The Primordial Record

Chapter 1815: The Last Honor

Rowan followed the gaze of Primordial Time. For the first time since he appeared, he truly looked at Vyraak. There was recognition in his eyes, but no gratitude, no anger. It was the look a sculptor might give a block of stone, an assessment of material and potential. Rowan had picked the right person for his plans.

“The blade found a worthy vessel,” Rowan stated, his tone matter-of-fact. “It required strength, resilience, and a certain… stubborn pride to survive the journey. To find this place when I could not. This blade was forged of my flesh and Will, and very few would be able to wield it.”

The words should have been another blow to Vyraak’s pride. He was a vessel, a tool, confirmed by the maker himself. Yet, hearing it in this chamber, before the map of all things, the sting was lessened.

He was a tool, yes, but one that had been used to knock on the door of a Primordial’s house. There was a dark honour in that.

Xyris’s lips curved into a thin, bloodless smile. “So the great Rowan, who stands alone against the dying of the light, needed a dragon to show him the way home. The poets would feast on such irony.”

“The poets are dead,” Rowan replied, his eyes returning to the map, to the spreading cracks. “Or they will be, if I continue to watch from the shadows. The time for observation is over. The time for battle has begun.”

He stepped forward, towards the great table, his presence causing the swirling galaxies on the ceiling above to slow their dance.

“You have tasted my power and you know that the Primordials within Reality will fall, but the others… The question is no longer if they are coming, Xyris. It is what I build from the pieces that are left. Before I kill you, will you help me build a fortress? Or will you choose to die like the rest?”

Xyris flowered, causing the entire chamber to freeze. “You make quite some bold claims, Eos. Why would you think I would help my executioner?”

Rowan brought both of his hands to his face and imitated tentacles, a surprisingly playful gesture for a being of his power,

“I have been you, Xyris, and I know that separated from your other self, your mind is free of the madness of the Primordials. You know the right thing to do, you understand that the Primordials no longer serve any function but destruction and madness, and a part of you mourns for whatever glory you have lost. Make it right, Xyris. I am your executioner; expect no mercy from me. This is simply me giving the Primordials a chance to stand for something after they have lost everything.”

Xyris went still, so much so that he could have been mistaken for a statue. Finally, he sighed and waved his hand. With that gesture, Vyraak vanished. “He does not need to be here for this.”

Rowan shrugged, “He was under my protection; he would have survived the weight of knowledge.”

“No, he would not have,” Xyris spoke with confidence, “You always tend to overestimate them all. He would have fallen to madness and corruption.”

“No, Xyris, I believe you all underestimate them, for without them, I will not be here. They are weak, yes, but in that weakness is a strength you can never understand.” Rowan smiled in contemplation, “A strength I would have never understood if I were not broken and made a mortal.”

“That may be true, but your core was always different from a mortal, and you might never know the truth of this statement if you use yourself as the basis of judgment. Still, I am not here to bash your belief, because in a manner, I am like you, Eos.”

Xyris pointed, and the wall of the chamber became opaque, allowing them to see through it to the other side, where a man hunched over his task was busy trying to drill his way into this chamber by using his teeth.

As if aware that he had been discovered, the man looked up, and it was the Third Prince, and even though his present state should have made it impossible, he smiled. A truly horrifying sight.

Chewing through the walls of this chamber had dislocated his jaw, giving him the gape of a monstrous snake. His lips were shredded, stretched back in a permanent, silent scream.

His teeth were gone, ground down to ragged, brown stumps level with his gums, and a few shards of enamel, like tiny, wicked diamonds, were embedded in the meat of his cheeks and tongue.

Xyris glanced at Rowan before looking back at the Third Prince, who had begun clawing at the walls with his fingers, causing his fingers to tear away from his hands, and leaving trails of blood behind.

“When my body was shattered to create the foundation of the higher dimension inside this broken realm. I swore vengeance on my siblings. Still, no matter the pain of betrayal and the pain of loss, there was an unexpected benefit: it showed me our curse – my curse. When they saw it, that Evil, ah, the Primordials themselves fled, and they would rather kill me than face the truth that we are all lost, that at the center of our essence is nothing but evil, that Limbo has become our prison!”

Rowan’s eyes widened a bit at this revelation, “So when you were called the Primordial of Time and Evil…”

Xyris chuckled self-deprecatingly, “There was no Primordial of Evil but the curse in our blood. My siblings are blind to it; they would rather look for solutions beyond Origin and play heretical experiments with unknown abominations like you, Eos, and now they have seen the result of our hubris… annihilation.”

Waving his hand once more, the wall of the chamber went dark, but Rowan could still hear the sound of the Third Prince scratching at the walls.

“He never stops,” Xyris whispered, “This evil does not rest, and it takes all of my attention to keep my sanity. Eos, you might believe you are my executioner, but know that I also consider you my savior. I will provide you with everything you need. The Map, my position, and my Origin.”

“There is something you are not telling me,” Rowan slowly said, his eyes watching Xyris like a hawk.

A profound weariness seemed to settle into the body of the Primordial, making the twilight of his robes appear darker, deeper.

“The greatest secret, Eos,” Xyris said, his voice barely a breath, “is that there is no secret. No grand design we were hiding. Only fear. A primordial, childish fear of the dark outside the nursery door.”

He looked up, and his tarnished silver eyes met Rowan’s void-dark ones. Xyris grinned,

“I see so much of her Will inside of you, Eos. Nyxara was many things, but her madness had a purpose. She, more than any of us, was stronger than the curse, and although she could not conquer it, she managed it quite effectively.”

“We never understood the Layer Beyond Origin. We only knew it was there. A reminder that we, too, were created. And that terrified us; alongside our curse, it drove us mad. So we built our knowledge and pursue power, not to protect existence, but to protect ourselves from the knowledge of our own insignificance. You should hurry and collect my Origin Rowan, free from the taint of the curse; it will aid you more than you know.”

Rowan studied Xyris’s face for a long, long moment. The fury that had become a permanent addition to his eyes reduced, replaced by a grim, tragic understanding. He gave a single, slow nod.

“Then your purpose is served.” It seemed this was all he was going to say, but then Rowan hesitated, “You say Nyxara was the strong one, but from where I am standing, Xyris, you were stronger than her. She surrendered to her greed and fell short of her glory, but you… Your Evil stood in front of your gate, not hidden, and you could have chosen to accept it, but you did not… You fought for the last sliver of goodness in the heart of the Primordials. I was willing to wipe all existence of your names, but for you, a Memory shall remain. You are their last honor, Xyris.”

The eyes of the Primordial widened, and then he smiled.

Perhaps it was because Xyris the Silent gave himself willingly, Rowan did not need to use his Altar of Unmaking.

He raised his hand, and there was no blast of energy or flash of light. Rowan simply placed his palm against Xyris’s chest.

And Xyris, the silent, Primordial of Time, the great Observer… ceased.

His form dissolved into nothingness, becoming one with the silent, patient stone. He returned to the stillness from which he had been born.

Rowan could feel the entire Palace of Time beginning to shake, alongside the distant howl of the Third Prince. His eyes, which had a touch of pity, slowly hardened, and a hammer appeared in front of him.

Now this was a target he could not wait to kill.