The End's Embrace

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. It churned and surged against its flow, an impossible reversal that left the Keepers of the River in disbelief.

Custos stood at the riverbank, his blue-green skin glistening with the faint sheen of water vapor rising from the anomaly. His white robes, symbols of the Keeper’s station, rippled in the sudden, unnatural breeze of the river’s rebellion.

“How did this come to pass?” Custos asked. His voice carried a tremor seldom experienced.

The two senior guardians remained steadfast and unyielding in the face of this new upheaval. Being long-lived, they were not to be confused with the immortal deities who shaped or disrupted life across the countless spheres of the Continuum Maximus. They could die like any creature. However, today, they discovered gods could also die.

Their charge, the River Mana, bound the infinite realms of the Celestial Domain, threading through the Cradle of the Void—the center of all things and the sphere they inhabited. The river served as both passage and lifeblood, enabling travel between worlds through the wormhole weavings. From the lush waters of Co’dana to the obsidian skies of Nok, it wove reality into an interconnected web of magic and mystery. Yet the Keepers did not traverse this web. They remained anchored at its heart, eternal guardians of the Cradle.

The current’s reversal left them unmoored.

“The River Mana changes all,” Custos said; his words brought no solace.

Raksha stepped forward, her scarlet scales darkening like embers cooling to ash. Her presence carried the weight of eons. The surrounding air rippled with heat, a lingering memory of her home sphere, Sivorath—a fiery world consumed by its ferocity and reclaimed by the vastness of the universe. She recalled the unforgiving volcanos and seas of lava when she closed her eyes. She missed it. Losing her sphere marked her as the last of the Thalashar, her people extinct. She was no stranger to endings.

Queen Prima Eldora.

The Queen and the River Mana were bound, inseparable in essence and purpose. Eldora was no mere deity; she was the heart of existence, the oldest of the Celestial Domain’s pantheon, excluding her maker. Eldora remained while her fellow gods and goddesses abandoned the spheres, retreating into the unreachable realms beyond the Astral Sea. Her devotion anchored her here, a solitary sentinel ensuring the river’s stability and, through it, the survival of all worlds.

“Did she go with them, I wonder,” Raksha said, her voice cutting through the heavy silence that followed Custos’s question.

The other Keepers lingered at a respectful distance, their unease palpable. None dared to interrupt the exchange between these senior members of their order. Some turned their gazes skyward, where wild clouds bled into the heavens, their purples melding with the azure and black of the cosmos. Others studied the verdant lands surrounding the river.

This was their home, their domain for millennia—a cradle of lush hills, fruit-laden trees, and life that flourished under their watch. They also nurtured various creatures for consumption, tended by servants bound to the Keepers. Some of the servants repaid debts to the spheres of their origin, while the orjanuli—criminals—were spared execution in exchange for a lifetime of servitude.

The atmosphere shifted. The clouds thickened, darkening to a sickly mist that spread across the sky like ink in water. It appeared alive, seeping into the Cradle as if mourning the Queen’s absence.

“The sky darkens. It understands she is gone,” Custos said, unease creeping into his tone. He lingered on the gathering mist, its texture and color unlike anything he’d beheld. “We haven’t left this sphere in eons. The Cradle is all we know. I’ve never seen the clouds take on such a form.”

Though her crimson scales dulled faintly in the dim light, Raksha remained calm. “That’s because this place is dying.”

Custos’s eyes widened in shock. He stepped closer to her, raising his hands to shield the other Keepers from her words. “What in the name of the Celestial Domain are you saying?” he hissed, his voice sharp but quiet.

She turned her molten-gold eyes to him, steady and unwavering. “The darkness is decay,” she said. “Queen Eldora didn’t remain here out of convenience. She stayed because the river depended on her. She wasn’t just overseeing it, Custos. She was the river.”

Custos flinched, disbelief mingling with dawning comprehension. “So we find her,” he said, grasping for a solution. “We bring her back. Restore the balance.”

Raksha shook her head, a grim finality in the motion.

“Why not?” Custos asked, the edges of his calm fraying.

She did not answer immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the torrent, its once-pristine waters darkening with every passing moment. The blackness crept like ink through silk, mirroring the ominous transformation of the clouds above. Raksha’s visage hardened as she spoke.

“The River Mana reversed its flow, Custos. That means she’s dead.”

The words hit him like a tidal wave. He staggered, losing his footing. “How?”

Raksha turned toward him, her expression steady yet shadowed with grief. “What is our purpose as Keepers, Custos?”

He blinked, surprised by the question. “To ensure Queen Prima Eldora’s edicts are upheld and that the River Mana continues to fill the Celestial Domain with its power,” he said, his tone almost mechanical as he recited the words he’d lived by for most of his life.

Raksha shook her head, the red scales of her skin catching the dim, fading light. “No,” she said.

Custos let out a nervous laugh, the sound brittle and strained. “If not, then we’ve all been lied to. That’s the only reason I’ve—”

“You’re right,” Raksha interrupted. “You have all been lied to, Custos.”

He froze, disbelief etched into his features.

“I’ve been here longer than anyone,” she continued. “Eldora confided in me. She said this day might come. Deities can die. Nothing, not even magic, lasts forever.”

Custos struggled to breathe, his mind spinning.

“She told me magic would fade someday,” Raksha went on. “The entire realm would face a darkness it could not withstand. Our purpose as Keepers was never about maintaining the river or her decrees. It was to ensure the magic survives the end. As powerful as she was, even Queen Prima Eldora could not prevent this moment.”

Raksha retreated within memory, recalling a conversation with Eldora.

“Eruveth, the goddess of decay, claims all in the end. It is her immutable and eternal nature to unravel what has been wrought, to dissolve creation into the void from which it came. Among the pantheon, she is second only to Ophalen, the mother of all, who shaped the first sparks of existence with her boundless will.

“Ophalen gave birth to creation, crafting the spheres and threading the River Mana through them like veins through a living being. She wove the Celestial Realm into being, her touch leaving the echoes of life, magic, and light in every corner of the universe. Yet even Ophalen, eternal and all-encompassing, understood creation without end would become imbalanced, so Eruveth was born, not as an adversary but as a counterbalance. Decay is her gift, a quiet inevitability to ensure the cycles of existence would turn unbroken.

“While Ophalen is venerated as the source of all that is, Eruveth is a reminder that all must end. She is no villain in the grand design, though many across the spheres curse her name when her shadow falls over their lives. Her touch is felt in the vine’s withering, the ancient tower’s crumbling, and the last sigh of a dying star. Her influence is as much a part of the natural order as the flow of the River Mana itself.

“Legends speak of the rare times Eruveth walked among the spheres, her presence heralded by skies of ash and whispers of inevitable ruin. She does not create havoc or destruction; she allows what must fade to do so. It is said those who see her are forever changed, for they glimpse the fragility of all things—and, in some cases, find comfort in the release she offers.”

Queen Prima Eldora often spoke of Eruveth in hushed tones. Though the goddess of decay rarely intervened, her shadow loomed over the Cradle of the Void. Eldora understood the delicate balance Eruveth maintained, even as she feared what the goddess’s eventual arrival might signify.

“She claims what is hers,” Eldora once said to Raksha. “When the river reverses course, darkens, and the skies grow still, she has come.”

The wind rose, swirling through the Cradle with a mournful howl. Custos felt its bite, colder than it had ever been. “What... what do we do?”

Raksha turned to him, her eyes glistening—not with fear, but with determination. A single crimson tear slid down her cheek, a brief betrayal of the stoicism she maintained.

“Before the Cradle of the Void is destroyed,” she said, her voice steady despite the world’s trembling, “we must summon the heralds. Awaken them. They will answer the call and unleash the cries of destiny. There is no other way now, Custos. This has always been our true purpose.”

Custos glanced at the other Keepers. Their nervous energy grew, gazes darting between the darkening skies and the blackened river. Several lifetimes of harmony in the Cradle had not prepared them for this. “And the others?” he asked.

Raksha eyed the group. “We’ll give them tasks—mundane things to focus on. They’ll cling to that. It will keep them from panicking.” She reached out and clasped Custos’s hand, her grip firm and grounding. “But we must act before the river reverses its course fully. Once that happens, we’ll be no more.”

“And if the heralds don’t answer?” Custos asked.

Raksha’s expression did not waver. “We won’t have the luxury of finding out, old friend. In this moment, all we have available is the choice to act.”

They shared a long, steady look. Then, without another word, they turned to the others. The two oldest Keepers in the universe shed any trace of doubt or hesitation, their purpose clear.

They assigned tasks with calm efficiency and spoke assurances in soothing tones. The duo quelled worries with practiced ease, though the tension in the air was impossible to erase.

As the other Keepers busied themselves with their appointed tasks, Raksha and Custos turned their focus inward. Together, they began the ancient rites to summon the heralds—a scattered, disparate group across the Celestial Realm bound by prophecy and fate to stand against the encroaching darkness. These unlikely and imperfect individuals were the last hope for preserving the remnants of magic.

The rites required precision, every word of the incantation a thread in the fragile weave of the spell. Their voices intertwined, Raksha’s deep and steady, Custos’s flowing like the rivers of his homeland. The surrounding air grew heavy, pulsing with the strain of the spell as their combined magic drew power from what remained of the River Mana. The corrupted waters glimmered, responding to the call, their light a defiant echo of the life they once carried.

But as they worked, the nature of Eruveth—the goddess of decay—swept through the Cradle. It was not an attack but an inevitable claiming, a silent and remorseless tide. The verdant lands surrounding the river withered. Trees bent under their weight as their leaves blackened and fell. The ground cracked, exposing the fragile web of roots beneath as they turned to ash.

Raksha’s crimson scales dulled, the color leaching from her form with every passing moment, yet her voice did not falter. Custos, too, felt the pull of decay in his bones, the waters of his body struggling against the relentless tide of oblivion. Still, they stayed true, their focus unbroken, their purpose unwavering.

The spell stretched outward, reaching across the spheres of the Continuum Maximus. It sought the heralds chosen by fate, hidden among the countless worlds. The magic strained against the growing entropy, fighting to bridge the distances between realms through the wormhole weavings even as the Cradle crumbled under Eruveth’s unseen hand.

Raksha’s voice grew hoarse, but she pressed on, pouring every ounce of her will into the incantation. The ancient words carried a solemn plea, a cry to those who would awaken and heed the call. Beside her, Custos staggered but did not fall, his blue-green skin now pallid, his white robes stained with the darkened mist rising from the dying river. Decay and oblivion pressed closer, taking the Cradle piece by piece, but Raksha and Custos did not falter. As the shadows of Eruveth’s touch crept over them, draining the spark of life from their forms, they held fast.

They reached out to the heralds with the last of their strength, their voices resonating in the void. The spell, fragile but unyielding, sent its message through the currents of the River of Mana, a call etched into the fabric of magic. And as the Cradle of the Void fell silent, they finished.

For Raksha and Custos, the world of the living was no longer theirs to claim. Their legacy endured as decay consumed their forms—a cry across the spheres, summoning the heralds to rise against the darkness.

The River Mana ran dry, its once-vital currents fading into silence. With its death, the heart of the universe—the Cradle of the Void—ceased to beat. The vibrant lands that had thrived around the river for eons were now barren wastelands, shadows of their former splendor.

Though the other spheres remained unaware, this was the beginning of the end. The river’s absence would ripple outward, slow and unseen at first, like a distant storm on the horizon. But in time, the total weight of its loss would descend upon the Continuum Maximus. Magic would falter, realms would unravel, and the delicate threads binding existence together would fray.

This was no mere shift in power. The slow decline of creation itself was a harbinger of the darkness foretold in whispers and forgotten prophecies.

The river and the Queen were gone, and with them, the light at the center of all things.