Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai braced himself as the scythe swept through the air, slicing deep into the Augur’s unraveling form. He barely had time to process the impact before Avarice appeared beside him, his breath heavy with shock and adrenaline, but his stance steady, his focus sharp. Mordecai met his gaze and exhaled, voice firm, layered with Wrath’s presence.

"And we're going to end this."

Wrath stirred, his energy swelling, his presence thickening like a storm on the horizon. Shadows stretched from Mordecai’s feet, expanding outward, pulsing with raw intent. The ground beneath them trembled as the darkness deepened, a gaping void unfurling just ahead, its surface shifting like something alive. Wrath was coming.

Mordecai glanced toward Ashen and the Augur’s newly formed prison, jagged stone rising in a final act of defiance. His eyes locked with Ashen’s. They weren’t allies, not truly, but for this one moment, there was understanding. The fight between them could wait. He gave a single nod. The scythe snapped back into his grip, drawn to his hand like metal to a magnet, as if it had always belonged there.

The battlefield shifted. The air grew thick. The void itself shuddered.

Then Wrath rose.

His form surged up from the darkness, limbs twitching, his body contorting as he emerged like a specter clawing its way back into the world. His presence was suffocating, undeniable. The battlefield fell into a stunned hush as he stood fully formed, towering and terrible, a nightmarish amalgamation of decay and shadow. Rotted flesh clung to his skeletal frame, his jagged horns twisting like the gnarled branches of a dying forest. Three burning red eyes gleamed from his skull, each one pulsing with the sheer force of his being.

A laugh echoed through the battlefield, deep and fractured, a sound that crawled into the bones of everyone who heard it.

Wrath wanted the Augur to know it had not lost just once, but twice.

"FINISH IT."

Mordecai’s grip tightened around the scythe, the blade humming as it pulsed with energy. Shadows coiled around him, thick and writhing, streaked with golden light as Mercy’s influence bled into Wrath’s power. He swung his arms back, the force building, the weight of their combined existence surging through him. The scythe burned with radiant shadow, dark flames curling along its edge, flickering with something raw and final.

With a single, decisive motion, he swung.

The energy erupted forward, a sweeping ray of golden light and blackened flame tearing across the battlefield. As it passed Wrath, the entity dissolved into its wake, his form bleeding into the attack, merging, carrying his essence within the strike.

It surged toward the Augur—relentless, inescapable, a judgment long overdue.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

As the scythe tore through the Augur’s unraveling form, the battlefield was consumed by an explosion of radiant shadow—golden light streaked with tendrils of black flame expanding outward in a massive shockwave. The very air trembled, reality itself buckling under the sheer force of the strike.

The Augur’s form convulsed, its remaining arm reaching in vain, golden hands upon golden hands folding onto themselves as it came apart, disassembling into layers of unraveling divinity. There was no grand cry, no defiant final words—just an echoing collapse, its essence folding inward like the pages of a book closing for the last time. And then, it was gone.

The Gloomreavers scattered, their wings shuddering as they absorbed the residual energy, their glowing eyes reflecting the blast like mirrors to something beyond mortal comprehension. For a fleeting moment, they hovered, circling as if considering whether to feast further. Then, as if answering some unheard call, they pulled away, their swarms retreating into the storm-choked sky, leaving behind only the devastation they had worsened.

And in their absence, silence fell.

The battlefield stretched, a ruin of broken bodies and scorched earth. The massive crater where the sanctuary once stood remained gaping and hollow, an unhealed wound in the heart of Unity. No sacred structure remained, no divine will reigning from above—only death, dust, and the final remnants of war’s cruelty.

Ashen stood amid the wreckage, his breathing labored, his fists clenched. His gaze swept across the ruin, over the fallen Dinosaurkin warriors, over Hedra’s body in the distance. His chest rose and fell, his rage no longer something he could wield—it was something that burned uselessly inside him, a fire with nothing left to consume. Across from him, Eoghan remained frozen in place, his bow still gripped in his hands, his eyes scanning the bodies, the aftermath, the price they had paid.

Avarice stood wide-eyed, staring at the space where Wrath had been. He had seen him—fully, not just as a force within Mordecai but as something tangible, something real. And now he was gone, his presence lingering only in the aftermath of the strike. Avarice's fingers curled, his mind racing to process what had just happened, the sheer power that had been unleashed, and the terrifying certainty that Wrath had not simply disappeared.

---

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood amid the ruin, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pulls as the battlefield fell into silence. The weight of it all—of the battle, of the victory, of the sheer devastation left in its wake—settled into his limbs like stone. His fur was matted with dust and blood, his clothes torn, his body aching with the deep, slow pain that only came after the fight had ended. The adrenaline still hummed beneath his skin, making his hands tremble slightly as he tightened his grip on the scythe. The weapon felt solid, warm in his hands, not just a relic of battle but something alive. Ephraim.

He sank to his knees, not out of weakness, not entirely, but because the weight of everything pressed too heavily on him to keep standing. His fingers ran along the surface of the scythe, tracing the intricate, swirling marks etched into the golden metal. His voice came quiet, nearly swallowed by the stillness left behind.

"Ephraim… thank you."

He barely had the strength to say more. He only waited, breath uneven, hoping to feel the shift of magic, to see her form return, to know she was still here, still with him.

In the void, Wrath stirred, basking in the aftermath of what had been his glorious triumph. The Augur had fallen again. It had suffered beneath his power, had unraveled before him, had met its fate exactly as it should. This was victory. This was justice. This was Wrath.

But something was wrong.

For the first time, the sensation of triumph felt off. Not because it was incomplete, not because it was undeserved, but because something deeper, something older, scratched at the edges of his thoughts. A memory long buried but never forgotten.

Nyx had stood victorious once too. And then, she had fallen.

He felt it, like an echo across time, like the past desperately clawing its way into the present. The exhaustion, the way Mordecai trembled, the way he dropped to his knees. Wrath had seen this before, had felt it before, had ignored it before.

His form flickered, shifting uneasily, a tension creeping through his being that felt foreign and unwelcome. He had lost before. He had let himself believe it would never happen again. But here it was, a familiar fear gnawing at the edges of his mind, a possibility he refused to allow.

"Mercy…" His voice rumbled through the void, lower than before, quieter, almost hesitant. "I don’t want to lose this vessel."

He hadn’t said that back then. He hadn’t admitted it when it had mattered. But now, with Mordecai kneeling, the scythe still humming with Ephraim’s energy, his breath shallow and unsteady, Wrath felt something he wasn’t sure he knew how to name.

"Not again."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Mordecai barely had time to react.

One moment, he was kneeling in the ruins of the battlefield, the scythe still clutched in his grip, his breath ragged but steady. The next, everything—everything—was gone.

No wind. No sound. No weight of exhaustion pressing against his bones. Just emptiness.

He tensed instinctively, gripping the scythe tighter, but even the sensation of his fingers wrapping around it felt… distant. Hollow. His own body felt lighter, unanchored, as if he wasn’t entirely there. The battlefield had vanished, and with it, all sense of time, all connection to Wrath, to Ephraim, to anything real.

The world had become a vast, endless white void.

And he was not alone.

They surrounded him.

Figures—no, presences—manifested in the space around him, forming a great and terrible council that should not exist. Wrath stood to one side, his form flickering with unease, his jagged horns tilted downward as he tried to make sense of the sudden shift. Mercy was there as well, but her light did not shine with the same warmth it had moments ago; it was subdued, unreadable, her ethereal form still but tense.

Beyond them, far greater forces loomed.

The Four Elementals sat upon raised seats, their forms shifting and immense, each representing the primal forces that shaped existence. Fire burned with an intensity that threatened to consume the very space around it, flickering with raw, unrestrained power. Water rippled in smooth, elegant waves, endless and unknowable, deep currents of time and consequence swirling within it. Earth was immovable, ancient, the weight of countless generations pressing into its silent, unyielding form. And Air, untamed and unpredictable, coiled in unseen forces, unseen currents, the whisper of inevitability carried in every breath it did not take.

But they were not the only ones.

The Fourteen stood behind them, figures of legend, gods of old, each more terrifying in their stillness than any enemy Mordecai had ever faced. Their faces were unreadable, their forms shifting between memory and presence. They had no need for introductions.

And then, in a voice that carried across eternity, the Fire Spirit spoke.

"Welcome, Goatkin."

Its flames pulsed with each word, burning in hues beyond mortal sight. It did not speak with malice, nor with warmth—it simply spoke, as if the very act of its words was enough to solidify reality itself.

"You stand at the precipice of existence, at the end of one world and the beginning of another," the Fire Spirit continued. "And you have been brought before us to decide what comes next."​

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai's breath came slow and shallow, though he barely felt it. The weight of exhaustion was gone, replaced by something far heavier, something his mind couldn't yet grasp. The vast white void stretched endlessly, and the presence of the entities around him—Wrath, Mercy, the Elementals, the Fourteen—loomed like distant mountains, their silence pressing in on him as much as their words.

His fingers twitched around the scythe, expecting the familiar resistance of its weight, but even that felt distant, hollow. His thoughts twisted, trying to make sense of what had happened, but the words spoken to him echoed too loudly. He swallowed, his eyes fixed on the empty ground beneath him.

"Did… am I dead?" The disbelief in his own voice unsettled him, as if saying it aloud made it real. His breath hitched, the weight in his chest pressing down harder as another thought struck him, cutting through the haze of his own uncertainty. His fingers curled reflexively.

"Is Ephraim safe?" The words came quieter, but firmer, as if the answer mattered more than whatever had just happened to him. He still didn’t look up, unwilling or unable to meet their eyes, his world narrowed down to that one question.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The space around them remained eerily still, as if the very concept of time held its breath. The air was neither warm nor cold, yet heavy with something unseen, something ancient. A presence beyond comprehension surrounded them—watching, weighing.

The Water Elemental spoke first, its voice smooth, carrying the patience of rivers carving through stone. "You are not dead, Ephraim is safe." As it spoke, its translucent, fluid form pulsed with gentle movement, and with a soft wave of its hand, Ephraim stepped forward, solid, whole. The connection between him and the scythe severed, yet something unmistakable still lingered between them.

The Earth Elemental, vast and unshaken, rumbled with the weight of inevitability. "He was supposed to die in this battle." There was no malice in its voice, no judgment—only the certainty of something that had been seen, something that had been calculated.

The Wind Elemental shifted, its presence light and ever-moving, its words dancing like a breeze changing direction on a whim. "Kin are unpredictable, Terra," it murmured, amusement threading through its voice as it countered the Earth’s rigid certainty.

The Fire Elemental burned the moment into clarity, its voice steady and commanding, drawing attention back to the vastness of what surrounded them. "Welcome to the Empyreon, Mordecai. We are the Primordials, and these are the Fourteen, of which you may already know Wrath and Mercy." Its form flickered, radiant and volatile, flames twisting in mesmerizing patterns as it spoke.

There was no room for interruption, no space for defiance. The Primordials had called this meeting, and their will carried the weight of eternity.

"The Primordials have been very impressed with your timeline on Anthroterra," Fire continued, its voice filled with something beyond mere interest.

The Wind Elemental moved again, its tone carrying something unreadable. "A kin shown not only with the ability to wield Wrath… and not only complement its counterpart, Mercy, but to wield both… truly enlightening."

The words settled over the void like an unspoken decree, heavier than any battlefield, more significant than any single life.

The Fire Elemental flared brighter, its shifting form crackling with unseen embers as it turned its focus downward. "Wrath. Mercy." It did not ask, it commanded. "Step forward."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai barely processed the weight of the space around him until the Water Elemental spoke, its voice smoothing over the tension in his chest like a river settling into its course. Ephraim was safe. The words lingered just long enough for him to believe them, but it wasn’t until he lifted his gaze and saw her standing there—whole, steady—that something in him finally eased. His shoulders, tight from battle and uncertainty, loosened just slightly. He didn’t say anything, just held her gaze for a moment, the relief settling in quiet understanding.

The rest of their words pressed down heavier than any exhaustion he had felt on the battlefield. He wasn’t dead, but he was supposed to be. His ears flicked slightly at that revelation, but he didn’t question it, not yet. Not when the vast, unknowable presences before him had already decided his fate once.

His eyes turned to the Fire Elemental as it spoke, its words shaping the air around them with a weight that allowed no interruption, no resistance. He recognized the names, Wrath and Mercy standing as undeniable pieces of something much larger than him, and yet somehow bound to him all the same. When the Fire Elemental called them forward, Mordecai didn’t move, didn’t react. He simply watched, his expression unreadable, not out of defiance, but because there was nothing left to say.

He felt hollowed out, drained beyond anything physical. For once, he was simply listening.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The Water Elemental moved fluidly, its voice carrying the weight of an ocean yet flowing with an undeniable gentleness. "Your kin name," it prompted, the words circling him like a current bending to the shape of a riverbed. "It is Mordecai, yes?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai froze, lingering on it. His kin name. He hadn't spoken it since he left. He killed the Ratkin assessor for speaking his name on accident. He hid it away. He stopped for a moment, looking at Ephraim, then to the Water Elemental.

"No, not exactly." He stopped for a moment and then spoke. "Castiel. Castiel was my name, or I suppose my true name, my kin name. But when I met Wrath that night in my village, when the Sunship had taken over, the night I escaped, I took on the name Mordecai."

He said it, not even remembering the last time he had spoken his own name from his own mouth.

Castiel.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The Water Elemental regarded him with something like quiet approval, the endless ripples within its form slowing, steadying. "An honest answer," it mused, voice flowing like a gentle current. "Few kin would carry the weight of two names, and fewer still would claim both as their own."

The Fire Elemental, whose form flickered with every movement, let out something akin to a low hum, the embers of its presence pulsing brighter. "Names hold power," it said. "To shed one and claim another is a declaration, a severing of the past. But the past does not sever so easily, does it?"

The Earth Elemental, solid and unwavering, shifted in place. "You need not explain why you cast off what was once yours. The Sunship has long plagued your kind—your species." The weight behind the words was undeniable. They did not speak of the Sunship in reverence or fear, but as something known, something understood from the very fabric of history itself. "Their influence has shaped much of the world’s suffering. And your kin bore the worst of it."

Mordecai—Castiel—felt his fingers curl instinctively at the words. The Primordials were not just aware of the suffering his people endured; they acknowledged it. They spoke of it as fact, as history, as something they had watched unfold.

The Wind Elemental’s presence shifted, something almost wistful threading through its ethereal voice. "And yet, despite all that was taken from your people, here you stand. In a place no Goatkin has stood for centuries. That is why we speak to you, Castiel. You are the first of your kind to look upon us in an age."

A pause, the weight of their words pressing like a quiet storm.

"You two are some of the last of your kind. But you do not have to be."
The air within the Empyreon shifted, the presence of the Fourteen stirring in response to the Primordials’ words. Among them, six figures—bright, radiant, imbued with the virtues of creation—reacted first.

Charity was the first to step forward, her voice warm, heavy with emotion. "The last of your kind… but not for long." She spoke not just with hope, but with certainty. "A people who suffered under tyranny, erased by the cruelty of others—it is only right that they be given another chance. That you be given another chance."

Chastity clasped her hands together, her glow soft yet unwavering. "A burden no one should have carried alone for so long," she murmured. "Your kind was not lost by fate, but by force. The world has taken too much from you already."

Temperance bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. "To endure, despite all that has been stripped away, is a testament to will. To resilience. You, Castiel, have not only endured but changed the very tides of history with your choices." Her voice was measured, her words like a steady hand reaching across the divide.

Diligence let out something akin to a firm exhale, nodding with approval. "He has fought for something beyond himself. That alone is enough proof that his kin deserve another chance. Mercy and Wrath, in balance, within one vessel—it is a feat unseen before. Perhaps this is the very balance needed to restore what was lost."

Kindness took a step forward, golden threads of energy weaving between her fingers as if already willing something into being. "To correct an injustice is never a question of should. It is a question of when. The suffering of the Goatkin has gone unanswered for too long."

And then, Humility, with a quiet voice, yet no less firm than the others, spoke. "But we must acknowledge what it would mean to bring them back. To truly restore them—not as echoes of the past, not as remnants bound by vengeance, but as a people who can thrive once more. Castiel, do you understand what you are being offered?"

Their voices rang through the void, an affirmation, a promise. But as soon as the weight of their words settled, the others—the sins, the aspects of excess and self-interest—responded with far less grace.

A scoff came first, sharp and disdainful. Greed. "So this is what it comes to?" he sneered, his golden rings clinking as he folded his arms. "Restoring an entire species because of one kin’s suffering? No. Because of his suffering." His grin twisted with something bitter, something that gleamed like sharpened gold. "You say this is a reward, but all I see is waste. What does it matter? What’s gone is gone."

Lust sighed, almost amused. "You make it sound so poetic, so righteous," she mused, tilting her head. "But let’s be honest, how much of this is truly about his people… and how much of this is about him?" Her lips curled, her words dripping with something unspoken. "Resurrection is not done out of justice. It is done out of desire."

Gluttony rolled his eyes, his presence heavier, indulgent in its resentment. "More, more, more," he muttered. "Always more. Never satisfied with what exists. The cycle continues, because it must. Restoration? No. You only feed an unending hunger."

A snarl echoed from Sloth, his presence languid yet seething. "It is foolish to undo what time itself has cemented. What purpose does it serve to dredge up the past? The dead should stay dead."

Then came Envy, whose voice slithered through the air, laced with venom. "Why should the Goatkin be restored?" she hissed. "Why them? So many have suffered, so many have been wiped from existence, and yet his people are the ones given a second chance? Because he stood in the right place at the right time?"

And finally, Pride. His words came slow, measured, yet brimming with disdain. "You stand before the Primordials, the Fourteen, a moment no kin should ever be granted… and your first thought is your own people?" He let out a low, unimpressed laugh. "That is not humility. That is not nobility. That is the mark of someone who cannot see past his own losses. You are not worthy of this favor."

Their voices clashed in the space between, virtue against vice, creation against stagnation. The balance of the world had come to a standstill, waiting for the answer only one being could give.
The very air in the Empyreon pulsed, a shift in presence that rippled outward from the Primordials. The moment the last of Pride’s words left his lips, the space between existence shook—not with anger, not with raw fury, but with something far greater. Authority.

The Fire Elemental was the first to move, its form flaring violently, heat radiating from its core with a pressure that demanded submission. The surrounding light bent around its presence, casting elongated shadows across the void. "Enough." The word was not shouted, not barked, but commanded, searing through the voices of the Sins like a blade cutting through smoke. "We did not summon you here to bicker over what should have already been undone."

The Wind Elemental exhaled, its presence shifting through the Empyreon like an unseen force weaving itself through the fabric of the moment. It did not burn like Fire, nor press like Earth, nor drown like Water—it moved, weightless but undeniable, threading through the silence left behind by the command that had just fallen upon the Sins.

"You have been told what to do your whole life, haven't you, Castiel?" The question was not sharp, not accusatory, but light as drifting air, settling into the space between them. "You have been burdened by expectation, driven forward by necessity rather than desire. The world has always demanded things of you—your pain, your vengeance, your sacrifice."

A pause, as if the air itself had hesitated.

"But here, today, we are not here to demand. We are here to offer."

The elemental’s presence coiled tighter, the air growing thin as the weight of its words settled. "Your world, your timeline, was already set to fall. Even with your victories, with everything you’ve done, there were only fourteen moons left before the end. Whether by divine hand or mortal folly, the course had already been decided. There was no future, only delay."

It let the truth sink in before continuing, its voice unwavering. "And yet, despite that fate, despite the path that had been written for you, you wielded Wrath and Mercy as one. A balance that should not exist, and yet here you stand, proof that it does. Two things that have always existed in opposition—war and peace, destruction and salvation—now woven into one vessel."

A slow gust of air moved through the void, something contemplative, something knowing.

"There is a solution to all of this. One that does not end in ruin. One that includes you. We do not offer you salvation, Castiel—we offer you a reset." The words lingered in the stillness, the weight of them undeniable. "A chance to begin again. To step beyond the collapse of your timeline, beyond the failures of the past, and into something untouched. You would not be returning to what was, nor would you be cast into what remains. You would be the first to walk into something new."

And then, just as the gravity of that truth settled over them, Lust’s voice slipped in, soft and silken, curling through the air like a lingering whisper.

"Oh, but if we’re talking about a reset," she purred, stepping forward with a slow, deliberate grace, "then wouldn’t it be tragic to start alone?" Her lips curled into something knowing, something indulgent. "You’ve had your fair share of attachments, but why not try something... new?"

Her golden eyes gleamed, mischief flickering in their depths. "I think you’ll find that I make an excellent counterpart."

The Earth Elemental shifted, its presence heavier than the others, more grounded, more final. Where the Wind had moved like an unseen current, and Fire had commanded with raw authority, Earth spoke with the weight of the inevitable. Its voice rumbled through the void, deep and steady, like mountains shifting after centuries of stillness.

"As this is an offer, and not a demand," it began, unyielding yet patient, "we are open to your questions and your wants. Speak them, Goatkin." The way it said the word—Goatkin—carried a gravity that few had ever given it before. Not as an insult. Not as a relic of something lost. But as something real.

The vast presence before him did not move, did not press, only waited as Earth continued, its voice unwavering.

"As it stands, every current living soul from your timeline would be brought into the new world, at the same time; their new stories unfolding. You will not stand in a world alone, nor will you be forced to walk it untouched by those you fought beside, those you bled with, those who still live."

The words settled, unshaken by the swirling opinions of the Virtues or the scorn of the Sins. "We have our confines," Earth continued, "we cannot prevent pain in your world, nor can we erase the same moral inadequacies that drive kin. Conflict, ambition, desire—these things will always exist. The world will not be utopia. But the Goatkin will thrive again. If you wish it, we will return you to your timeline to see its end. That choice is yours."

And then, silence. Not oppressive, not waiting to be filled with yet another decree. It was true silence, the kind that existed not to demand an answer, but to allow one.

The world, its fate, and everything that came after—all of it now rested in his hands.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood there, the weight of their words pressing into him in ways he couldn’t even begin to process. The Primordials, the Elementals, the very forces that shaped existence itself—they were recognizing him, praising him, acknowledging everything he had endured. But Mordecai had never chosen this.

Everything changed the moment the Sunship came. Since then, all he had tried to do was stay beneath notice, to survive in the spaces between power. And yet, time and time again, something larger had pulled him back in, dragging him into the currents of fate. Now he stood here, a mere kin before gods, being offered something beyond even his comprehension. His mind spun, unable to fully grasp the enormity of it all.

And then he started crying.

It wasn’t sorrow. It wasn’t grief. It was something else, something he never thought he would feel—relief. A weight that had settled on his shoulders nearly a century ago had lifted, not entirely, but enough that he could breathe in a way he never had before. They knew. They had seen what the Sunship had done. And they spoke of it as undeniable fact, not as something to justify, not as something to twist.

He didn’t let himself cry for long, just long enough for the weight of it to settle. He wiped his face with his sleeve, taking a deep, steadying breath before forcing himself to recollect. He had questions—he needed answers.

"The Sunship still plagues this world," he said, his voice raw but steady. "Ashen and Liora, still merged as one. What would become of them in this new world? Would they be reborn, or would their rule finally end?" His mind spun with the implications, and the questions kept tumbling out before he could stop them. "And what of age? If we choose this new world, would we be reborn? Would Ephraim already be there, or would I have to find her again? I—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply, grounding himself before his thoughts could spiral further.

For all the relief washing over him, something else crept in. Another choice. Another impossible weight. Another decision with consequences far beyond just himself. He was tired of making choices like this.

His gaze lifted again, this time not with challenge, not with anger, but with something quieter. "Why even destroy the world in fourteen moons?" There was no fury in his voice, no demand—just the genuine, weary question of a man trying to understand something far greater than himself.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The Earth Elemental did not shift, did not speak immediately. Instead, its form stilled, solidifying into something heavier, something immovable. It did not like this.

It did not like the kin crying.

It did not know how to respond to it, so it simply didn’t. A boulder does not react to the rain, only withstands it.

Instead, it remained as it was—unchanging, unyielding.

The Fire Elemental was the first to break the silence, its form flaring brighter, heat radiating outward in slow, measured waves.

"The Sunship spawned of my own failures… our failures," it admitted, the weight of the words heavier than even its flames. "Zealites have pressed against our best efforts, the Sunship being one of them— not unlike the Augur. They are anomalies, deviations of faith twisted into something monstrous. And while we have found a way to omit their existence in this new world, it does not undo the damage they have already caused."

Its embers crackled softly, its voice lowering with something almost like regret.

"Liora will never have existed. Ashen, however, is a kin of soul, not of divinity. He was… unfortunately intertwined with their path. We can see to omitting him as well, if that is your desire. Though you should note that his actions were driven by influence, much like your own. Just in a twisted way."

The words lingered, an invitation for consideration.

The Water Elemental moved next, its form fluid, shifting in a gentle ebb and flow as it spoke. "You will be reborn." The certainty in its voice left no room for question. "And to see to manifesting this connection that Wrath… Mercy… you… and Ephraim have provided, your lives will be made to be intertwined. You will be born among a thriving Goatkin city, a place where your kind will no longer be a forgotten people, but a people who exist, who thrive, who shape the world rather than be erased by it."

It paused, the waters around it rippling outward.

"What you choose to make of that existence is up to you. However, we can offer you two options."

The space between them stilled.

"You may choose to keep your memories of this timeline, to carry the knowledge of what has been, what was lost, what was fought for. Or you may have them removed, to live without the weight of what has come before. But all other kin must forget what they have seen in this timeline. Only you will be given the choice to remember."

Ephraim looked over to Mordecai warily.

And then, the Wind Elemental, who had remained quiet for most of the exchange, spoke at last.

Its voice was not harsh, not distant, but something that carried with it an undeniable truth. "We do not influence the end of a timeline, we only see it." The words carried with them the weight of something final.

"As events have played out in your timeline, your world would have ended in a Frozen Abyss, conjured by magic far more powerful than what the influence of the Fourteen could stop. Avarice’s wheels had already been set in motion. His mind unchanged by the war on the battlefield that day. The world was already lost."

The air in the Empyreon stilled, leaving only the truth behind.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai glanced at Ephraim, trying not to let his own uncertainty show. He reached out, taking her hand in his, grounding himself before looking back at the beings surrounding them.

"How many times has the world been recreated? Will this be the first, or has this happened before—creating a new world, a new timeline?"

He hesitated only briefly before his gaze sharpened. "And what about Avarice? Tell me about his influence."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The Fire Elemental pulsed, its heat radiating outward in slow, measured waves, as if contemplating the weight of Mordecai’s question before finally answering.

"You stand upon the threshold of the Fifth Era," it said, its embers burning with the glow of something ancient. "The world has been reforged four times before now. And though each era begins anew, it is not without the echoes of the ones before it. You are not the first to stand here, to be offered the choice, but you are the first kin to wield both Wrath and Mercy in tandem. That makes you unique. That makes this different."

The Wind Elemental stirred beside it, voice a soft current threading through the space. "The past does not disappear. It lingers, in fragments, in traces woven into the fabric of existence itself. Even those who forget still carry remnants of what was. Some find their way back to truths they were never meant to remember. Some—like Avarice—take what was revealed and reshape their own fate."

A shift, a pause, the currents of power in the Empyreon shifting ever so slightly as Avarice’s name settled between them.

The Water Elemental moved then, its presence fluid, its words measured. "Avarice was never meant to see what he saw. The war against the Augur, the death that followed, the failures of the Elementals who shaped this world—he absorbed it all. Wrath, in his defiance, should never have exposed himself so completely."

A low rumble of acknowledgment passed through the space, Wrath’s presence flickering at the edge of the void.

"But he did. And in that moment, Avarice saw too much. He looked beyond the battle, beyond the war, beyond the suffering of mortals and saw history itself laid bare. He saw that this world was made, that the ones who made it were fallible, and in his anger, in his rebellion, he sought to break the cycle. To freeze the world, to bring it to a standstill so that it could no longer be shaped by the hands of those he deemed unworthy."

The Earth Elemental, ever still, ever unshaken, finally responded. "In his mind, this was justice. A way to deny the cosmic forces their power, to strip the gods of their influence. He saw only failure in the way things had been done. And though his methods were extreme, his instinct was not without truth."

A stillness settled over them before the Fire Elemental picked up the thought, its presence surging forward with renewed intensity. "We have seen every possible branch of this timeline. Whether Avarice is the one to bring about the Frozen Abyss or not, the outcome remains unchanged. If not him, another would have taken his place. The world was already unraveling long before he made his choice—he only accelerated what was inevitable."

The Wind Elemental pulsed once more, carrying the thought to its end. "You might wonder if stopping Avarice would have saved this world. We have seen it unfold countless times, in countless ways, and the end remains the same. The world was not undone by his actions alone, but by the choices of those who came before him. The only true path forward is not in salvaging what is doomed, but in forging something new."

The Water Elemental continued, its voice calm, unwavering. "Which is why this new world must be different. Wrath and Mercy cannot remain complementary forces alone—they must be intertwined, inseparable, a force greater than what they have been. The Fourteen will be changed, not as opposing pieces, but as pairs, bound together in ways they have never been before. Through this, balance will not just be maintained—it will be reforged, stronger than ever."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai took in their words, weighing them carefully before speaking. His voice was steady, not defiant, but firm with conviction. "I won’t deny that the world has fallen into suffering. That war, cruelty, and ruin have shaped it. I have seen it firsthand. I have felt it. I have lived it. But pain is not something to be erased. It is something to be endured, something to be learned from. If you wipe it away, if you reset everything every time it reaches a breaking point, then nothing is ever truly learned."

He let the words settle, his gaze unwavering. "History, no matter how painful, is what allows us to grow. Without it, we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes, falling into the same cycle over and over. You say the world is beyond saving, but how can you know that? I was told I should have died in that battle with the Augur, but yet here I stand. You tell me a new system must be made to merge Wrath and Mercy, but even in a world not built for it, we still made it happen. Wrath and Mercy found each other, despite everything."

He paused, looking at the gods before continuing. "Even in a new world, all things are inevitable. Kin will turn on each other. War will happen. There will always be those who seek power and destruction," he said, turning his gaze to the Fire Elemental. "Because that is kin nature. It is a cycle, a balance." His voice didn’t waver. "Our pain, our scars, our trauma—they shape us. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. But would I have ever been able to do any of this if not for what shaped me?"

Mordecai’s grip on Ephraim’s hand tightened slightly, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence. His gaze softened as he turned toward her, not as a warrior standing before gods, but as the man who had walked beside her through everything. The one who had fought for her, with her, because of her.

"And what of her?" His voice was quieter now, but no less certain. "You praise me for being the one to merge Wrath and Mercy, but that isn’t true. Wrath and I may have reached Mercy, but none of this would have been possible without her. Without the person who stood beside me, without the one who refused to let me face this alone." His gaze flickered between Ephraim and Mercy before settling fully on Ephraim, something deep, something true behind his words.

"You look at me as if I’m the one who shaped this fate, but Ephraim… she is just as much a force in this as I am. Maybe even more." His voice carried something different now, something gentler, something real. "Wrath and I have power. We carry destruction. But Ephraim? She carries something greater. She carries Mercy. Not just as a name, not just as a counterpart, but as a force that binds, that heals. Wrath and I could burn the world down, but she is the one who would make sure something was left standing."

He exhaled softly, his thumb brushing against the back of her hand. "The Augur would not have fallen without her. None of this would have been possible without her. And if you recognize me, if you hold me as something worth listening to, then you must do the same for her. She deserves to be acknowledged. To be seen. Because she is not just someone who happened to be here—she is the reason we made it this far at all."

His hand tightened around hers, steady and sure.

"So she has just as much right to a say in this as I do." He turned to her fully now, as if the presence of gods and celestial beings no longer mattered. As if, in this moment, nothing else in existence could matter.

His voice dropped, softer, just for her. "Ephraim."

The gods had given him choices, had given him power. But she had given him something greater. A reason.

And he would not make this choice without her.

 

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The Empyreon was silent. Not the kind of silence that lingered in uncertainty or hesitation, but the silence of something vast and undeniable shifting into place. A stillness that came not from dismissal, but from reverence.

The Fire Elemental flickered, its embers steady, burning in contemplation. "Pain teaches, yes. And history shapes, yes. But history also buries, does it not? There are those who rise and learn, but there are those who are swallowed by it. How many have suffered under the weight of cycles they did not create? How many voices have been lost before they ever had the chance to shape what comes next?" It paused, the flames shifting slightly before settling again. "We are not so blind as to think creation without hardship is sustainable. We do not seek to erase all that was. Only to remove what festers beyond repair."

The Earth Elemental let out a slow, deep hum, its form shifting, compacting slightly. "But you speak the truth, Goatkin. You and Wrath found Mercy despite the world’s design. That alone gives weight to your argument. We are not beyond listening." It turned, its presence settling over Ephraim now, as if considering her in a way it had not before.

The Wind Elemental stirred, its voice lighter, thoughtful. "Ephraim… The forces that shape the cosmos are rarely kind to those who heal. They are often left behind in stories of war, in tales of power. But you would have us acknowledge her. Not as an extension of you, but as an equal. And you would do so in front of all that governs existence itself." Its form shimmered slightly, its tone shifting into something almost admiring. "Rarely does a warrior step aside so another may be seen. Rarer still does a warrior insist that they were never the hero to begin with."

The Water Elemental raised a hand, the space around Ephraim shifting, the very fabric of reality recognizing her presence, the ripples of existence bending not just to the will of the Primordials but to her own. "Then let it be known," it said, its voice carrying an undeniable weight, as if it were not just speaking words but carving them into the foundation of time itself. "Ephraim. You stand not beside a warrior, but as one of equal claim. Your presence is not coincidence. Your will is not mere consequence."

Mercy, who had remained silent until now, stepped forward, the golden light of her form shimmering with an intensity that had not been there before. She reached out, touching Ephraim’s shoulder—not as a deity acknowledging a vessel, but as something far more personal. "You see the value in what they fail to see," she murmured. "Not just in me. In him. In yourself. And I should have seen it sooner."

Wrath, ever the storm, pulsed beside her, his form flickering between jagged and steady. He did not speak, but for once, he did not deny what Mercy said either.

The Fire Elemental flickered brighter now, addressing them both. "You have spoken with conviction, Castiel. And Ephraim, you have shaped fate in ways even we had not predicted." Its presence swelled, its next words carrying the full weight of cosmic authority.

"Then you will not choose alone."

The Wind Elemental turned its gaze fully upon Ephraim. "Ephraim. Castiel has claimed you as an equal in this decision. Then we will honor that. This choice—this future—is yours as well."

The weight of it settled over them both, the Empyreon watching, waiting.

"What will you decide?"
Ephraim let out a slow breath, steady despite the enormity of what lay before her. She had been listening, weighing every word, every implication, every expectation laid at their feet. The gods spoke of cycles, of balance, of history. But all she saw was repetition.

Her grip on Mordecai’s hand tightened—not in fear, not in hesitation, but in certainty. When she spoke, her voice carried no anger, no defiance. Just truth.

"You keep resetting the world, expecting something new to come of it," she said, her gaze sweeping over the Primordials and the Fourteen. "But every time you do, you are shaping it in your own image. You are tainting it with your influence, bending it toward your expectations, deciding its fate before kin even have a chance to carve their own path."

She inhaled sharply, shaking her head. "And then, when the world inevitably crumbles under the weight of the choices you imposed, you wipe it clean and start over. Again and again. And each time, the kin living in it have no say. No understanding of what came before. No chance to truly change things." Her fingers curled slightly. "How long before this happens again? Before another stands where we do now? If we accept your offer as it is, who’s to say that in another age, someone else won’t be given the same choice? That someone else won’t be standing here, being told their world is beyond saving?"

She turned her gaze to the Wind Elemental, her expression unreadable. "I don’t want to preserve this world as it is. It is broken. But I don’t want a new world shaped by the same hands that have broken it time and time again either. If this is to be a new world, then this must be the final world. No more resets. No more divine interference. No more hands molding existence into what you think it should be."

The air in the Empyreon shifted, the presence of the gods stirring as if the very notion unsettled them. Ephraim didn’t falter.

"The Fourteen should no longer be confined by cosmic law," she continued. "We have already seen that belief alone is enough to manifest divinity. The Zealites proved that. And what does that mean? It means you don’t just exist because of your power—you exist because kin believe in you. And that means the power to shape the world was never truly yours. It was always ours. You just took it for yourselves."

She lifted her chin slightly. "That ends now. If kin choose to invoke you, it will be because they seek you out. Not because you dictate their lives. Not because you will yourselves into existence through belief alone. Wrath and Mercy should not be punished for merging—they did something none of you even considered possible. Something that proves kin have the capacity to evolve beyond your system. That should be celebrated, not condemned."

Her eyes darkened with conviction as she took a step forward. "And artifacts? They’re a relic of a broken system. A shortcut to power that was never earned. A way for the world to create false gods among kin—one that has been exploited for generations. They need to be destroyed. All of them. No more trinkets of ancient power falling into the hands of those who simply happen to find them. Power should be earned. Not inherited. Not stolen. Not granted by luck or lineage."

She exhaled, her voice softer but no less resolute. "But that is only the first step. If kin are to truly claim their own fate, they must not only be freed from divine control, but be given the means to shape their own balance."

Her gaze swept across the Primordials. "I propose a new system. A living balance. Not one dictated by gods, but one forged through experience. Every kin should be born with a blank soul companion—an unformed being, neither virtue nor vice, neither good nor evil. Something that grows alongside them, shaped not by divine will, but by their own choices, their own beliefs, their own desires."

A pause. The tension in the Empyreon thickened, but Ephraim pressed forward.

"This would not be a forced bond. If a kin ignores it, it will remain formless, a silent potential. But those who seek connection, those who embrace the opportunity, will find their companion evolving—becoming something that reflects them, something that complements them, something that challenges them. Not a predetermined force of nature, not an imposed fate, but something that is truly their own. A relationship they must build, nurture, and define."

She turned to Mercy, her voice softening only slightly. "I want to grow with you. Not as something I was destined for, but as something I choose." Then, to Mordecai, "I want you to be able to do the same with Wrath. Not as a vessel, not as an inheritor, but as something earned. Something mutual. Something real."

Her gaze swept back to the gods, her resolve unwavering. "No kin should be locked into a singular fate because of their race, their affinity, or the circumstances of their birth. Balance should not be an arbitrary force imposed from above—it should be something kin cultivate within themselves. A choice. A journey. Not something dictated by gods, but something shaped by the lives of those who live it."

"No more resets. No more cosmic laws deciding who is worthy and who is not. A world where balance is earned. A world where kin are free to carve their own fate— without you deciding it for them."

Silence stretched in the space between them. Ephraim let out a breath, steadier now, as she turned to look at Mordecai. Her voice softened—not in doubt, but in recognition of what this meant.

"I will not ask you to make this decision alone," she said, holding his gaze. "But if this is the path we take, then let it be the final path. No more resets. No more divine control. A world truly left to kin."

Her eyes flickered back to the Primordials, her voice carrying the full weight of her choice.

"That is my answer."

---

Summary of Ephraim’s Proposal​

Ephraim challenges the gods’ cycle of resetting the world, arguing that they have always shaped existence according to their own expectations, leaving kin without true choice or knowledge of past failures. She demands that this new world be the final world—no more resets, no more divine intervention shaping fate before kin can define their own paths.
She proposes several fundamental changes:

1. The Fourteen Should No Longer Dictate Fate – Kin should only invoke the gods if they choose to, not because they are bound by divine law or belief. Wrath and Mercy proved kin could evolve beyond their system, and that potential should be embraced.
2. The Destruction of Artifacts – These relics have been used as shortcuts to power, creating false gods and distorting balance. They should be eliminated so that power is earned, not granted by luck, lineage, or divine favor.
3. A New System of Balance: Soul Companions – Every kin should be born with a blank, unformed spiritual companion—neither virtue nor vice, neither predetermined nor controlled.
   • If ignored, it remains formless.
   • If nurtured, it evolves alongside them, complementing their strengths and weaknesses.
   • This bond is shaped by their own choices, beliefs, and actions, not by external gods or fate.
4. Personal Growth Over Predetermined Roles – Kin should have the opportunity to grow alongside their companions, defining their own relationships with them instead of being assigned a cosmic force. She wants to grow with Mercy by choice, just as Mordecai should be able to grow with Wrath on his own terms.
5. True Freedom for Kin – No kin should be locked into a singular fate due to their race, affinity, or the circumstances of their birth. Balance should be something cultivated internally, not dictated from above.

 

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The Empyreon shuddered.

It wasn’t a physical tremor, not something felt in the body, but a disturbance in the very nature of the space itself. Ephraim’s words did not simply challenge the gods—they undermined their very foundation. It was as if the weight of reality had been momentarily unseated, and the cosmic order rebelled against the idea of being unmade.

Then, the uproar began.

The Outrage of the Fourteen​

Pride was the first to step forward, his presence swelling like a force pressing against the walls of the universe itself. His golden armor gleamed as he regarded Ephraim with nothing but disdain.
"You propose a world without us? A world where we are not gods, but mere... choices? You speak as if kin should dictate existence when it is our existence that dictates them. The world without the Fourteen? Without the virtues? Without the sins?" His voice darkened. "You cannot unmake what we are. You cannot simply cast us aside like old relics of an age gone by. We are existence itself."

Greed let out a sharp, amused scoff, his golden rings clinking as he folded his arms.
"You want to strip away artifacts? To eliminate the gifts that have shaped kings and conquerors alike? Oh, but how convenient it is to preach against power while standing within it. You want kin to earn what they take? Fine. But I will tell you this—power is not about fairness, it is about possession. And those who refuse to take will always be ruled by those who do."

Lust sighed, almost in mock disappointment, her form shifting between ephemeral and solid. "Such a cold and barren world you envision," she purred, tilting her head. "A world where bonds must be forged, where passion is not gifted, but struggled for. You ask kin to fight for what should come naturally—connection, devotion, love. But tell me, what of those who never find it? What of those who live and die without ever unlocking what you have given yourself? Will they be lesser? Forgotten?"

Gluttony let out a low, guttural growl, his presence thick and heavy, like the weight of an inevitable hunger.
"And what if a soul companion never grows? Will they be empty forever? A void inside of them, reminding them of what they have failed to achieve? You remove divine guidance, you strip away artifacts, you remove paths to power—how many kin will suffer in lack instead of in excess? How many will fade away, hollow, never knowing what they could have been?"

Envy hissed, her words slicing through the air like poisoned daggers.
"You think you are different, that you are worthy of rewriting the rules of existence simply because you were in the right place, at the right time?" Her golden eyes burned, her presence crackling with something volatile. "Why should you decide the fate of every kin? You claim they will have freedom, but what of those who do not wish to struggle? What of those who do not wish to earn power, but deserve it by right? Will you cast them aside? You speak of choice, but all I hear is your choice ruling over everyone else’s."

Sloth let out a slow, tired breath, rubbing his temple as if this conversation itself was exhausting to endure. "You ask too much," he muttered. "Kin will not push themselves forward. They will stagnate. Some need to be guided. Some need the certainty of fate. Without gods, without cosmic law, how many will drift through their lives without purpose? You believe in struggle, in personal growth—but not all kin want to struggle, Ephraim. Some want to simply exist."

The Virtues Struggle to Speak​

On the other side, the Virtues—the supposed counterweights to these voices—did not immediately answer. Charity opened her mouth to speak, but hesitation flickered across her golden form, uncertainty bleeding into her light. Chastity looked at Ephraim, then at the Primordials, as if considering what she had just heard for the first time.

Diligence finally spoke, her tone measured but strained. "I do not disagree that effort should be rewarded, that power should be earned, but... what if some are simply not strong enough? What if their soul companion withers? Do we let them suffer because they did not grow enough? That does not seem... just."

Temperance nodded slowly, her glow dim. "I believe in balance, Ephraim, but are you certain this is balance? Will this not create new injustices? Will there not be those who are left behind? This system is untested, unproven. And you would make it the final world?"

Even Kindness hesitated, her hands clasped together as she spoke gently, but not without concern. "I want to believe in this. I do. But... even I fear what could come of it. If this is the last world, and we shape it wrongly, then we have doomed every kin to live forever in a mistake."

And then, Humility, the quietest among them, simply turned to Mordecai and Ephraim with a single question.

"What if you are wrong?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai let Ephraim’s words settle into the vast silence, watching the way the gods shifted, how their presence flickered with uncertainty. He had spent his entire life standing in the shadows of those more powerful than him—be they gods, kings, or warlords. And yet, here he was, beside Ephraim, standing before the forces that shaped existence itself, daring to challenge the way things had always been.

Humility’s question lingered in the air, a challenge in its simplicity.

Mordecai turned his gaze toward them, his voice calm, steady. "What if we’re wrong? Then we will learn." His words did not carry arrogance, nor defiance—just truth. "That is the nature of kin. We do not live in certainty. We walk forward, uncertain, afraid, but we walk forward nonetheless. If you fear failure, then you should understand why we cannot allow another reset. If we fall, we will rise again. If we falter, we will adjust. But we must be allowed to fail. To succeed. To shape our world without your intervention."

He exhaled, looking toward Ephraim now, his expression softening. "Ephraim, even if we go into this new world, even if our memories are erased and we start again, I will always try to find you." His grip on her hand tightened just slightly, reassuring, certain. "I do not know what I will be in that life, nor who I will become. But I know that no matter where I am, no matter who I am, I will always be drawn to you. I will always want to be by your side."

He watched her closely, searching her face for that silent confirmation, that unspoken understanding that had always existed between them. If this was the path they chose, then he wanted her to know—this was not just his decision. It was theirs.

 

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Ephraim's fingers curled against his, grounding herself in the weight of his words. She held his gaze, something deep and unreadable flickering behind her golden eyes, but when she spoke, her voice was soft, steady.

"You always say things like that," she murmured, a small, almost wistful smile crossing her lips. "We'll always find each other, no matter what." Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, a quiet, unspoken gratitude settling in the space between them.

Then, after a moment, her expression shifted—more serious, more certain. She swallowed, exhaling slowly before glancing back up at him.

"If these are our last moments as we are, then… there's something I need to tell you."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai's gaze softened and a flick to his ears. "I'm listening." He said gently.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim exhaled slowly, steadying herself. The weight of everything pressed down around them—the gods, the decision that would reshape existence itself, the unknown waiting ahead. But in that moment, none of it mattered. None of it compared to the way Mordecai looked at her, his grip on her hand warm and certain, his words settling into her like a promise she already knew she would keep.

She swallowed, suddenly aware of the way her heart was pounding. This might be their last moment as them. Whatever came next, whoever they became, the life they had fought for would be left behind. And if she didn’t say this now, she might never get the chance again.

"Mordecai," she said softly, hesitating for only a fraction of a second before shaking her head. "No—Castiel."

She felt him tense at the sound of it, at the name he had long since buried. She squeezed his hand just slightly, grounding herself, grounding him.

"I love you," she admitted.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The Empyreon shifted, a collective disturbance rippling through the divine as if Ephraim's words had sent an unexpected tremor through the very foundation of the realm. The Primordials, ancient and cosmic, did not know discomfort in the way kin did, but something in their vast presence flickered—uncertain, almost recoiling.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s smile was quiet, steady, filled with something deep and unshaken. He had felt it too—that pull, the way their lives had intertwined over and over again, always leading back to this. To her. "I love you too, Ephraim," he murmured, his voice warm with certainty. He didn’t hesitate as he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, holding her there, letting the moment settle between them like something eternal. When they finally parted, it was not with hesitation, not with fear of what came next, but with understanding. Whatever world awaited them, whatever shape their lives would take, this truth would remain.

Wrath, who had been a storm of unease since this began, shifted slightly. His skeletal frame loomed behind Mordecai, but his burning red eyes flickered with something unspoken as he turned toward Mercy. There was fear in him—fear of what came next, fear of what he did not know—but as he watched Mordecai and Ephraim, something in him settled. He exhaled, slow, deliberate, then turned fully toward her, his jagged form relaxing just slightly. He gave her a single nod, silent but firm, as if saying, If they can do this, so can we.

Mordecai finally turned back toward the Empyreon, his fingers still loosely intertwined with Ephraim’s for just a moment longer before he gently let go. His gaze swept across the gods, the Primordials, the vast presence of those who had shaped this existence, and those who would shape the next. His expression was unreadable for a long moment, until finally, he spoke.

"Before anything changes," he said, his voice carrying through the stillness, "before the world shifts and everything is rewritten… I have one more request." He let the silence stretch, his words deliberate, his gaze unwavering. "I wish to speak to Avarice. Alone."

He turned to Ephraim then, knowing she might not like the request, but silently asking her to trust him. This was not about keeping her out. This was about something deeper, something Avarice might not be able to say with anyone else listening. It was not about battle, not about Wrath or Mercy, not about gods or fate.

This was about closure.

 

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Mercy looked at Wrath, a slow, knowing smile curling on her lips as she leaned just slightly toward him. "Wow, even your vessel isn’t loyal… he likes the company of young men?"

Ephraim, to her credit, tried to maintain her composure. She truly did. But a small, barely-contained laugh slipped from her lips, and when Mordecai turned to look at her, she raised her hands in mock surrender.

The Primordials, who had witnessed the rise and fall of entire eras, collectively decided to ignore whatever had just transpired. The Fire Elemental let out a slow, measured exhale.

"Granted."

The Wind Elemental clapped its hands, and reality shifted.

The Empyreon dissolved. The vast presence of the Primordials and the Fourteen fell away, their energy receding into nothingness as Mordecai was pulled from their presence. The world twisted, light and space folding in on itself, and then—

Silence.

Mordecai stood alone in a void, one not unlike the space Wrath had always pulled him into, but emptier. No flickering red eyes. No weight of fury pressing against his spine. Just… stillness.

And then, across from him, another presence materialized.

Avarice.

The fox stood there, blinking, his form slightly translucent, as if he wasn’t quite solid in this place. His ears flicked, his eyes darting around the unfamiliar space before landing on Mordecai.

He stared.

Then he exhaled sharply and muttered, "Oh, great. This is definitely my afterlife....What the hell is going on?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched as Avarice materialized before him, his presence flickering slightly, caught somewhere between real and unreal. The fox’s ears twitched, his sharp eyes scanning their surroundings with wary confusion. His first words—Oh, great. This is definitely my afterlife... What the hell is going on?—carried his usual dry sarcasm, but there was something beneath it, something uncertain.

Mordecai exhaled softly, shaking his head. "No, you’re not dead. Don’t worry… I thought the same thing at first." He took a slow step forward, keeping his voice calm. "This place—it doesn’t exist, but at the same time, it does. It’s outside of everything, frozen in time. Far beyond anything we could ever fully understand." He let the words settle before his gaze locked onto Avarice’s.

"I’ve missed you, Avarice." The words weren’t spoken lightly. They carried the weight of everything that had happened—the battles, the choices, the time that had pulled them apart and shaped them into who they had become.

He studied Avarice, the same council member who had once sought out Silvano to begin this rebellion, the arctic fox who had struggled to find his place in a world that had never offered him one. But Avarice wasn’t the same as when they had first met. Neither of them were.

"The world has changed," Mordecai continued, his voice steady. "And so have you." His eyes flicked over Avarice’s form, recalling the raw surge of ice magic he had seen erupt from him on the battlefield—the strength, the power, the sight he had once lost now fully returned. "You felt it too, didn’t you? That shift. The moment everything turned. Your magic. Your sight. You’re not the same as you were when we started this."

There was no accusation in his tone, only quiet understanding. "So tell me, Avarice… what do you see now?"