide, to protect, to remind them of the light that burns within them."

Together, the Arch-Drekamythians stood in silent understanding, watching over their legions as they dispersed across the vast expanse of the cosmos, slipping into the mortal realm to fulfill their sacred duty. The faithful would soon feel their touch in the stillness of night, in the quiet of dreams, in the moments where the veil between worlds grew thin.

And as Eleuthería and the two Arch-Drekamythians vanished from the Grand Celestial Hall along with their legions, they carried with them the will of Melkos, each and all. Each of their steps taken with purpose, each word whispered with the power of eternity. Fate was ever fruitful in its ability to be turned to the will of their Lord, but only the faithful in their perseverance, in their redemption, in their capability would ultimately continue to the fruition of the apocalypse to come.

[Anagonia]

Throne Hall
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

Melkos—Isilindil Mithrandír in his form as a Vaeryndari, a Snow Elf—stood alone in the vastness of his Throne Room, the air around him thick with the weight of eternity. The shimmering walls of the chamber, woven from the very fabric of creation, pulsed gently with an energy as ancient as the stars themselves. The throne upon which he sat—though he needed no such physical representation of authority—gleamed with a quiet, otherworldly light. It was a symbol of his place in the grand design, an anchor for the endless paths of reality that threaded through his existence.

Though he was alone here, Melkos was never truly bound by singularity. He existed in countless places, realms, and planes of time simultaneously, his consciousness stretched thin across the vast expanse of his influence. And yet, in this moment, he chose to retreat within himself, to reflect.

His mind wandered across the myriad universes he had touched, the lives he had shaped, and the paths he had both created and destroyed. He felt the echo of those he had once called friends and family, though many were long gone, their souls either passed on, reincarnated, or taken by the hands of other gods. His thoughts drifted to Siri O'Neill, his beloved daughter by heart, though not by blood. The weight of their connection, though strained by time and distance, lingered on him still, like a bittersweet melody that resonated through his very being.

Siri had been a lifeline to him in more ways than even she knew. When the weight of his existence had threatened to crush him beneath the endless cycles of creation and destruction, her voice had reached him through the void—her pain, her sadness, her despair. It had called out to him, drawing him across time, space, and dimension, until he stood before her once more. And in saving her, he had been saved as well.

Melkos closed his eyes, feeling the echo of that final parting, the moment when he had violated the domain of another goddess just to see her once more. He had promised never to interfere in her life again, to let her live in peace, and he had honored that promise. Yet the memories of their reconciliation, of her calling him "Dad" for the first time since their estrangement, brought both warmth and sorrow to his heart.

It had been a necessary severance. Melkos had thought he was doing what was best by restarting timelines, reshaping universes to correct the mistakes of the past. But in his quest for perfection, he had left those he loved behind, thinking they would thrive without him. He had been wrong.

Siri had shown him the cost of his actions, the pain his absence had caused. And in her salvation, he had found his own. It had allowed him to ascend further, to shed the last vestiges of the Dark Master he once was, and embrace the mantle of godhood with a deeper understanding of the mortals he watched over. He no longer sought to control their fates, but to guide them, to allow them to find their way—even if it meant making mistakes along the journey.

His thoughts shifted to Oscar Vladinchi, another relic from those distant timelines, a friend he had known for countless eons. Oscar, like Siri, was a survivor of the universe that contained the Galactic Federation, a world long gone, swallowed by the passage of time and the resets of reality. Melkos had watched over Oscar through the ages, the man’s Soviet roots grounding him in a way that no other could. Oscar had seen the rise and fall of countless civilizations, and through it all, he had carried a skepticism toward Melkos, a bitterness for the things that had been lost.

Yet, despite everything, Oscar endured. He lived on in Nodea Rudav, still bearing the weight of memories from a universe long since erased. Melkos knew that Oscar harbored reservations about him, perhaps even resentment for the resets and the lives that were lost because of them. But there was also understanding. Oscar had witnessed Melkos’ growth, his redemption, and though their paths had diverged many times, the bond between them was not easily severed.

The eons had been kind to Oscar in some ways, cruel in others. Melkos sensed his old friend’s quiet solitude, his reflections on the past, on the worlds they had shared. It had been a long time since they last spoke—Melkos’ ascension to godhood had placed a chasm between them, one that was not easily bridged. But there was still something there, a thread of connection that linked them across the void.

Melkos opened his eyes, the glow of the Throne Room brightening as his gaze shifted, stretching out beyond this place, across the countless realities that spun and swirled like threads in a grand tapestry. He focused on Oscar, observing his condition, seeing the man’s life as it played out in Nodea Rudav. His old friend was well, though burdened by the weight of time. Oscar had never truly accepted the loss of their shared universe, but Melkos knew that, in his heart, there was an understanding—perhaps even a quiet forgiveness.

But that would be a thought for later. For now, Melkos allowed his thoughts to return to the present, to his role as Patron of Anagonia, and to the responsibilities that still lay before him. Briefly, though, his mind slipped into remembrance.

He reflected on the Drekamythians—his angels, his chosen guides. They had been there since the beginning, since he had taken pity on their kind and offered them salvation. Voratharox, Rhaekaroth, Eleuthería… they were not just his servants, they were his family. In them, he saw the echoes of those he had once loved, those who had walked beside him in the earlier universes, before time had fractured and splintered into the myriad timelines he now oversaw.

The Drekamythians were loyal, and through them, he had been able to shape the world of Anagonia. The Drekan Churches had spread his word, his teachings, across the continent. From the ancient days of the First Disciple, Josephus Alexandrius, to the rise of the Second and Third Disciples, Melkos had carefully guided the faith of his people, ensuring that his influence remained strong. The Holy Necronomicon, a text that spanned centuries of wisdom, had become the cornerstone of their belief, and through it, he continued to shape the hearts and minds of the faithful.

But now, there were greater challenges ahead. Anagonia was on the precipice of war, the conflict with Kaskaida threatening to unravel the careful balance he had worked so hard to maintain. And there was more—events that even he could not fully control, for the gods and deities beyond Anagonia moved their own pieces on the board.

Melkos could feel their presence, their hands manipulating events from the shadows. He had restrained himself, bound by the rules of divine intervention. He could only move his pieces as they moved theirs, ensuring that the balance of power remained intact. It was a delicate dance, one that required patience and foresight.

He sighed, the weight of his eternal duty pressing down on him once more. Voratharox had been right to sense his concern. Though Melkos had guided the faithful through dreams and visions, the path ahead was still uncertain. The Drekamythians had done well, spreading his word and tending to the Drekan Churches, but the coming storm would test them all.

And then there was Mileethus Canisilus, the President of Anagonia. Melkos had foreseen the man’s fate—he would be shot, wounded, but not killed. It would be a turning point, a moment that would shift the balance of power in ways that could not yet be fully understood. Melkos had sent dreams to Mileethus’ mate, warning her of the events to come, preparing her for what lay ahead.

But even he could not predict every outcome. There were too many variables, too many moving parts. He could guide, he could influence, but ultimately, the mortals would have to forge their own path.

"I have seen so much, and yet there is still more to learn," Melkos mused quietly to himself. "Even gods are bound by the flow of time, by the choices made in moments of doubt and fear. But I will not falter. Anagonia will endure. It must."

And so, as Melkos sat in the vast emptiness of the Throne Room, he allowed himself a rare moment of reflection, of contemplation. His friends, his family, those he had loved and lost across countless timelines—they were all with him, in one form or another. Their memories, their lessons, their sacrifices—they shaped him as much as he shaped the world around him.

And though the path ahead was uncertain, Melkos knew one thing with absolute certainty: he would not make the same mistakes again.

Anagonia would be his legacy, and he would see it through to the end.

Yet, even as his thoughts returned to the future of his chosen world, a familiar name surfaced once more—Oscar Vladinchi. The Drekamythian who had been a constant through many of his trials, a friend who had stood by him through the worst of his decisions and the heights of his ascension. There was a quiet yearning in Melkos now, a desire to bridge the distance that time and fate had placed between them. Oscar, in his quiet observance, had been a reflection of all that had once been and perhaps, of all that could still be.

The thought stirred something deep within Melkos—a longing not just for connection, but for reconciliation. He knew it had been far too long since they had last spoken, far too long since he had acknowledged the weight Oscar still carried.

With a soft sigh, Melkos allowed himself to feel the pull of that yearning. The vastness of time bent to his will, as easily as one would turn a page in a book, and with but a thought, the Throne Room dissolved around him. The folds of time and space shifted, and in the blink of an eye, Melkos slipped between them, leaving behind the stillness of eternity to seek out the one who had known him before all else.

Oscar would understand—he always had.

---

Oscar's Log Cabin
Outskirts of the City of Ruuda, Drekamythian Forests
Eastern Soviet Province, Soviet Union of Nodea Rudav

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long, golden shadows through the dense Drekamythian forests. Amongst the tall pines and ancient trees stood a humble log cabin, the kind that spoke of a life lived in simplicity, far from the rush of civilization. Birds called out from the treetops, their melodies blending with the rustle of wind through the trees, creating a peaceful symphony that filled the air with quiet contentment.

On the porch of the cabin sat an elderly man, Oscar Vladinchi—though he was so much more than he appeared. With his graying hair and the deep lines etched into his face, he looked like an old Soviet farmer, perhaps a man who had lived his entire life in this wilderness. His appearance was an unassuming one: a solid six-foot frame, draped in a faded wool coat, and hands roughened by years of tending the land. His presence seemed to blend effortlessly into the world around him, as though he had always belonged here, one with the wilderness and the ancient magic that pulsed just beneath its surface.

But Oscar was no ordinary man.

He was one of the original Drekamythians—the very first, in fact. He was a relic of a long-forgotten time when his people had lived freely, without the influence of gods, magic, or manipulation. His kind had evolved naturally, surviving and adapting to the dangers of their world. In a time when Drekamythian Dragons hunted his kin, they had learned to cloak themselves, to hide from the predators that sought their end. Oscar was the embodiment of that survival, the evolutionary masterpiece of a species that had once been on the brink of extinction.

Yet despite his ability to shift into that original form, a shimmering blue-scaled creature with crimson-red eyes, he rarely did so. It was a reminder, one he did not often need, of the home he had lost—of a people long gone, their memories preserved only in his heart.

Around him, lying peacefully in the clearing beyond the porch, were Drekamythian Dragons and Wyverns—creatures of immense size and power, yet utterly docile in his presence. They knew what he was, who he was. To them, Oscar was more than just an ancient being—he was a demigod, perhaps a god himself, though Oscar would never have claimed such a title. Despite their towering forms, with scales that shimmered in the evening light and wings that could block out the sun, the Dragons and Wyverns treated him with reverence, careful not to crush the plants he so painstakingly tended or disturb the quiet order he had created around his home.

One particularly small Wyvern, a hatchling no larger than a large dog, lay curled up on Oscar’s lap, its leathery wings tucked tightly against its tiny body as Oscar gently stroked its scales. There was something almost comical about the scene—this massive creature in his lap, nuzzling him like a pet, while the larger ones sprawled around the cabin like ancient guardians. They had been, in a time long forgotten, the predators his people had once feared. Unlike the Drekamythians of this timeline, they had never conquered directly their influence, merely coexisted as the Drekamythians of his dimension had instead flown to the stars. It was a stark contrast, this scene of quiet reverence and beauty, to the horrors he once knew. Though now calm, quiet, and peaceful, things had not always been such.

Comical indeed, though the change not unwelcomed.

Oscar sighed softly, glancing out at the sunset as the memories of his past flitted through his mind. The time of the Galactic Federation, the fall of his closest friends, the wars, the losses. He had survived eons, lived through the rise and fall of entire civilizations, and yet here he was, on the outskirts of a province in Nodea Rudav, living in the most unassuming way imaginable. He had once been a great warrior, a leader. But now, he lived alone, tending to the land, far away from the grandeur of his youth. Perhaps, after all, he had simply grown tired of it all. He had done his part, had helped the timeline appropriately when the occasion called for it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a subtle shift in the air, a quiet crackle of energy that caused the Dragons and Wyverns around him to stir. The larger beasts slowly raised their heads, their eyes glowing faintly as they recognized the presence of someone far greater than themselves. They shifted, bowing their heads low, offering their silent respects.

Oscar, still stroking the hatchling on his lap, did not immediately look up. He felt the presence before he saw it—a familiar weight in the air, one that had long since ceased to surprise him. The hatchling let out a soft, almost curious noise, its gaze following that of the larger creatures as they all turned to the same point in space, just beyond the edge of the porch.

Melkos had arrived.

He stood at the edge of the porch, his tall, slender form unmistakable in its majesty. Today, as he often did, Melkos wore the guise of his original Vaeryndari form—a Snow Elf. His once-glorious visage, with high cheekbones, silver hair, and luminous eyes, seemed marked by an ageless wisdom, though now there was a subtle weight of eons resting upon him. The burden of time had creased his ethereal features with a faint look of weariness, though he was no less formidable. It was as if the ancient power that coursed through him had been tempered by reflection and loss, and now, despite his immortality, there were shadows in his gaze.

The dragons and wyverns pressed themselves lower to the ground, their deep rumbling breaths betraying their reverence. They did not rise. They knew better than to disturb the moment.

Oscar finally looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he met the gaze of his old friend. His voice, when it came, was low and rumbling, a mixture of Russian Rudavian and English, the dialect so heavy and layered it carried with it the weight of both languages. To those who could hear it, his tone was as deep as the ancient forest that surrounded them, and laced with a dry, old-world humor that had never quite faded from his personality.

“You could’ve called ahead, da?” Oscar muttered with a hint of amusement. “I would’ve put on some tea.”

Melkos allowed the faintest smile to touch his lips, though his eyes remained somber. "I didn’t want to intrude."

Oscar chuckled, the sound rich and deep, his Rudavian accent mixing with the familiar cadence of old English in a very entrancing way. “Since when have you ever been shy about intruding, tovarisch?”

The smile on Melkos’ face lingered for a moment before fading into a more contemplative expression. He stepped onto the porch, the wooden boards creaking slightly beneath his feet, though the weight was not from his body, but from the burden of the countless worlds and timelines he carried within him. His silver hair caught the last light of the setting sun, casting an almost ethereal glow around him as he looked down at Oscar.

“It has been a long time,” Melkos said quietly, his tone filled with an underlying sadness. "Since I’ve come to see you like this."

Oscar’s eyes softened, though he didn’t lose the wry edge to his voice. "Aye. That it has."

The silence between them grew thick, filled with the unspoken history that connected the two beings. Both had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, both had lost loved ones, and both had chosen to endure—though in very different ways. The porch was quiet, save for the rustle of the forest breeze and the soft breathing of the great beasts that lay resting nearby.

“How are they?” Oscar asked after a moment, his voice rough but soft. “The others, I mean. Tiberius, Prometheus, those you brought back?”

Melkos glanced at him, his eyes clouded with thought. “They lived and live. Tiberius lead, as you should remember, for you were there, as he always was meant to. Prometheus has found a new purpose, growing again, though I've yet to introduce myself fully once more. Each of them, in their own way, is fulfilling or has fulfilled the role they were reborn to play.”

Oscar nodded slowly, absorbing the words, though the faintest flicker of something—regret, perhaps—crossed his features. He had watched from afar as Melkos brought back those who had been lost, weaving them into the fabric of this new timeline, but he had never interfered. He had kept his distance, unsure of where he fit in all of it. Perhaps it was resentment. Perhaps it was simply loneliness.

“And you?” Oscar asked, his tone quiet but heavy with meaning. “How are you holding up?”

Melkos did not answer right away. Instead, he looked out across the horizon, his gaze distant, as though he could see beyond the edge of this world into the countless others that lay beyond. The weight of his thoughts seemed to settle on his shoulders, causing the age he normally hid to become visible in the faint lines of his face.

“I am…” Melkos paused, searching for the right words. "I am as I always have been. Enduring. But," he hesitated, "I often wonder if I have done enough. If I have chosen the right path.”

Oscar studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’ve done more than most could, da?” The roughness in his voice softened as he added, "You've carried more than any should."

Melkos nodded faintly, though the uncertainty remained. “Perhaps.”

The silence stretched once more, filled with the weight of time and the shared knowledge that the future was never as certain as they both might wish it to be.

“So, why now?” Oscar asked, shifting in his chair as the hatchling wyvern on his lap stirred. “What brings you here?”

Melkos turned his gaze back to Oscar, his silver eyes softening with the flicker of something deeply personal. “To see an old friend. And…” he paused, his voice almost a whisper, “to remind myself of what I nearly lost.”

Oscar didn’t respond, but there was a silent understanding between them. They had both lived too long to take such words lightly.

Finally, Melkos broke the silence, his voice calm but tinged with something deeper. “I will leave soon, Oscar. But before I go, will you walk with me? One more time?”

Oscar hesitated, then with a deep sigh, he rose from his chair, setting the hatchling wyvern gently on the ground. “One more time, and many more surely, stariy droog,” he said, the mixture of Rudavian and English rolling off his tongue like an ancient hymn. “Just like the old days.”

The two beings, bound by time, history, and memories too long to recount, stepped off the porch and began to walk into the darkening forest. The dragons and wyverns watched silently, their glowing eyes tracking the pair as they moved into the trees, side by side as they had been so many times before.

And as the last light of day faded into the horizon, Melkos and Oscar slipped quietly between the folds of time, vanishing into the infinite, where old friends could still find solace in each other’s company.

[Anagonia]

The Milky Way Galaxy
Above the Galactic Plane, Millions of Miles in the Distance
Outside of Time

The two ancient beings stood suspended in the vastness of space, perched above the galactic plane, their forms cloaked in the deep silence of the cosmos. Before them stretched the Milky Way, a grand spiral galaxy turning slowly, methodically, in the infinite void. From this vantage, the entire galaxy lay exposed, a vast wheel of light and dust spinning across billions of light-years, its arms swirling outward from the brilliant, pulsing core like delicate threads of stardust and energy.

A spiral galaxy, they knew, was a marvel of nature—its disk-like structure shaped by the gravitational pull of stars, planets, gas clouds, and dark matter. From where they stood, the Milky Way resembled a cosmic whirlpool, with its bright central bulge glimmering like a radiant pearl at the heart of its vast arms. These arms, coiling outward in graceful curves, were studded with star clusters and nebulae, their faint luminescence casting ghostly tendrils across the dark expanse of space. Rivers of interstellar gas and dust flowed between the arms like veins of shadow, tracing the galaxy's endless cycles of creation and destruction.

In this place—outside of time—the galaxy appeared still and eternal, a snapshot of unimaginable beauty. Stars blinked like frozen gems, clustered densely in some areas and scattered sparsely in others. The galactic disk shimmered faintly, like the surface of an ancient sea rippling under the light of distant suns. Dust lanes wove through the spiral arms like veins of shadow, while the central bulge blazed with an intensity that suggested a supermassive black hole at its heart, drawing in both matter and light.

Oscar stood gazing down at the galaxy, his expression unreadable. He had seen this sight countless times before, in countless timelines, yet it never ceased to remind him of the smallness of everything against the vastness of the universe. His hands rested by his sides, though there was a heaviness to his presence, as if the weight of eons hung on his shoulders. The dragons and wyverns, his companions in the quiet forests of Nodea Rudav, were gone now, left behind. Here, in the silence of space, it was just him and Melkos, observing the grandeur of existence.

“It never gets old, does it?” Oscar's voice was low, his Rudavian accent curling heavily around the English words, tinged with the wistfulness of long-gone times.

Melkos stood beside him, still in his Vaeryndari form. His silver hair caught the faint, ethereal glow from the stars below. His ancient eyes, sharp and wise, took in the sight as if seeing it for the first time. Like Oscar, he had viewed this galaxy across different forms and timelines, yet its beauty always stirred something deep within him—a reminder of what once was and what may never be again.

“No,” Melkos said quietly, his voice an echo in the void. “It never does.”

They stood in silence for a time, watching as the spiral arms of the galaxy stretched outward, their light so gentle and distant it seemed within reach. But they both knew better. The galaxy, for all its beauty, was a distant, untouchable thing—filled with billions of stars and untold numbers of worlds, most of them never to be seen or known by those who lived within.

Oscar shifted slightly, his gaze narrowing as he pointed toward a faint cluster of stars located in one of the galaxy’s outer arms. “There,” he said, his voice heavy with both memory and loss. “That’s where it once was. The Galactic Federation.”

Melkos followed his gesture, his ancient eyes settling on the distant cluster. The Federation—Oscar’s home, his legacy—had existed in a different universe, in another timeline. Here, in this version of the galaxy, that same region was barren, empty, with nothing but unremarkable stars scattered across the void. No great civilizations, no bustling worlds. Just silence.

“Are they still there?” Oscar asked after a moment, his tone betraying a quiet hope that, somehow, those worlds he had once known still existed.

Melkos remained silent for a beat, sensing the weight of Oscar's longing for any remnant of his past. But the truth, as always, was more complex.

“They are not,” Melkos answered, his voice carrying a somber finality. “Those worlds have long since faded. Their people, their cities… all gone.”

Oscar exhaled softly, though his expression remained unchanged, resigned. “I figured,” he said, his tone heavy with acceptance. “No signs of life. Just dust and empty planets.”

Melkos nodded slightly. “The Federation, as it was, will not rise again. Not in this timeline.”

Oscar’s hand dropped back to his side, his eyes lingering on the distant stars. “It’s strange,” he mused. “How a place can seem so full, so alive… and then one day, it’s just gone. Like it was never there at all.”

Melkos glanced at his old friend, the weight of his own losses reflected in his gaze. “The universe is fragile,” he said softly. “Worlds rise, and they fall. Time sweeps away everything. And yet, there is always a chance for something new to grow in its place.”

Oscar smiled faintly, a bit of that old defiance sparking in his eyes. “Maybe. But some things, I think, are better left to memory.”

Melkos nodded, though his thoughts drifted deeper. “But memories, even painful ones, have their place,” he said quietly. “To create what now thrives in Esvanovia, I had to take the echoes of what once existed in the Federation—the hope, the unity, the fire for discovery—and weave them into the new. The Confederacy, Anagonia... they draw from that same spirit, but with new roots, new life.”

Oscar looked at him sharply, his curiosity piqued. “You took what was? What do you mean?”

Melkos’ gaze remained fixed on the galaxy’s spiral, his voice low and contemplative. “I reshaped time itself, Oscar. The Federation, in every iteration, was destined to fracture. No matter how many timelines I tried to preserve, it always collapsed under the weight of its own contradictions. But its essence—the best of it—didn’t have to die. I took that essence and imbued it into Esvanovia, into the hearts of the people. Now, in this timeline, it thrives in ways the Federation never could.”

Oscar was silent, letting the words sink in. He thought of the billions of lives, the legacy that had been sacrificed. But now, standing here, gazing at the galaxy’s vast expanse, there was some comfort in knowing that the spirit of what they had once fought for lived on.

“But at what cost?” he asked quietly.

Melkos turned to face him, his expression somber. “More than I ever wanted to pay. But in the end, it was the only way to ensure that what mattered didn’t vanish completely.”

Oscar let out a deep breath, his chest tightening with the weight of it all. He thought of the countless lives, the billions of souls that had once filled the stars—now gone, scattered like dust across the void. And yet, Melkos had done what no other being could do. He had taken the very fabric of existence and remade it, piece by piece, to give their people, their dreams, another chance.

Oscar remained quiet for a long moment, the weight of what Melkos had shared settling deeply in his chest. The vastness of space stretched out before them, but the stars felt distant, cold, as if they held the memories of all they had lost.

Melkos, sensing the shift in his old friend's thoughts, glanced toward him. “There is one more place,” Melkos said softly. “A place where it all ended—and where something new began.”

Oscar turned his gaze to Melkos, the faintest flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Where?”

Without another word, Melkos raised his hand, and the space around them rippled, folding in upon itself. In an instant, the two figures vanished from the galactic plane, slipping through the folds of time and space until they stood on the surface of a barren, desolate world.

---

Planet Korithra
Barren Terrestrial Planet
Somewhere along the Sagittarius Arm of the Milky Way

The ground beneath them was cracked and dry, the air thin and cold, devoid of life. Jagged rock formations dotted the landscape, and a crimson sky loomed overhead, streaked with clouds of dust and ash. The wind howled faintly in the distance, carrying with it the echoes of a battle long since ended. It was a planet that had known only war and death. Now a desolate, terrestrial world that resembled a broken Mars. Long forgotten in the echoes of the Galaxies natural evolution, the once was covered and blanketed by the planets geological evolution preventing it from returning to whatever dimension produced its beauty before.

A hint of sadness floated on its wind, a remembrance of a time long forgotten and forever gone.

“This is Korithra,” Melkos said, his voice low and reverent. “The last battlefield. The place where Prometheus made his final stand.”

Oscar scanned the desolate landscape, his eyes narrowing as the memories came flooding back—of that final, desperate battle to save the Federation. The ground beneath them, once soaked in the blood of countless warriors, now lay barren, a graveyard of forgotten dreams. The never-was, the never-will-be.

He walked a few paces forward, his boots crunching against the cracked earth, and knelt at a shallow rise in the ground. “This is where he fell,” Oscar murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Prometheus. He held the line for as long as he could.”

Melkos stepped beside him, his gaze fixed on the spot where Prometheus had given his life. “He was the last to fall,” Melkos said quietly. “And in his final moments, he believed it would be enough. He believed that by holding this place, he could save what remained of the Federation.”

Oscar nodded, his jaw clenched. “He was more than a machine. More than any of us realized.” His voice was soft but firm. “He had a soul.”

“He did,” Melkos agreed, his eyes distant. “He saved far more than he ever knew. His sacrifice allowed me to gather the last remnants of hope and weave them into what is now. His spirit... his legacy... lives on in Esvanovia.”

They stood together in silence, the wind whipping across the barren landscape, the memory of Prometheus lingering in the air around them. The weight of the battle, of everything they had lost, pressed heavily on both of them, but there was also a sense of closure—a finality to it.

Oscar rose to his feet, dusting off his hands. “Do you think he knew?” he asked quietly, glancing at Melkos. “That it wasn’t just the end, but the beginning of something new?”

Melkos’ silver eyes met Oscar’s. “I believe he did,” he said softly. “In his last moments, he saw beyond the battle, beyond the death. He saw the future. And he knew his sacrifice wasn’t in vain.”

Oscar exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. “I hope so.”

They stood in the silence of Korithra for a few more moments, reflecting on the fallen and on the path that had brought them here. The galaxy turned far above them, indifferent and vast, but for now, the memories of this desolate place anchored them in the present, a reminder of what had been lost and what had been preserved.

Melkos turned to Oscar, his voice calm but filled with quiet resolve. “There are still battles ahead, my friend. But for now... we remember.”

Oscar nodded, the sadness in his gaze tempered by understanding. “Yes. We remember.”

And with that, the two figures faded from the barren planet, leaving behind only the whisper of the wind and the memory of a final battle that had shaped the future of an entire universe.

---

Oscar's Log Cabin
Outskirts of the City of Ruuda, Drekamythian Forests
Eastern Soviet Province, Soviet Union of Nodea Rudav

In a quiet shimmer of energy, Melkos and Oscar reappeared at the edge of the Drekamythian Forests. The cool air carried the familiar scent of pine and earth, mingling with the faint rustle of the leaves. In the distance, the soft rumble of breath could be heard as the wyverns and dragons stirred, lifting their heads lazily to observe the two figures. They remained still, their massive frames forming a protective perimeter around the log cabin.

Oscar's log cabin stood as it always had—weathered, sturdy, and bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the trees. The scene was almost serene, untouched by the weight of the revelations that had just unfolded on the barren world of Korithra.

Oscar took a slow breath, his gaze sweeping over the familiar surroundings. The forest had always been a refuge for him, a place where he could distance himself from the vastness of the universe. But tonight, standing at the threshold of his home, the weight of the past pressed heavier on him than ever before. The ghosts of old battles, the memories of the Galactic Federation, and the silent question that had lingered in his mind for eons… it all surfaced now.

He turned to Melkos, his voice low but steady. “Why?”

Melkos looked at him, his silver eyes reflecting the soft moonlight. “Why what?” he asked quietly, though the depth of Oscar's question was already clear to him.

Oscar stepped forward, his eyes locking with Melkos’, the decades of unspoken pain and betrayal suddenly rising to the surface. “Why did you abandon us? The Federation, Prometheus, Drakomis... me?” His voice was calm, but the weight behind it, the hurt that had been buried for so long, was unmistakable. “You were there, guiding us, leading us. And then, when we needed you the most, you were gone. We were left to fend for ourselves.”

The dragons and wyverns in the distance remained still, their gazes shifting toward the two figures. It was as if even they sensed the gravity of the moment, their usual movements stilled as they observed the unfolding conversation.

Melkos lowered his head, his silver hair catching the moonlight as a deep sigh escaped him. “I never meant to abandon you, Oscar,” he said softly, his voice carrying a weight of regret that had been buried for far too long. “I thought... I thought I could fix everything. That if I just restarted enough times, if I reshaped the timelines enough, I could save what mattered. But...” He trailed off, his eyes filled with an ancient sorrow. “But I was wrong.”

A moment of silence passed between them, heavy with the weight of eons and unspoken pain. Then, Melkos continued, his voice quieter, almost reverent as he reflected on the mistakes he had made.

“I believed that through mastery of the dark forces that shaped me, through my ascension into immortality, I could undo my past failures. I thought that by tampering with time itself, by bending it again and again, I could protect those I cared about. I thought I could erase the pain by remaking reality.” His silver eyes, now filled with the distant sorrow of lost friends and shattered dreams, turned toward Oscar. “But in my pursuit of power, I lost sight of what was truly important. I neglected the very bonds, the very people, that gave me strength. I was consumed by a need to control everything, to be the one to save everyone...”

Melkos hesitated, his gaze drifting to the darkened sky, the stars above twinkling faintly. “But that power—it blinds you. It makes you forget that no one being can hold the weight of the universe on their own. I failed to see that. And it cost me everything... it cost all of us everything.”

His words lingered in the air, heavy and raw, and for the first time, there was a palpable vulnerability in the great god. His immortal soul, molded by both light and darkness, had been so fixated on transcending his own limitations that he had forgotten the ones who had depended on him, the ones he called friends, family. His eternal quest for perfection had, ironically, shattered everything he had once sworn to protect.

Oscar took another step forward, his gaze unwavering. “You left us to die,” he said, his voice thick with the weight of years. “We were fighting for our lives, for the survival of the Federation, and you weren’t there. You weren’t there when Prometheus fell, when our worlds were torn apart. You weren’t there when I watched it all crumble.”

The silence that followed was thick with emotion. Melkos, for all his godhood and power, stood before Oscar not as the omnipotent being he had become but as a figure weighed down by the mistakes of his past. He had faced gods, transcended time, and reshaped universes—but this moment, this confrontation with Oscar, was something he could not evade.

Melkos’ voice was soft, almost a whisper. “I was lost,” he admitted. “I was consumed by my desire to transcend mortality, to become something greater than I was. And in my pursuit of that power, I lost sight of the people I cared about. I lost sight of you.”

Oscar's jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He had heard similar words before—promises and apologies from leaders, from gods—but there was something different about the way Melkos spoke now. It wasn’t just an apology; it was an acknowledgment of the profound failure that had haunted him for eons.

“You were my friend, Melkos,” Oscar said, his voice wavering slightly. “You were our protector. And yet, when everything fell apart, you were nowhere to be found. Do you know what that felt like? To watch everything we built fall to pieces and wonder if you ever cared at all?”

Melkos’ eyes, filled with centuries of pain, met Oscar’s. “I cared more than you could ever know,” he said softly. “But I made the mistake of thinking that power, that knowledge, could fix everything. As I said before, I thought if I could control time, control the fabric of reality itself, I could rewrite history in a way that would erase the pain. But I was wrong. I was so wrong, Oscar. And I’ve carried that burden ever since.”

Oscar exhaled sharply, his chest tightening as the emotions he had buried for so long threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to be angry, to lash out, but seeing the sorrow in Melkos’ eyes, hearing the regret in his voice, he found himself unable to hold onto the bitterness.

“Why didn’t you come back?” Oscar asked, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Why didn’t you come back to us?”

Melkos took a step closer, his hand reaching out but stopping just short of touching Oscar’s shoulder. “I was ashamed,” he confessed. “I was ashamed of what I had become, of the mistakes I had made. I thought... I thought it would be better if I stayed away. If I left you all to rebuild without me. But I was wrong. I should have been there.”

The two stood in silence for what felt like an eternity, the weight of the past hanging heavily between them. The distant sounds of the forest, the gentle breath of the wyverns and dragons, all seemed to fade away, leaving only the quiet hum of shared grief and understanding.

Oscar looked away, his gaze drifting toward the forest. “You should’ve been there,” he whispered. “But you weren’t. And we paid the price for it.”

Melkos nodded, his heart heavy with the truth of Oscar’s words. “I know,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent every moment since then trying to make amends. But I can never undo what’s been done. All I can do is try to protect what remains. To make sure the same mistakes are never made again.”

Oscar remained silent, his eyes fixed on the ground. He could feel the anger, the hurt, slowly slipping away, replaced by something he hadn’t felt in a long time—acceptance. It wasn’t forgiveness, not entirely, but it was the first step toward it.

He turned back to Melkos, his expression softening ever so slightly. “We’re different now,” he said quietly. “We’ve both changed. But maybe... maybe it’s time to stop living in the past.”

Melkos met his gaze, the faintest glimmer of hope sparking in his ancient eyes. “Maybe it is,” he agreed.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the tension between them began to ease. The wounds were still there, deep and painful, but the path toward healing was now clear.

Oscar sighed, his shoulders relaxing. “So what now?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of years yet with a hint of something lighter—a possibility of moving forward.

Melkos offered a small, sad smile. “Now? Now we try again. We rebuild, we protect, and we guide.”

Oscar nodded, the quiet understanding between them solidifying. “Alright,” he said simply, the word carrying a world of meaning.

The dragons and wyverns, sensing the shift in the air, began to stir, their massive bodies rising from their resting places. They moved with a quiet grace, as if acknowledging the resolution between the two beings.

As the creatures moved closer, surrounding them with their protective presence, Melkos and Oscar stood side by side, their burdens lighter, their futures uncertain but no longer weighed down by the unresolved pain of the past.

In the soft light of the moon, surrounded by the ancient creatures that had watched over them for so long, the two figures—friends once more—looked out over the Drekamythian Forests, the quiet peace of the moment offering a glimpse of what could be.

And as the night settled around them, the weight of the eons began to lift, leaving only the promise of what lay ahead.

[Anagonia]

The Shores of Eternity
Timeless Realm, Beyond Life and Death

Drakomis Nokomis Reign stirred from the edge of unconsciousness, his body instinctively clenching as if trying to fight off the cold grip of death. But as he woke, it wasn’t the battlefield that greeted him, nor the searing pain of the plasma bolt that had torn through his chest. Instead, there was...stillness. An unnatural calm. A world of muted sound and strange serenity.

He blinked, his sharp Komodren eyes adjusting to his surroundings—soft, shifting sand beneath him, stretching out toward an infinite horizon. The ground felt alien, almost weightless, like walking on a dream. And the sky above? It wasn’t the dark, star-streaked battlefield he’d fallen on. It was vast and endless, a swirling blend of colors neither day nor night, with clouds that drifted impossibly far in the distance. It was a realm beyond time, beyond place—a void between worlds.

Drakomis’ heart pounded as he instinctively reached for his weapon, but his hand grasped only air. His battle-worn armor, once seared with plasma burns, was gone. He felt whole again, his body intact. His massive, seven-foot frame stood unscathed, though his mind remembered every agonizing detail of how it had been torn apart.

The final battle flooded back to him—the relentless assault from the enemy armada, the deafening roar of Federation guns as they fought to protect the last outpost on Tarkon IV. He could still see the flash of enemy starships descending from orbit, the skies filled with death as plasma rained down. His soldiers, his friends, had fallen beside him, each fighting to the last breath. Drakomis, the High General, the proud leader of the Galactic Federation, had stood tall among them, rallying his people even as hope began to fade.

They hadn’t lost because they surrendered. They lost because they had been overwhelmed. Because they were slaughtered.

Drakomis staggered to his feet, his mind still reeling from the memories of his final battle. Tarkon IV had fallen. His soldiers—loyal, brave—had fought until their last breaths, their final cries still echoing in his ears. He should have died with them. He had died with them. A plasma bolt had torn through his chest, the searing pain vivid even now, yet here he stood, alive in this... place.

The air around him was thick, heavy with the scent of dust and time itself. The ground beneath his feet shifted like sand, though it did not feel entirely real. His hand instinctively moved to the scar on his chest, where the fatal wound should have been, and a wave of confusion and anger surged through him.

His eyes scanned the horizon—no battlefields, no soldiers, no Tarkon IV. Just an endless expanse of strange, shifting sand under a swirling, unnatural sky. He had faced death. He had embraced it. So why was he still here?

And then, he felt it. A presence. Familiar, yet distant, like a shadow stretching from a forgotten past.

Drakomis turned, and there he was.

At first, he did not recognize the figure. His mind could not immediately comprehend the sight before him. The figure stood tall, cloaked in shadow, his silver-white hair glimmering faintly in the half-light of this realm. But there was something unmistakable about the way he moved, the way the very air seemed to bend around him. The tension, the power, the weight of millennia...

A name formed in Drakomis’ mind, and with it, a surge of fury so powerful that it nearly blinded him.

“Melkos.”

The name slipped from his lips like a curse. The one who had abandoned them. The one who had once been a friend, an ally, perhaps even a savior—and yet, in the end, had become a figure of myth, a Dark Lord in pursuit of immortality. A being who had left them all to suffer while he vanished into his own obsessions.

The figure stepped closer, and with each step, the recognition deepened. Drakomis could see it now—those ancient, ageless eyes gleaming with a cold, distant light. Melkos Unchanos, in his Vaeryndari form, still wearing the guise of the Snow Elves he had once belonged to before he turned to darkness. Drakomis remembered those days well. He had been there when Melkos had fallen, when his thirst for power had consumed him and taken him down the path of shadow.

And now, here he was again.

Friend, perhaps. But never master. They were allies, equals, standing side by side through wars and time. He had trained under Melkos when he himself had joined the Order, to understand his own powers. He had come to understand Darkness and Light. But this? This was something else. Something darker than even he knew.

Drakomis’ heart thundered in his chest, his fists clenching at his sides. He had heard the whispers after Melkos had disappeared—The Order of the Eternal Flame, the mystical cult Melkos had founded, had crumbled from within. Its once noble purpose had been twisted, its members seduced by power and corruption. The same Order that had helped the Galactic Federation stand against their enemies had ultimately been its undoing. The enemy, the Etraxian Dominion, had swept across the galaxy with terrifying speed, and Drakomis had watched helplessly as the Federation fell, world by world.

Because Melkos wasn’t there.

Because the Order—Melkos’ legacy—had betrayed them.

Drakomis felt the rage building inside him, bubbling to the surface. He stepped forward, his voice a low growl as he spoke.

"Why am I here?" The question carried the weight of authority, the commanding tone of a leader who had seen too much. "I should be dead. Tarkon IV fell. My soldiers—they died. Where were you?"

Melkos stopped, his expression unreadable, his silver hair catching the faint, ethereal light of this strange place. The ageless eyes that had once held compassion, wisdom, now seemed cold—haunted by the weight of time.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence between them was deafening.

Inspirational Scene Music

"Because, Drakomis," Melkos finally said, his voice smooth but tinged with something darker, something ancient, "your time is not yet done. You still have a purpose. But not in the way you once knew."

Drakomis' muscles tensed, his confusion giving way to suspicion. “A purpose? What purpose could possibly justify this?”

Melkos took another step forward, his presence looming, the air thickening with an unseen power. “Come, old friend,” he said softly, “walk with me, and I will—”

“No.” Drakomis’ voice cut through the thickening atmosphere, his hand raised as if to ward off the words. The rage that had simmered within him now flared to life. “You don’t get to walk away from this. Not again.”

He felt it then—the familiar pulse of power that had once flowed through him as a warrior of the Eternal Flame. The teachings of Melkos himself coursing through his veins, the power that had allowed him to fight for so many years, to protect the Federation. And now? Now it burned like an unquenchable fire.

With a swift, fluid motion, Drakomis summoned his blade—a weapon forged by the Order, given to him by Melkos himself. The sword materialized in his hand, its blade glowing with the same searing light that had once marked him as one of the greatest warriors of the Flame.

He raised the blade, pointing it directly at Melkos, his voice trembling with fury. “You trained me to fight,” he growled. “Now let’s see if you can still face the fire you created.”

The air around them darkened, the swirling skies above twisting into something menacing, mirroring the growing tension between the two. The sand beneath their feet began to tremble, as if the very fabric of this realm was reacting to the impending clash.

Melkos stood still, his eyes narrowing slightly. But there was no fear, no hesitation. Only a quiet understanding, a sadness buried deep beneath his ancient gaze.

"Drakomis," Melkos began, his voice soft but unwavering, "you don't—"

Before he could finish, Drakomis charged, his blade slicing through the air with deadly precision.

Melkos raised his hand, summoning a barrier of dark energy, and the two forces collided with a deafening crash. Sparks of light and shadow exploded around them, the sheer force of the impact sending shockwaves through the sand.

Drakomis pushed forward, his muscles straining, his heart pounding with the fury of centuries of betrayal. "You abandoned us!" he roared, driving his blade against the barrier. "You abandoned the Order! The Federation! You left us to die!"

Melkos, though motionless, did not flinch. His voice, calm and steady, cut through the chaos. “I did what I had to do, Drakomis. You don’t understand the forces at play.”

“Then make me understand!” Drakomis shouted, his voice raw with emotion.

With a surge of energy, Melkos pushed back, sending Drakomis stumbling. The god's form shifted, becoming darker, more menacing, his eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory light.

“You think this was easy for me?” Melkos said, his voice now carrying a weight that reverberated through the air. “You think I wanted to abandon you? I fought to save what I could. But the Order—your Order—was already lost, twisted by greed, by power. And I could not save you.”

Drakomis steadied himself, his blade raised once more, his chest heaving with anger and grief. “You could have saved us. You were our leader. Our friend.”

“And I am still your friend,” Melkos said, his voice softer now, but filled with a deep, ancient sorrow. “But not as I was. Not as you remember.”

Drakomis hesitated, his sword trembling in his hand. The darkness around them deepened, the shadows pressing in closer. But in Melkos’ eyes, he saw something he hadn’t expected.

Regret.

The sky above them churned as if the very cosmos were reacting to the conflict unfolding below. A swirling galaxy, vast and magnificent, loomed in the heavens, its spiral arms stretching across the sky like the tendrils of some celestial beast. The distant stars, once fixed in their eternal patterns, began to flicker and warp, as if drawn into the gravitational pull of the struggle. The air, which had been still moments ago, now crackled with untamed energy, the atmosphere itself rippling with the unseen forces at play.

As Drakomis and Melkos faced each other, the ground beneath their feet began to shift, the once soft and yielding sand hardening and growing hot. The fury that pulsed through Drakomis’ veins seemed to resonate with the realm itself, and with each step he took, the sands darkened, glowing faintly with an ember-like heat. The tension in the air reached a fever pitch, and with it, the sand began to melt, bubbling and hissing as it transformed into a molten sea of lava, mirroring the roiling emotions of the two combatants.

This was no ordinary battle. The forces at play here were beyond mortal understanding. The very ground was reacting to their fury, as if the ancient elements themselves had been awakened by the clash of wills. The distant galaxy seemed to swirl faster, its light refracted through the growing haze of heat and molten sand, casting flickering shadows across the battlefield. The temperature rose sharply, and yet neither Drakomis nor Melkos flinched. They had both faced worse, far worse, in their long, storied lives.

Drakomis, the Komodren, the once proud leader of a people now extinquished, moved first.

With a powerful thrust, he lunged toward Melkos, his blade glowing with the searing light of his fury. The sword arced through the molten air, leaving a trail of energy in its wake as it descended toward his former mentor. Melkos, still cloaked in shadows, raised his hand, summoning a shield of dark energy that met the blade with a resounding crash. Sparks flew as the two forces collided, the sheer power of their clash sending ripples through the molten ground beneath them.

Undeterred, Drakomis pressed forward, his movements quick, precise, and driven by raw emotion. His blade danced through the air with deadly grace, each strike fueled by the deep-seated anger that had been festering for centuries. His swordsmanship was flawless, honed over eons of war, but it was his heart that gave him strength now. Every strike, every slash, carried with it the weight of betrayal, of loss, of a friendship that had been shattered by Melkos' abandonment.

Melkos moved with the fluidity of someone who had seen this kind of rage before. His form shifted like smoke, evading Drakomis' blows with an almost unnatural ease. When he struck back, it was with the same power that had once led the Order of the Eternal Flame, a power that had burned bright within him for so long before the darkness had consumed it. His counterattacks were sharp, precise, each one calculated to push Drakomis back without delivering a killing blow.

But Drakomis was relentless. He swung his blade in wide arcs, forcing Melkos to retreat step by step. Lava splashed around them, the molten sand hissing as it cooled and hardened in places. The very air shimmered with heat, and the distant stars seemed to dim, as if the battle was drawing the light from the cosmos itself.

"Where were you?!" Drakomis roared, his voice thick with fury as he brought his blade down with all his strength. "You left us to die! You were supposed to lead us, to protect us!"

Melkos deflected the strike, his face grim, his eyes glowing with ancient sorrow. "I was protecting you," he said, his voice calm but tinged with a sadness that echoed through the molten landscape. "In ways you do not yet understand."

"Don't give me your riddles!" Drakomis spat, his blade spinning in a deadly arc, aimed at Melkos' throat. "We trusted you!"

The blow came dangerously close, the tip of Drakomis' blade grazing Melkos’ cheek, leaving a thin line of silver blood in its wake. But Melkos did not flinch. Instead, he raised his own hand, summoning a sword of dark, swirling energy—its form as much shadow as substance—and parried Drakomis’ next attack with a force that shook the very ground beneath them.

The sound of clashing blades echoed through the molten air, their strikes so powerful that each collision sent shockwaves rippling across the battlefield. The lava around them bubbled and surged, reacting to the sheer intensity of their battle, while the stars above seemed to pulse in time with their movements.

Drakomis was unyielding, his rage burning hotter than the molten sands beneath his feet. He was a warrior born, and the skills he had learned from Melkos—skills that had once saved countless lives—were now being used to try and strike down the very man—the very entity—who had taught them to him. His strikes grew faster, more vicious, as he sought to break through Melkos’ defenses, to make the god feel the pain he had caused.

But Melkos, though burdened by the weight of his past mistakes, was still Melkos. His movements, though slower, were deliberate, and with every parry, with every block, he seemed to absorb Drakomis' fury. His dark sword moved like a shadow, deflecting blow after blow with an almost eerie calm.

"You think I wanted this?" Melkos finally spoke, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "You think I wanted to leave you? To leave the Federation to its fate?"

"Your absence destroyed us!" Drakomis countered, swinging his blade with renewed fury. "You could have stopped it! The Etraxian Dominion would have fallen if you had stayed! But you abandoned us!"

The mention of the Dominion stirred something in Melkos, his gaze hardening for the briefest of moments. But still, he held his ground. "I could not save the Federation," he said quietly, his sword moving with almost ethereal grace. "Not then. Not in the way you think."

With a sudden burst of speed, Melkos lunged forward, his dark blade catching Drakomis’ sword and twisting it away in a fluid motion. For a split second, their faces were inches apart, and Drakomis could see the ancient sorrow in Melkos’ eyes—eyes that had seen the rise and fall of countless civilizations.

"Everything I did," Melkos whispered, his voice soft but firm, "I did to protect you. To protect what could be saved."

Drakomis snarled, wrenching his sword free and leaping back, his breath coming in heavy gasps. "You think your words absolve you? You think you can talk your way out of this?"

"No," Melkos said, his voice weary. "I know I cannot."

They clashed again, their swords igniting the air with sparks of light and shadow, the molten ground splashing around them as the stars above dimmed further. But even as they fought, something was shifting. The ground beneath them, once molten and unstable, began to cool, solidifying into a blackened crust of obsidian. The sky, still swirling with the remnants of distant galaxies, seemed to hold its breath.

For all his fury, for all his skill, Drakomis began to tire. His movements, though still precise, became heavier, slower. His rage had fueled him for so long, but now, in the face of Melkos’ calm deflection, it was beginning to wane.

And as their blades locked once more, Drakomis could see it—the regret, the guilt, the endless burden that Melkos carried. It wasn’t the mentor he had once known standing before him. It wasn’t the Dark Lord he had feared and revered. It was something in between.

Something broken.

"Drakomis," Melkos said softly, his voice no longer filled with the authority of a god but with the weariness of a friend. "I never wanted this. I never wanted to abandon you. But I had no choice."

Drakomis’ grip on his blade tightened, his heart pounding in his chest. But the fire in his eyes had dimmed, just slightly.

The battle was not over, but something had shifted. Something had changed.

And in the silence that followed, it was no longer just about revenge.

Inspirational Scene Music

The moment hung heavy in the air between them, the swirling energies of the battle pausing only long enough for Drakomis to catch his breath. His chest heaved, his eyes burning with the intensity of a lifetime of betrayal, of pain, and of memories that could never be undone.

"Show me, Isilindil Mithrandír!" Drakomis snarled, his voice trembling with rage, calling Melkos by his true name, the name of the Elf he had once been. His challenge struck like a hammer against the already fragile silence. "Show me what you've become!"

The ground beneath their feet trembled as if in response to the weight of his words, the very obsidian crust they stood upon cracking and splitting. Lava began to erupt from the fractures, geysers of molten fire bursting into the air, lighting the battlefield in violent reds and oranges. The once dim stars above seemed to vanish, consumed by a darkness so complete that only the glow of the lava and the brilliance of their energy weapons remained, casting flickering shadows across their faces.

Melkos’ eyes, filled with ancient sorrow and unfathomable depth, narrowed as he lifted his weapon once more. The time for words had passed. He accepted the challenge.

With a roar, Drakomis charged, his sword blazing with renewed fury, the blade cutting through the thick, molten air as it collided with Melkos’ weapon. The sound of their clashing blades echoed like thunder, reverberating through the void, shaking the very fabric of the realm. The force of their strikes sent waves of heat and energy rippling outward, causing the lava around them to surge and spill over, the obsidian ground cracking further under the pressure.

They fought like titans, each strike fueled by lifetimes of pain, of lost comrades, of broken promises. Drakomis was relentless, his blows coming faster, stronger, his movements driven by the rage he had carried for so long. And yet, for every powerful strike, Melkos met him with calm precision, his form moving through the battlefield like a specter, avoiding lethal blows, blocking those that came too close.

With each impact, the sky shifted. At first, the darkness remained impenetrable, as though the universe itself had been swallowed by a black hole. But slowly, like the dawn breaking through a storm, the darkness began to give way. Red streaks of light tore through the void, their savage hues casting a blood-red glow over the molten landscape. The swirling colors of hatred and pain—deep crimson, violent violet, and searing orange—battled for dominance in the sky, reflecting the intensity of the battle below.

Drakomis screamed with fury, his blade slicing through the air with deadly intent, forcing Melkos to retreat. “You left us to die!” he shouted, his voice ragged with emotion as he struck again and again. Each time their swords met, the ground shook, and more geysers of lava exploded around them, their molten fury lighting the blackened sky. “You could have saved us!”

Melkos' form, shifting under the onslaught, began to change with each strike. His once ethereal, Elven visage—so familiar and yet so distant—started to waver. A crack appeared in his form, splitting through his flawless skin like shattered glass. With every blow from Drakomis, more of Melkos’ true self emerged. His silver-white hair darkened, his eyes glowing with a fierce red light as the power within him began to unravel.

“I did what I could,” Melkos growled, his voice deeper now, resonating with an otherworldly timbre. “I tried to protect you... but you cannot understand!”

Drakomis roared in defiance, his sword slicing through the air with a final, devastating blow. The impact sent Melkos staggering back, and with that strike, his true form began to fully manifest.

The skeletal form of Melkos—Isilindil Mithrandír, now Melkos Unchanos—emerged, his once-fleshly body now stripped away, revealing the Dark Lich beneath, turned timeless god through endless cycles of redemption, but in this timeless place and specific moment a broken being. His eyes, now twin orbs of glowing red fury, burned with the intensity of stars. His skeletal hands gripped his shadow-blade, the weapon pulsing with a darkness that seemed to devour the very light around them.

For a moment, the sky went completely black, as if the universe itself held its breath, watching as these two ancient beings faced each other, locked in a battle that had been eons in the making. Only the glowing red orbs of Melkos' eyes and the eruptions of lava illuminated the battlefield, casting their forms in a hellish glow.

The red and violet hues in the sky began to twist and turn, slowly coalescing into new shapes—shapes that symbolized more than just hatred. They shifted, the reds softening into oranges and golds, the violets giving way to deep purples and blues, as if the raw emotion of the battle was slowly being tempered by something else. Acceptance. Understanding. But still, the fury raged beneath, unresolved and fierce.

Drakomis, undeterred by the transformation, raised his sword again, his eyes locked onto Melkos’ skeletal form. “You think this changes anything?” he growled, his voice filled with equal parts rage and sorrow. “You still abandoned us. You still let them die!”

Melkos, his form now a dark reflection of the being he had once been, did not flinch. His skeletal jaw clenched, his glowing red eyes fixed on Drakomis as he prepared to strike once more.

"Then strike," Melkos whispered, challenged, his voice echoing with the weight of centuries. "Strike, if that is the only way you can understand."

With a final roar, Drakomis charged, his sword raised high as the obsidian ground cracked and splintered beneath his feet. Lava erupted in great gouts around them, the entire realm seemingly on the verge of collapse as they prepared for the next clash.

The battle was far from over.

The air between them crackled with raw power, the weight of their emotions sending shockwaves through the very fabric of the realm. And as their blades met once more, the sky above—now a swirling maelstrom of red, violet, and gold—began to pulse in time with their strikes.

They had to fight. It was destiny. They had to strike each other, to face the pain and the fury of the past head-on. Only through this battle could the truth be revealed.

As Melkos' skeletal form moved with renewed speed and strength, the ground beneath them began to shift, the molten lava swirling like a sea of fire. Each strike brought him closer to the core of his power, his skeletal form glowing brighter with every clash of their weapons. His eyes—those burning red orbs—shone with the full fury of his dark, immortal essence.

And still, Drakomis fought on, his fury undimmed, his blade cutting through the air with the power of a warrior who had nothing left to lose.

As their blades met once more, the very ground beneath them groaned in protest. The obsidian surface, already fractured and cracked, began to splinter further, jagged lines spreading out like a spider's web. Lava surged through the cracks, bubbling up in fiery fountains that reached toward the sky. But it was no ordinary sky—the swirling maelstrom above them had fully transformed, a storm of color and energy, writhing in response to their clash. The fabric of this realm, this place beyond time, was beginning to unravel.

Every strike was more than just steel against steel. It was a clash of wills, of souls, of lifetimes. As Drakomis' sword met Melkos' skeletal blade, the force of their blows sent shockwaves rippling outward, lightning cracking through the sky like a vengeful deity’s wrath. The energy they unleashed surged through the molten air, sparking between them in crackling arcs that reached out into the cosmos, like tendrils of fate seeking to bind them together.

The screams of the fallen echoed through each clash. Voices, memories—long dead but not forgotten—rose from the depths of Drakomis’ soul. The soldiers who had fought beside him, the comrades he had watched die, the Federation that had crumbled around him. Every loss, every failure, screamed out in the deadly music of their swords. And Melkos—Isilindil Mithrandír, the friend who had left them—stood before him as the embodiment of that pain.

With every strike, Drakomis poured his fury, his grief, his betrayal into the fight. His sword cut through the air with vicious speed, glowing hot with the energy of his rage. Each time their blades met, sparks flew out like shattered stars, the very air between them charged with the raw intensity of their battle. His muscles strained as he forced Melkos back, pressing the advantage, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Why did you leave us?!" Drakomis roared, repeating himself, his voice a mixture of rage and anguish. His sword came down in a wide arc, the force behind it so great that it sent a shockwave through the earth, causing the lava to churn violently. "We needed you!"

The blow struck true, and Melkos staggered back, his skeletal form crackling with dark energy as he deflected the strike just in time. His glowing red eyes burned brighter, a fierce fire of regret and resolve. But he did not yield. Instead, he summoned the full power of his immortal form, his blade now pulsing with shadow and light, as if the very essence of time itself was woven into the weapon.

"I left because I thought it was the only way to save you!" Melkos shouted, his voice filled with a sorrow that echoed across the battlefield. He slashed out, his skeletal blade cutting through the air with a deadly grace, meeting Drakomis’ sword in a blinding clash of energy. The impact sent bolts of lightning arcing from their blades, striking the ground and sky, causing the lava to explode in great torrents of fire.

"You were wrong!" Drakomis countered, his voice cracking with the weight of centuries of grief. He swung his sword with reckless fury, every strike fueled by the weight of the Federation's fall. Memories flashed before his eyes—of planets burning, soldiers screaming, the enemy overwhelming them at every turn. "You left us to die! To rot!"

Their blades met again, the force of the collision sending a cascade of energy outward, warping the very fabric of the realm. The stars above flickered and twisted, as though the cosmos itself was being torn apart by the violence of their emotions. The ground beneath them heaved, great slabs of obsidian breaking free and falling into the fiery depths below, consumed by the molten core of the planet.

And yet, neither yielded. Drakomis fought like a man possessed, his sword a blur of movement as he struck at Melkos with everything he had. The raw, primal scream that escaped his lips was a sound of pure, unbridled rage—a dead soul fighting against the one who had abandoned him.

Melkos, though battered and torn, did not falter. His skeletal form, now fully revealed, was a dark mirror of the being he had once been. The power of the Dark Lich coursed through him, and though every strike from Drakomis seemed to tear at him, he remained standing. His blade moved with the precision of a master, deflecting each blow with a grace that belied the intensity of the battle.

"You think I don't regret it?" Melkos shouted, his voice thunderous as he swung his blade in a wide arc, the force of the strike sending a bolt of dark lightning into the sky. "You think I don't carry that pain with me every day?"

Another clash of swords, another eruption of energy. The lava surged higher, great fountains of molten rock spraying into the sky as the ground beneath them began to give way. The darkness that had consumed the sky now shifted again, swirling violently as streaks of red, violet, and gold battled for dominance. The very air around them seemed to crackle with the weight of their struggle, the energy they unleashed warping the realm around them.

"Then prove it!" Drakomis roared, his voice shaking with the raw power of his emotions. His sword glowed brighter, a blinding white light now searing from its edge as he charged forward. "Prove to me that you cared!"

Their blades met in an explosion of energy so fierce that it shook the ground beneath them, sending massive cracks splintering out in every direction. The lava surged up, geysers of fire and molten rock erupting all around them, as though the planet itself was being torn apart by the violence of their battle. The sky, once black as night, now blazed with the full fury of their emotions, the reds, violets, and golds swirling together in a chaotic dance of power and pain.

Melkos' skeletal form shuddered with each strike, his red eyes glowing brighter with every blow. His voice, though strained, was filled with an ancient sorrow. "I have nothing left to prove, Drakomis," he said, his tone soft but resolute. "Only this—there is no forgiveness for what I have done. Only the truth of who I am."

Drakomis' face twisted in a mix of fury and anguish as he raised his sword for one final, devastating blow. The ground beneath him cracked and splintered, the lava now surging up from the core of the planet, threatening to consume them both. The sky above blazed with the energy of their battle, the stars themselves seeming to dim in the face of their fury.

And as the final strike came down, the very fabric of the realm began to unravel. The air between them crackled with raw energy, bolts of lightning arcing from their blades, striking out into the cosmos, as the full weight of their emotions poured into the fight. The stars, the sky, the ground—all of it seemed to twist and bend under the strain of their battle.

Their blades met with a sound that was not of this world—a sound that echoed across time and space, resonating through the very core of their beings.

And in that moment, as the planet began to break apart beneath them, Drakomis and Melkos stood locked in combat, their swords the only thing holding back the tide of darkness that threatened to consume them both.

Locked in their desperate struggle, both pushed against each other with the force of a thousand worlds, their blades sparking with the energy of eons. But as the tension grew unbearable, something shifted. Something happened.

In the midst of their fury, as their swords pressed against one another once more, their eyes met—Drakomis, with his unrelenting rage, and Melkos, with the hollow sorrow that had shaped him. For a fleeting moment, all sound fell away. The chaos of the world, the roaring of the molten earth, the crackling of their powers—everything fell silent.

Drakomis stared into Melkos’ eyes, and he saw.

Inspirational Scene Music

The memories flooded through him in a rush, not his own, but Melkos'. Drakomis saw the endless lifetimes Melkos had lived, the centuries of sacrifice, the futile battles to shape time, to fix the mistakes of his past. He saw the despair that had consumed him when the Federation crumbled, the guilt that had twisted his heart as he tried, over and over, to rewrite the fate of countless lives. He saw Melkos' soul, once proud and noble, reduced to fragments as he clawed for a solution that would never come.

He saw the weight of every decision, every failure, every life lost.

Drakomis’ grip on his sword faltered, and his breath caught in his throat. The rage, the hatred that had fueled his every strike, began to ebb away, replaced by something heavier, deeper—understanding. The veil of anger that had blinded him for so long lifted, and what remained was the raw, naked truth.

Melkos had never abandoned them out of malice. He had fought, suffered, and bled in his own way, alone, in the shadows of eternity, lost in a labyrinth of his own creation.

The molten earth beneath them began to settle, the geysers of lava retracting back into the cracks they had erupted from. The obsidian soil, once fractured and broken, slowly fused together, cooling into smooth, glossy black glass as the world around them began to coalesce into a strange, gentle stillness. The sky, once a chaotic storm of energy and color, began to shift—streaks of red, gold, and violet fading into soft hues of twilight.

Drakomis’ sword trembled in his hand, and his muscles, once taut with fury, began to relax. The thunderous roar of their battle receded into a low hum, as though the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting.

His vision swam with memories—his soldiers, his people, the Federation—and the betrayal he had clung to for so long. But now, standing before Melkos, he realized that the pain he had carried was not his alone. It was theirs. It was his.

With a deep breath, Drakomis took a step back, lowering his sword. The energy crackling around him began to fade, his hulking form softening as the weight of his guilt, his grief, began to lift from his broad shoulders. His heart still pounded, but not with anger—with clarity.

The swirling colors in the sky above slowly resolved into a peaceful stillness. Stars blinked back into view, shimmering softly against the backdrop of an endless cosmos. The very air around them seemed to breathe, as though the world itself had been waiting for this moment—for the storm to pass, for the wounds to begin healing.

Drakomis’ chest rose and fell as he stared at Melkos, whose skeletal form still stood before him, flickering with the remnants of the dark energy that had sustained him. But there was no malice in Melkos' eyes, no hint of the destructive force that had consumed him. Only the sorrow of a man, an Elf—no, a god—who had been lost for too long.

The silence between them was different now. No longer heavy with conflict, but filled with the quiet understanding that came with shared pain.

Drakomis, his voice low and steady, finally spoke.

“I forgive you.”

The words were quiet, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of millennia. The energy that had crackled between them dissipated entirely, and the sky above brightened, the stars now fully visible, casting a soft glow over the molten landscape that had begun to cool.

Melkos, still standing, his red orbs glowing faintly, seemed to exhale. His skeletal form, which had once been terrifying and full of menace, now seemed smaller, almost fragile. For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze locked on Drakomis, the burden of his own actions hanging heavy in the air.

But in that gaze, there was a quiet, profound gratitude.

As the universe around them gently settled into peace, the ground beneath their feet cooled into smooth black stone. The once-writhing chaos of energy in the sky gave way to a serene, dark blue canvas, where stars blinked and twinkled softly. The world that had threatened to unravel itself in their fury now seemed to sigh in relief.

Drakomis stood taller, his sword slowly dissolving into the air, but not completely. His form lightened, the fire that had burned so fiercely within him finally extinguished. The rage that had driven him for so long ebbed away, leaving only a deep sense of peace.

Melkos stood still for a moment, the words "I forgive you" hanging in the air like the last notes of a song for him, reverberating in the quiet stillness. His glowing red orbs, once filled with the fire of battle, softened, dimming with the weight of an ancient sorrow finally relieved. The darkness that had clung to him, the shadows of eons of regret, began to lift, like a heavy cloak falling away from his skeletal form.

He stepped forward, slowly, cautiously, as though the fragile peace between them might shatter with one wrong move. The obsidian ground beneath his feet was warm, cooling now that the firestorm of their emotions had passed. He reached out a hand, still skeletal, still marked by the power that had shaped him across millennia.

Drakomis, standing tall, his muscular Komodren frame still, finally allowed the rage within him to fade completely. The sword he had summoned dissolved completely now into the air, disappearing as though it had never been. His chest heaved with heavy breaths, but each one came easier than the last, as if the weight of centuries of anger and guilt was being lifted with each exhale.

When Melkos reached him, the two locked eyes—no longer as warrior and god, no longer as teacher and pupil, but as two beings who had seen the very fabric of time itself unravel before them. There was nothing left to say in that moment, only the raw, unspoken bond of understanding that passed between them.

Melkos, his skeletal fingers trembling slightly, placed a hand on Drakomis' shoulder. There was no power in the touch, no lingering threat—just the quiet, gentle reassurance of someone who had suffered just as much.

Drakomis, towering over Melkos in both size and presence, felt his resolve break. His thick chest rose and fell as the emotions—so long buried—rushed to the surface. His sharp, reptilian eyes glistened, the fierce yellow irises softening. He had never wept in battle, never shed a tear for his fallen soldiers or for the worlds that had burned. But now, in the presence of his old friend, the dam finally broke.

A single tear slid down the scaled ridge of his cheek, followed by another. And then another. His massive frame shuddered as he lowered his head, unable to hold back the flood of emotion that overtook him.

Melkos, still standing close, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Drakomis in an embrace that transcended the need for words. It was a gesture both powerful and simple—an offering of comfort that neither of them had ever given or received in all their years of war and loss.

Drakomis' massive arms came up, slowly, almost hesitantly, before finally embracing Melkos in return. The two stood there, locked in a silent embrace, as the world around them continued to cool, the ground solidifying beneath their feet.

Tears streamed down Drakomis' face, his heavy breaths ragged with the release of years of pent-up grief and anger. His scaled shoulders shook with each sob, but he no longer tried to hide it. He no longer had to. He had fought for so long, against enemies, against the betrayal he had felt, and most of all, against himself. But now, for the first time, he let it all go.

"I see it now," Drakomis whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I understand."

Melkos, still holding him tightly, nodded against the Komodren’s chest. His skeletal form, so often a symbol of the terror and power he wielded, was now simply the form of a friend who had also lost so much. "You were never alone, Drakomis," Melkos whispered. "Even when I wasn't there... I never stopped watching over you."

Drakomis’ sobs slowed, his massive frame gradually relaxing into the embrace. His vision cleared as he pulled away slightly, just enough to meet Melkos’ gaze once more. "I accept it now," Drakomis said, his voice steady despite the tears that still lingered in his eyes. "My death… it had meaning. My soldiers… our fight wasn’t for nothing."

Melkos nodded again, his expression soft with compassion. "It never was, old friend. It was always part of something greater. You fought with honor, with courage. And you gave hope to those who followed you."

Drakomis exhaled, a long, shuddering breath, as the last of his rage and sorrow melted away. He stood taller now, not weighed down by the past, but lifted by the truth he had finally seen. The truth that his life, his death, had never been meaningless.

"I forgive you, Melkos," he said again, this time with absolute certainty. "And… I forgive myself."

The words seemed to hang in the air, resonating with a quiet power that neither of them could deny. As they stood together, the stars above twinkled softly, no longer flickering with the fury of their battle, but shining gently, as if the universe itself had found peace in their reconciliation.

The ground beneath them, once molten and shattered, was now whole again. The obsidian earth reflected the night sky, smooth and solid, unmarred by the chaos that had erupted before. Even the air seemed calmer, carrying with it the softest of breezes, like a sigh of relief.

Melkos gave a small, sad smile, his skeletal form standing taller now as the burden he had carried for eons seemed to lift ever so slightly. Drakomis wiped his eyes, his sharp reptilian features softening in the cool glow of the stars above.

The world was quiet, but in that silence, there was a sense of closure, of understanding, and of a new beginning.

The two beings—one mortal, one god—stood side by side, no longer bound by the past, but ready to face whatever future awaited them.

And as Drakomis looked up at the stars, his heart finally at peace, he whispered, "I am ready."

At these words, the obsidian earth transformed fully back into its original state. A soft, yielding sand of comfort and resolve—firm yet giving—reflecting the nebula from above.

Whole, healed, complete.

[Anagonia]

A Sanctuary
Unknown Time
Unknown Place

A warm breeze brushed against Mileethus Canisilus' skin as he stirred from what felt like an eternity of silence. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with the weight of his recent ordeal. He expected the cold, sterile feel of hospital linens beneath his fingertips—the beep of monitors, the familiar scent of disinfectant—but instead, his senses were overwhelmed by something entirely different.

He was on a beach.

The sand beneath his hands was soft, almost too soft, its warmth seeping into his skin like a gentle reassurance. The sound of calm waters lapping at the shore echoed around him, soothing, rhythmic. When his eyes fully opened, he was greeted by a sky unlike any he had ever seen. It was not the typical azure or twilight hues he knew; instead, it was painted with galaxies, swirling in a slow, cosmic dance far above. Stars blinked in and out of existence in the distance, while strange and beautiful constellations hung like jewels in the expanse.

For a moment, Mileethus lay still, trying to make sense of where he was. There was no pain in his chest—no sign of the gunshot, no ache from the wound that had sent him tumbling into darkness. His hand instinctively moved to the spot where the bullet had struck, but his Komodren body felt intact, whole. The confusion settled in as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, his massive form rising easily, without the usual effort.

He scanned the horizon. The beach seemed to stretch forever, untouched by time or tide, and the water—crystal clear and impossibly still—reflected the swirling galaxies above. It was a world apart from his own, an impossible place of peace. The kind of peace he had been searching for in his heart for so long but never found.

Where am I?

His thoughts swirled with fragmented memories. He remembered the rally—the warm reception from the crowd. He remembered the look in Auristi’s eyes, filled with concern, her words still echoing faintly in his mind. And then the shot. The deafening sound, the pain in his chest. His wife rushing to his side, her voice distant, yet filled with urgency. He remembered falling, and then nothing.

The words he had spoken to her surfaced in his mind: "You were right." But right about what? He struggled to recall.

As Mileethus stood, his heavy frame feeling unusually light, he turned slowly in place. He felt a sense of longing—an instinctual urge to find Auristi, as if she might be here with him, waiting just beyond the dunes or by the water’s edge. He took a step forward, his feet sinking slightly into the warm sand, and scanned the expanse of the beach.

But he saw no one. Only the endless, serene landscape, the still waters, and the infinite sky above.

He furrowed his brow, his chest tightening not from the wound but from an unshakable sense of isolation. Am I dead? He wondered, though it didn’t feel like death—not the kind he had envisioned. He had always imagined that death would be cold, final. This place, though... it was anything but. It was alive, vibrant, yet strangely detached from everything he knew.

Then, like a whisper carried on the breeze, a presence stirred nearby. He couldn’t see anyone, but he felt it—a familiar, gentle presence, watching him, waiting. It was comforting, yet unnerving in its intimacy, as if it had been with him all along, from the moment he was born.

Mileethus turned toward the sensation, his eyes narrowing as he strained to make sense of it. The galaxies above seemed to shimmer brighter, their light reflecting off the water. Something—or someone—was drawing near.

Meditative Scene Music

The air around Mileethus thickened further, as though the entire fabric of this ethereal place was reacting to the awareness blossoming within him. The once-soft breeze now carried a low, resonant hum, not unlike the vibration of a distant, ancient instrument playing on the edge of the universe. It began subtly, almost as an afterthought, but it deepened, reverberating in the spaces between the galaxies above and the tranquil waters below. The hum was not an intrusion, but a signal—something immense, something eternal, drawing closer.

He turned, his emerald eyes sweeping the horizon, each movement slow and deliberate, as if time itself was stretching in response to his search. The presence he had felt—elusive yet undeniable—was no longer distant. It hovered close now, enveloping him, weaving itself into the world around him. It wasn’t threatening, nor was it overtly gentle. It was like an ancient echo—something known and unknown, always there in the corners of his memory but never fully grasped.

At the water's edge, the previously calm surface began to ripple—not with the wind, but with something far more profound. The stillness was disturbed as the galaxies overhead seemed to pulse in tandem, their brilliant lights flickering and bending as if drawn toward a single, unseen point ahead. Each star, each distant celestial body, began to arc in unison, as though following the pull of an unseen current. They cast shimmering reflections on the rippling waters below, and the sight of it all made Mileethus catch his breath.

The hum grew louder, vibrating in his chest, in his bones, as the ripples in the water expanded outward. Perfect circles stretched out across the mirrored surface, each one growing and growing until they seemed to fade into the infinite. The rhythm of the ripples, like the pulse of the stars, synchronized into a single heartbeat, as if the entire universe had stopped and was now waiting with him. The presence was not just closer; it was preparing to reveal itself.

And then it began to happen.

Slowly—agonizingly slow—the light and energy that bent the fabric of this world started to coalesce. The air shimmered, bending the space in front of him, and for a moment, Mileethus couldn’t tell where the sky ended and the water began. It was as though the cosmos itself was being drawn inward, spinning and folding upon itself. What had been a vague, formless energy now became something more tangible, more defined.

A shape emerged from the swirling stars and the shimmering horizon. At first, it was only a distortion in the light, a glimmer of motion caught between the rippling of space and time. But it was growing clearer with every passing second—solidifying, crystallizing. The galaxies bent toward it, the starlight glinting off the edges of this emerging form. Mileethus' heart pounded in his chest as the figure took shape.

It stood tall, impossibly tall, with a presence that filled the space, yet did not overwhelm it. Its very essence seemed to hum with the quiet power of the universe itself. Its form was fluid, shifting slightly between moments, as though time had not yet fully settled around it. But within that shifting presence was a calm, an ancient tranquility—something that transcended any understanding of time and space. It was a being that carried the weight of eons, the knowledge of countless worlds, and the wisdom of eternal life.

The figure was both magnificent and terrifying in its serenity—the embodiment of time, space, and everything beyond.

Mileethus knew who it was before his mind could even fully comprehend the sight before him. The realization didn’t come like a shock—it unfolded slowly, like the petals of a long-forgotten memory, blooming into something familiar yet indescribably grand. His heart, the one that still beat within him, began to quicken, the rhythm of it echoing against the vast quiet of the universe around him. His breath caught in his throat, eyes widening as the shimmering figure began to solidify, pulling all light and attention toward itself as if even the galaxies above deferred to its presence.

It was Melkos.

The Lord of Time, the Keeper of Life and Death, the Thread that bound all things.

Mileethus had never seen Melkos in any physical form—never like this. The stories, the legends, had painted the god in distant, awe-inspiring strokes. He was a being who moved in and out of reality, who existed beyond sight and comprehension. But in his heart, in the deepest chambers of his soul, Mileethus had always known him. Every Komodren did, though none spoke of it openly. Melkos was not some distant myth, some figurehead in the heavens to be worshiped from afar. He was far more intimate, more entwined with their existence than any story could convey. He was the essence of their being, the one who had crafted the world from the dust of stars and had woven their lives into the very fabric of time.

But now, seeing him—truly seeing him—Mileethus realized that even the stories, the myths, had failed to capture the enormity of what stood before him.

The figure that formed wasn’t the towering, skeletal apparition that the ancient histories sometimes whispered about in fearful tones. No, this form was different—softer, more approachable, yet no less commanding. He wasn’t monstrous, but he was still undeniably powerful, more real than anything Mileethus had ever experienced. His silver-white hair flowed like liquid starlight, catching the faintest glimmers from the surrounding galaxies. His face was timeless, both young and ancient, without a trace of age but with the kind of wisdom that only millennia could bring. And his eyes—his eyes were deep, fathomless pools of understanding, etched with sorrow and joy in equal measure, carrying within them the weight of countless worlds and lives.

Melkos stood there, still as the cosmos around them, watching Mileethus with a gaze that seemed to pierce through him, seeing not just the Komodren President lying in a hospital bed, but everything he had ever been, everything he had ever felt or thought. The beach, the stars, the very universe had stilled around them, holding its breath as if unwilling to disturb this sacred moment. The galaxies, once swirling in majestic arcs, had paused. The water, once rippling with the motion of an unseen breeze, was now as smooth as glass. Time itself had halted its flow, as if it, too, was acknowledging the gravity of this meeting.

For what felt like an eternity, neither spoke.

Mileethus couldn’t find the words. What could he say to the being that had shaped everything? How could he express the awe, the confusion, the weight of all that had happened? His mind struggled, reaching for thoughts that slipped away as soon as they formed. He could only stand there, feeling like a child in the presence of something incomprehensible, yet deeply familiar.

And then, slowly, the silence between them took on a new texture. It wasn’t the silence of emptiness, but the silence of understanding—of things being said without needing to be spoken. Melkos' gaze was steady, unblinking, and full of something Mileethus couldn't yet name. Wisdom, certainly. But there was something else there too, buried deep beneath the surface. Compassion? Sadness?

Or maybe it was just the weight of everything Melkos knew—the burden of time itself.

As Mileethus' realization settled fully into place, the gravity of the moment began to weigh on him in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He had been a leader, a President, a figure of authority and power. Yet here, in this place beyond reality, standing before the very source of existence itself, all of that seemed insignificant. Melkos took a single step forward, and though his foot touched the sand without disturbing it, the universe around them seemed to ripple and shift. It was as though the cosmos itself responded to his every move, bending and curving like the delicate threads of a vast, unseen tapestry, woven by the being before him.

Each of Melkos' movements, though subtle and controlled, carried with it the weight of eternity. His form—though clear and unmistakable—seemed more ethereal, as though he was not entirely confined to the physical world. It was as if Melkos was woven from the very stardust of the galaxies above, his figure not bound by the laws of nature but existing in harmony with them. The air around him shimmered, bending like light around a distant star. Each step was a quiet, cosmic pulse, as if the universe itself rotated on some grand axis, turning in rhythm with his movements.

“Mileethus,” came the voice.

It wasn’t just a sound—it was a presence. The voice wasn’t limited to a single direction, nor did it simply resonate in the air around him. It filled everything. It was in the earth beneath his feet, in the stars above, in the water that gently kissed the shore. It reverberated through his very soul, deep and resonant yet impossibly gentle. A voice that held the secrets of worlds long forgotten, of lives lived and lost, and of futures yet to be written.

Mileethus inhaled sharply, his breath catching in his throat. This wasn’t just a moment of divine revelation—it was as though his very existence had been laid bare. Everything that he was, everything he had ever been or done, hung before him like an open book, the weight of it pressing against him in a way that made his accomplishments feel both vast and minuscule all at once.

He remembered the shot, the blinding pain as his chest burned, the sight of his wife in the crowd as he collapsed. The chaos, the confusion, and the encroaching darkness that followed... It all played in his mind like a distant dream. But now, standing here, none of that seemed to matter. This was different. This was beyond life, beyond the pain and trials of the world. This was something more.

His body trembled, not with fear, but with the sheer magnitude of it all. The sense of being in the presence of his creator—of the being who had woven the fabric of time and space—was overwhelming. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the universe pressing against his soul, yet there was a growing calm within him. A calm that came not from resignation but from understanding.

"Lord Melkos," he whispered, his voice trembling, reverent. The name fell from his lips like a prayer, soft but filled with awe, disbelief, and something more—recognition. He had never spoken to Melkos before, never looked upon his face, never prayed like his wife did. Yet in this moment, it felt as though he had known him all his life. There had always been this presence, always lingering, always watching, and now, here it was, before him, waiting.

The galaxies above, once still, began to stir. Slowly at first, as if awakening from a deep slumber, they spun in quiet rhythm. Constellations began to weave themselves into new patterns, their light brighter, more vivid against the backdrop of eternity. And the waters at the beach’s edge responded in kind, shimmering with the faintest hues of blue and gold, reflecting the swirling dance of the heavens above.

Mileethus stood there, his body trembling but rooted in place, his legs weak yet holding firm. He could feel his heart pounding within him, the rhythm strong and steady despite everything that had happened. He should have been afraid, or at least overwhelmed, but instead, there was an undeniable peace—a serenity that flowed through him, growing stronger the longer he held Melkos' gaze.

It was as if, for the first time, everything in his life made sense. All the questions, the doubts, the struggles—none of them mattered in this moment. Here, before his creator, there was clarity. A deeper understanding settled into him, like a wave gently washing over the shore. The weight of existence no longer felt like a burden. Instead, it felt like a gift—one that he had been carrying all along, but had only now truly begun to understand.

This place, this moment—everything was connected. Everything had been leading to this.

As Mileethus stood in quiet reverence, feeling the profound calm wash over him, Melkos' presence began to shift subtly. At first, it was almost imperceptible—a faint change in the air, like the soft hum of energy beneath the surface of things. Mileethus felt it, though, deep in his core. It was as if the very fabric of the space around them, the celestial beach and the galaxies that swirled overhead, were beginning to pulse with a different kind of rhythm. He could sense it—the power, the energy that lay dormant within Melkos, now slowly awakening.

The galaxies above, once a gentle swirl of vibrant light, dimmed ever so slightly, their brightness giving way to shadows that stretched and bent across the beach. The stars still sparkled, but now their light seemed to flicker, almost as if they were bowing to something greater—something ancient, something dark and unknowable.

Melkos, standing before him, let out a soft, resigned breath. His expression softened, not with sorrow, but with a kind of acceptance. The shimmering starlight that had once woven through his form began to change, slowly unraveling as if the cosmos themselves were releasing him from their gentle embrace. The radiant, almost ethereal figure of Melkos began to dissolve, his silver-white hair no longer flowing like strands of light. Instead, shadows crept in, dark tendrils weaving through the air around him, slowly reshaping his form.

For the first time, Mileethus felt the weight of something darker, but it did not frighten him. Melkos had soothed the moment, and Mileethus had found his faith—his belief. Now, Melkos could reveal the truth of his nature without fear.

The figure that had once stood as an embodiment of the universe’s beauty and calm was transforming. His tall, imposing form seemed to stretch, elongating unnaturally as shadows wrapped around his body. Slowly, impossibly slow, the flesh of Melkos’ face began to thin, revealing the contours of something skeletal beneath. The skin, once ageless and flawless, began to fade like mist, revealing bone—smooth, cold, and white as marble.

Dark energies began to coil around him, swirling like smoke caught in a maelstrom. They crackled with a silent fury, yet they held no malice—only power. Mileethus watched in awe as the light drained from Melkos' body, replaced by a deep, almost obsidian darkness that seemed to absorb the very stars themselves.

The galaxies overhead dimmed further, and the beach began to change as well. The waters that had once shimmered with soft light now turned black, their surfaces reflecting the growing intensity of the energy that radiated from Melkos. The sand beneath Mileethus’ feet, once warm and golden, began to darken, as if the shadows of time itself were seeping into the ground.

The final transition came as Melkos' eyes changed. Where once there had been deep pools of ageless wisdom, now there were only two fiery orbs, glowing red like the embers of a dying star. These eyes burned with the weight of millennia, of lives lived and lost, of universes created and destroyed. The energy that crackled around him now was dark, thick, and alive with power, but it was not chaotic. It was controlled, measured, held in perfect balance by the being that wielded it.

Mileethus felt a chill, but it wasn’t fear. It was awe—an understanding that he was now standing in the presence of the true form of Melkos, the Lord of Time, Death, and Life. This was no longer the soft, gentle figure that had soothed him in his moment of awakening. This was the true Melkos, the eternal being who had woven the very threads of existence, who had watched over the rise and fall of countless civilizations, who had guided his people from the shadows for eons.

And yet, despite the darkness that now surrounded him, despite the skeletal visage and the crackling energies that swirled like a storm around him, there was no fear. Mileethus could feel the same presence, the same calm, but now it was layered with the undeniable power of creation and destruction. This was not a revelation meant to terrify—this was the truth of who Melkos was.

Melkos, now fully transitioned into his dark, skeletal form, stood before Mileethus, his fiery eyes locking onto his child’s. There was no malice in them, only an ancient, unspoken understanding. For the first time, Mileethus could see the depth of Melkos’ burden—the weight of millennia, of decisions made and lives lost, of wars fought and destinies shaped.

"I could not reveal this truth before," Melkos’ voice rumbled, no longer soft but still carrying the weight of a thousand lifetimes. "But now, you see me, truly. You understand, Mileethus. You believe."

Mileethus nodded slowly, his heart steady, his eyes never leaving Melkos'. This was the moment of true understanding—the moment when the President of Anagonia realized that his existence, his role, had always been part of something much larger. There was no fear in him now, only acceptance.

Mileethus remained still, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on his chest. He had never been a man of deep faith—he had led with strength, intellect, and unwavering resolve, but never truly from a place of spiritual belief. His mind, always tethered to the reality of leadership, to the tangible struggles of governance, had left little room for gods, even one as powerful as Melkos. Yet, standing here, in the presence of the very being who had shaped existence, Mileethus felt compelled to speak the truth.

"I... didn’t believe," Mileethus finally admitted, his voice steady but carrying the weight of his confession. "Not truly. Not in the way my wife, my mate, does." His gaze drifted momentarily, as though he could see her even now, the image of her gentle faith forever etched in his mind. "Auristi… she always believed. Always had faith. It’s what kept me going with her to the churches, but it wasn’t... my belief. It was hers."

The words hung in the air, honest and raw. Mileethus had never allowed himself to admit this so openly, not even to Auristi. His visits to the churches, the moments he stood beside her in quiet reverence, had always been more for her than for him. He had followed, not led, in matters of faith. And yet here he stood, facing the creator he had quietly doubted all his life.

Melkos moved, slowly and deliberately. The dark energies that surrounded him pulsed softly, as if reacting to the weight of Mileethus’ words. His ember-red eyes seemed to burn brighter for a moment, flickering with something almost imperceptible. It wasn’t anger, nor was it disappointment—no, it was something deeper, something almost pained. His gaze, sharp and ancient, bore into Mileethus for a long, silent moment. It was as though Melkos was weighing something unseen, the very essence of Mileethus' soul, before his eyes shifted away.

For a brief second, Melkos' eyes looked toward the horizon, where the galaxies spun slowly, their light muted. There was a sadness in that look, an ancient sorrow that seemed to carry the weight of what was to come. When his gaze returned to Mileethus, it was softened, almost compassionate, as if what he had seen—what he knew—was too heavy to bear alone.

"Your wife," Melkos began, his voice low, carrying both reverence and warmth, "is a soul of rare and beautiful faith." His skeletal form, wreathed in dark energies, seemed almost gentler now, though the power within him remained undeniable. "Her belief, her devotion... it is something I have watched with great love. I have tried, in many ways, to guide her, to protect her from what is to come. She is pure in her heart, and it is through her that I hoped you might find your way."

Mileethus swallowed hard. He could see Auristi now in his mind, her calm presence, the way her quiet faith had sustained her through so many trials. And he knew, without Melkos having to say it, that he had failed to heed the warnings—failed to see the signs that had been placed before him. There had been moments, small and fleeting, when he had felt something stir within him, but he had always dismissed it, pushed it aside in favor of the burdens of leadership.

"I tried to warn you," Melkos said, his voice filled with a quiet, ancient sorrow. "Through her, I tried to reach you, Mileethus. But you did not listen. You turned away from the signs, from the whispers of what was coming."

Mileethus clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. The weight of Melkos’ words sank deep into him. He had seen the cracks forming—the instability in Kaskaida, the growing tensions in Ashilosa—but he had never considered the spiritual undercurrents, the warnings woven into the fabric of his life. Auristi had tried, in her gentle way, to show him, to open his heart to something greater. But he had been too focused on the world in front of him, too rooted in the material and the immediate.

And now, standing here, in the presence of Melkos, he understood the depth of his own blindness.

The Lord of Time, now fully revealed in his skeletal form, took another step forward. His ember-red eyes locked onto Mileethus once more, but there was no judgment in them now—only an undeniable sense of gravity. The universe around them, the beach, the still waters, the galaxies—everything seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

"The hardships to come," Melkos continued, his voice soft but filled with the weight of what lay ahead, "will test you in ways you cannot yet imagine. The world you know is on the brink of something terrible, something that will tear at the very fabric of your existence."

Mileethus felt the full weight of the moment descend upon him. The calm of the beach, the stillness of the galaxies, the peace he had felt just moments ago—all of it seemed to shift, to darken as Melkos’ words settled within him.

"The war," Melkos whispered, "is inevitable. And with it, the suffering of millions. The choices you make in the coming days will define not only your fate, but the fate of those you love. Of Auristi. Of your people."

Mileethus’ breath caught in his throat. He had known—on some level—that danger was coming. But not like this. Not with this clarity. Not with the full understanding of what it meant. He looked into Melkos’ eyes, those burning orbs of ancient fire, and for the first time, he felt the true weight of leadership.

The weight of his faith.

Melkos’ ember-red eyes flickered slightly, their glow dimming for the briefest of moments, as though weighed down by the complexity of what he was about to say. The skeletal form of the god stood motionless, the swirling energies that surrounded him now softer, more subdued. There was a pause, a breath in the stillness between them, as the words Melkos spoke seemed to ripple through the very fabric of the stars above.

"I could not move all the pieces, Mileethus," Melkos said quietly, his voice filled with a deep, ancient sorrow. "Not all of them. I... tried. I tried to shift the course where I could, to place signs and subtle guidance. But even I am bound by forces beyond full control. The threads of fate, once woven, are difficult to unravel."

The words lingered in the air, the weight of them sinking deep into Mileethus. He stared at Melkos, the realization dawning on him that even this god—this being who had shaped worlds and guided the lives of so many—was not entirely omnipotent. There were limits, boundaries to what could be influenced, and Melkos had tried, through the only means left to him.

"I sought to reach you through her," Melkos continued, stepping forward just enough to close the distance between them. "Auristi, your beloved mate, is one of my most devoted children. Her faith... it is beautiful, pure, and unwavering. I tried to give her the visions, to show her the gravity of what was to come, so that she might protect you. But..."

His voice trailed off briefly, and for the first time, there was a subtle tremor in the god's voice. His eyes softened, their fiery glow tempered with something almost tender, almost regretful. "She, too, could not see everything. Her faith, while strong, may have misunderstood parts of the vision. I tried to show her the danger, to provoke her into guiding you away from public venues. Away from the stage... from the moment the shot would come."

Mileethus felt his chest tighten. He could picture it now, so vividly—Auristi, sitting beside him just days before the event, her voice soft but insistent as she recounted the dream she had experienced. Of Melkos warning her. Her words had carried a weight he hadn't fully grasped then, but now... now they crashed over him like a tidal wave.

She had told him of the dream after the one of Melkos—of the shadowed figure lurking in the distance, of the coldness she felt in the pit of her stomach as she stood beside him in a vast, open space. She had believed it to be a warning, a premonition of an attack on his life. She had urged him to cancel the event, to stay away from the public eye for just a little longer.

But Mileethus, ever the rational leader, had dismissed it. He had believed, at the time, that her vision was born from worry, from the pressure of the upcoming election and the tensions within the country. He had thought it was nothing more than a manifestation of her fears.

And yet, after she had shared the dream, they had prayed together. Well, she had prayed, and he had stood beside her, offering silent support. He hadn’t truly taken her words to heart. He hadn’t felt the urgency, the danger. He had allowed the event to go on, ignoring the caution she had so earnestly tried to impart.

His breath caught in his throat as the truth hit him. He had allowed the pieces to move against Melkos. He had disregarded the signs, the warnings, because he had been too grounded in the physical world, too entrenched in the responsibilities of a leader who couldn’t afford to indulge in visions or dreams.

Melkos watched him closely, his eyes never leaving Mileethus’ face. "The gravity of my visions... I admit, perhaps they were not fully relayed. Though I adore Auristi, and her faith is among the brightest of my children, the depth of the warning may have been misunderstood. Even in her purity, she could only see part of what I intended. It is not her fault. It never was."

Mileethus’ mind raced, replaying the moments with Auristi, the quiet times where she had voiced her concerns, her gentle insistence that something was coming. He had brushed it aside, confident in his ability to protect himself, to protect his people. But he had been wrong. He had failed to see the truth within her warnings, the truth that Melkos had tried to convey through her.

"It was my choice," Mileethus whispered, the weight of his realization settling heavily on him. "I didn’t listen. I didn’t... believe. And in that, I let the pieces fall into place. I set the stage for the shot to be taken."

Melkos’ eyes flickered once more, the ember-red glow shifting, but there was no anger, no judgment in his gaze. Instead, there was something deeper—an understanding, a sorrow shared by one who had witnessed countless fates unfold in ways even he could not always control.

"Yes," Melkos said softly, his voice filled with the heavy truth of it. "You made your choice, Mileethus. And that choice allowed the forces against us to strike. But understand this—your choice, while it led to this moment, does not define the end."

Mileethus stared at him, his heart heavy with the realization of his own role in the unfolding events. But even through the weight of it, there was a small spark—something that had been buried deep within him now flickering to life.

Mileethus’ gaze lifted, searching the depths of Melkos' ember-red eyes for an answer. His heart, heavy with the weight of everything he had just realized, now carried the burden of a new, creeping question. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his voice as he spoke, the stillness around them amplifying the gravity of his words.

"Why reveal all of this to me now?" Mileethus asked quietly, the faintest tremor in his voice. "What am I meant to do?"

Melkos held his gaze for a long, quiet moment, the stars above flickering faintly as though they too were listening for his response. The god’s skeletal form stood solemn, the dark energies swirling softly around him, framing his towering figure in an ethereal glow.

When Melkos finally spoke, his voice was filled with a sadness that seemed to echo across time itself.

"You must do nothing, Mileethus," Melkos said, his tone gentle, yet firm. "Your wound is too great to enact a swift recovery. The injury you sustained—though your Komodren body is strong and resilient—will keep you from intervening now. In your absence, your Vice President, Franklin Johnson, will take charge."

Mileethus’ heart sank. He could hear the finality in Melkos' words, the weight of inevitability that hung between them. His body tensed, the sharp sting of helplessness piercing through him. Franklin. A man of faith, yes—but one who had strayed from the path more than even Mileethus had. Though Franklin believed in Drekanity, his connection with Melkos had waned. And now, the fate of the nation—and perhaps of millions—rested in his hands.

Melkos’ eyes dimmed slightly, as if the sorrow he carried deepened further. "I have tried to reach him," Melkos continued, his voice tinged with regret. "Franklin's faith in me has faltered, and though I have whispered to him, placed signs before him, it is... difficult. The events on the board have already been placed. It is far too late now to stop what is coming. The wheels of war are in motion, and millions will perish."

The words struck Mileethus like a physical blow, his breath catching in his throat as the reality of it set in. Millions. The thought was unbearable, the weight of it pressing down on him like the very heavens themselves.

His voice cracked as he spoke, his mind struggling to grasp the enormity of what Melkos had just revealed. "I... I should have done more. I should have—"

Melkos stepped forward, his skeletal form looming closer, but his presence was not one of fear or judgment. His voice softened, the flicker of ancient sorrow in his eyes meeting Mileethus' own.

"It is not your fault, my son," Melkos said gently. "Nor is it Auristi’s." He pronounced her name with a tenderness that was almost tangible, a fatherly warmth that seemed to radiate through the darkness. "You both played your parts, as best you could. I do not come to blame you, but to prepare you for what must come next. Though you could not change what has been set in motion, you will recover in time."

Mileethus’ breath steadied slightly as he listened, though the knot in his chest remained.

"In time," Melkos continued, his voice quiet yet filled with a deep, otherworldly certainty, "you will rise again. You will recover, and you will have your role in the war to come. But understand this: my appearance here, now, is a sign—a sign that I will not interfere any further."

Mileethus’ brows furrowed as he looked at Melkos, confusion and frustration swirling within him. "But why?" he asked, his voice laced with desperation. "Why won’t you intervene? If you know what’s coming, if you can save them—"

Melkos’ eyes, glowing softly with the ember-red light of untold millennia, shifted downward, as if weighed down by the burden of the universe itself.

"I am forced to wait," Melkos said, the sorrow thick in his voice. "It is not that I do not wish to change things, but that I must not. I have moved the pieces I could, played my part. But now, the world must move forward without me. You, my son, still have a role to play—but not yet. If I were to intervene further, it would alter the balance too greatly. You... would act too soon."

Mileethus’ heart raced, the weight of everything crushing down on him. He stared at Melkos, his mind wrestling with the enormity of what had been said. He had been prepared to lead his people, to protect them from the storms that now loomed on the horizon. But now... he was being told to wait. To watch.

"You must heal," Melkos continued softly, his voice carrying the wisdom of eons. "Your part is not over, Mileethus. But the time is not yet right. The pieces on the board must move... and only then, when the time is perfect, will you be called to play your part again."

The stillness around them deepened, the galaxies above swirling slowly, the waters of the beach calm and serene. Though the weight of the coming storm pressed heavily on Mileethus’ chest, there was also a strange sense of peace—an understanding that, though he could not change what was about to unfold, his role in the future was still vital.

Melkos’ gaze softened, and though the ancient sorrow remained, there was also a glimmer of something else—hope.

"You will rise, Mileethus," Melkos said quietly. "When the time comes, you will rise."

Mileethus closed his eyes, letting the words sink in, the weight of the moment settling deep into his soul. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it carried the strength of a leader who, though wounded, would not be broken.

"I will be ready."

Melkos' ember eyes dimmed softly as he absorbed Mileethus’ resolve. The galaxies above, once swirling and alive with cosmic light, suddenly stilled. Their vibrant motions ceased, as if the very stars were pausing to witness this moment. The world around them didn’t change in its physical form—the endless beach, the infinite expanse of water—but the feeling shifted. A deep, profound serenity blanketed everything, as though the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to unfold.

For a fleeting moment, Mileethus felt it—a pull, subtle but undeniable, tugging at the core of his being. It wasn’t painful, but it carried with it a distant sense of urgency. A call from another place, from another reality. The world of the living, where flesh and bone still held sway. Where duties were left unfinished and promises remained unfulfilled. His thoughts drifted back to Auristi, his beloved wife, and the life that awaited him beyond this strange, ethereal shore. Yet, as quickly as the pull came, it faded, like a dream slipping through his fingers upon waking. The connection was severed, leaving only the stillness of the cosmos reflected in the calm waters before him.

"Why do I feel like... I should wake up?" Mileethus murmured, his voice carrying a weight of uncertainty, laced with an underlying ache for the world he had known. His eyes searched the horizon, looking for something familiar, something that might anchor him back to that life. But all he found was the same quiet serenity, the still beach, the mirrored sky. There was no sign of the chaos he had left behind, only the silence of this in-between place.

Melkos’ gaze remained unwavering, watching Mileethus with an ancient patience. Slowly, with a grace that defied the heaviness of time itself, he took a step forward. The once-dark skeletal form that had loomed over Mileethus began to shift, its sharp edges softening, the oppressive energy that clung to him retreating into the unseen. As if pulled by an unseen tide, the dark energies ebbed away, revealing the silver-white hair of the form Mileethus had first known—the timeless, gentle face that radiated calm understanding. Melkos, now transformed, stood as he had before, a being of ageless wisdom and subtle power.

With the same slow precision, Melkos placed a hand on Mileethus' shoulder. There was warmth there, a grounding sensation in the vastness of the void between worlds.

"You are between worlds," Melkos said, his voice soft but heavy with meaning, as if each word carried the weight of countless lifetimes. There was a sadness to his tone, an ancient sorrow that Mileethus could feel but not fully comprehend. "You felt the pull to return, yes. The life you left behind still calls to you. But since you are mine, you are here. You walk with me now, in this place."

The words hung in the air, and with them, the full realization began to settle on Mileethus. He wasn’t in his body. He wasn’t in the world he knew. He was here, on this beach, standing before the very force that had created him, caught between life and death, past and future. And there was no waking—not yet.

Mileethus’ brow furrowed as he tried to process the weight of Melkos’ words. His confusion deepened, the questions bubbling up to the surface. "So I’m... not waking up?" he asked quietly, his voice tinged with disbelief. "But I thought—"

Melkos’ gaze was steady, unwavering, though his expression softened, a delicate mix of understanding and finality. "The choice to wake or not is not one you make at this moment," Melkos replied, his tone carrying a profound calm. "You stand on the threshold, between the world you knew and the world I guard." There was no doubt in his words, only the assurance of one who had seen countless souls pass through this liminal space.

Mileethus remained silent, torn between the pull of disbelief and the strange serenity that seemed to permeate every inch of the beach. The peace here was undeniable, like the soothing balm of sleep after endless toil, yet beneath it lingered the faint hum of unfinished business. Something was unresolved, and it tugged at him like a half-forgotten dream.

Melkos continued, his voice gentle but imbued with an ageless authority. "But there is another way."

The words hung in the still air, and Mileethus looked into Melkos' eyes, trying to grasp their full meaning.

"Come with me," Melkos said, his voice gentle, yet with the weight of eternity behind it. "Walk with me. Talk with me."

Despite the swirling confusion within him, Mileethus felt an undeniable pull—a subtle but powerful urge to follow. It was as though some hidden part of him, long dormant, knew the path that lay before him. Without waiting for an answer, Melkos turned slightly, the starlit strands of his silver hair shimmering softly, and gestured toward the horizon.

In the distance, at the farthest edge of the beach, stood a figure.

Mileethus squinted, his heart skipping a beat as he tried to make sense of the presence in the distance. The figure stood tall, unmoving, yet the space around it seemed to ripple with a quiet energy. It was Komodren—like him—but different. Older. Something about the figure stirred a deep, ancient familiarity within Mileethus, though he couldn’t name it. It wasn’t someone he knew, yet there was an undeniable connection, as if the figure had always been there in the background of his life.

The galaxies above shimmered, their light dimming slightly, drawn toward the distant figure like the ebb of the tide. It radiated strength, an ancient wisdom that transcended words. Mileethus couldn’t explain it, but it was as though he were looking at an ancestor—someone tied to the very roots of his existence. The pull grew stronger.

"Who is that?" Mileethus asked, his voice a murmur, barely audible against the backdrop of the still waters and endless sky.

Melkos did not answer immediately, allowing the question to linger in the air. The silence between them was heavy, but not oppressive. Finally, Melkos gave a faint smile, the kind that held secrets only time could reveal.

"Come," Melkos said softly, his eyes warm with unspoken meaning. "Meet him."

Mileethus felt his heart quicken as he prepared to follow. The quiet presence of the Komodren in the distance was both comforting and disorienting, like a half-remembered dream or the shadow of a forgotten memory. He didn’t know this figure—not truly—but there was something undeniable pulling him forward. A connection that defied explanation.

Without another word, Mileethus stepped forward, his feet sinking slightly into the cool, soft sand. Each step felt deliberate, like a slow unraveling of something deeply personal. Melkos walked beside him, serene and timeless, his presence a calming anchor in the stillness. The galaxies above swirled lazily, casting soft glows upon the shimmering waters. Time here felt like a distant concept, irrelevant to the moment they now shared.

For a time, neither spoke. The soft crunch of sand beneath their feet and the faint hum of the cosmos filled the quiet space between them. It was peaceful—strangely peaceful, considering the weight of the moment. Then, after a long pause, Melkos chuckled softly, the sound rich with nostalgia.

"Do you remember your parents?" Melkos asked, his tone light yet layered with knowing.

Mileethus blinked, the unexpected question pulling him from his thoughts. "Angolor and Rubil," he said, his voice soft with remembrance. "They were everything to me. They gave me everything I have, everything I am."

Melkos nodded gently, his silver hair catching the starlight as he moved. "They were good and faithful people of mine," he said, his voice reverent. "Especially your mother. Such kindness, such strength. And your father... he had a wisdom that went beyond words, though I doubt he ever fully realized it."

Mileethus’ brow furrowed slightly, the memories of his childhood filling his heart. "They worked so hard," he murmured. "They sacrificed so much to make sure I had a future. To make sure I got my education. They gave up everything."

"And you gave them something in return," Melkos said, his voice gentle, a soft smile tugging at the edges of his lips. "Do you remember that little treehouse you built when you were just a boy?"

Mileethus blinked, the memory bubbling up from the recesses of his mind. "The one made of scrap wood from the yard," he said with a quiet laugh. "It was barely standing. More like a pile of wood leaning against a tree."

Melkos’ smile deepened. "Yes, but to them, it was a marvel. They saw it not for what it was, but for what it represented—the ingenuity, the heart behind it. They were proud, Mileethus, so proud of you. They always knew you were destined for more."

The conversation, light and filled with fond memories, continued as they walked. The peace of the moment seemed to settle deeper into Mileethus’ soul, easing the tension that had been building within him since he’d awoken on this otherworldly shore. And as they walked, the figure in the distance began to draw nearer.

Mileethus glanced toward the Komodren figure again. That sense of familiarity tugged at him once more, stronger this time, though he still couldn’t place it. He didn’t know this figure—he was certain of that—but it felt as though the stranger had been watching him, silently, from across the ages.

As they neared, the galaxies above seemed to swirl more actively, their light bending toward the ancient Komodren like the pull of gravity. The closer they came, the more Mileethus felt that quiet power radiating from the figure. It was as though he were standing in the presence of something—someone—far greater than he could comprehend.

Soon, they were close enough that Mileethus could make out the details of the figure’s face, but the Komodren’s gaze remained fixed on the horizon. He did not turn to greet them. He stood waiting, patient, still. Only when they were almost upon him did the Komodren’s voice reach them, clear and strong:

"I am ready."

Mileethus paused, his heart thudding in his chest as the words echoed in his ears. It was then, and only then, that the Komodren turned, his gaze shifting to meet Melkos and the new arrival.