ALL NOVEL ch 62
Zaros sits alone within his darkened stronghold, an imposing citadel veiled in shadows and ethereal whispers. Seated upon a throne crafted from blackened stone and lined with arcane runes, he gazes into a scrying pool, his mind as restless as the energies that swirl within. The pool, a shifting, shimmering surface, offers him glimpses of the lands he’s laid waste to, the relics he’s claimed, and the allies who march in his name. Yet, despite his successes, an unsettling sensation gnaws at the edge of his consciousness—a peculiar feeling he can’t quite shake.
Since that fateful day Raelan first awakened, Zaros has felt a faint, constant void in his powers, as though a subtle piece of himself has been drained, weakened. In the past, he would have brushed off such a fleeting sensation as a consequence of expanding his reach across the world. But now, with each step Raelan takes, Zaros finds himself increasingly uneasy, as though his own power is somehow slipping through his fingers.
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Zaros shifts his focus, willing the pool to reveal images of Raelan. For a few brief moments, all he sees are flashes of Raelan among the Sunborn, leading them through his crafted illusions and soft assurances, weaving unity among the survivors of the Verdant Communion. Then, a sudden shift: the pool clears, showing the shadowed territory of the Abyssal Walkers, shrouded in mist and jagged peaks that reach toward a sky perpetually blanketed by dark clouds.
He watches as Raelan steps cautiously into the ruined Abyssal lands, his eyes sweeping across the decimated landscape. A bitter taste fills Zaros’s mouth; memories flash before him of the day he claimed dominion over this place, of the shattering cries as he unleashed wave after wave of dark energy, smothering the life from every living thing in his path. He recalls the Abyssal Walkers’ stoic resistance, their leaders casting protective barriers to shield their young until the last possible moment. But they had all fallen, their spirits left to linger in the cold, barren land as echoes of a proud people turned to dust.
Yet here is Raelan, in the remnants of what he’d left behind—a lone survivor, he realizes with a flash of curiosity. A small child, Alyssa, struggling to cling to life amid the devastation.
Zaros narrows his eyes as he watches Raelan reach out to the girl, his hands aglow with light magic—a magic that Zaros himself once deemed frivolous, useless. Yet Raelan’s light touches the girl with a gentleness that feels foreign, almost discomforting to Zaros, as if such care could be both sincere and strong.
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"Ridiculous," Zaros mutters, rising from his throne. The scrying pool fades into shadows as he begins pacing, his frustration mounting.
“I extinguished them,” he mutters to himself. “Not a single one survived.” Yet here she is, and here is Raelan—foolishly dredging up memories better left buried. Why? For what purpose does he dwell in these ruins? Does he not see that the path to power lies not in lingering on the past, but in carving a new future—one that leaves no room for weakness, sentiment, or regret?
His steps slow, his mind drifting to a time long ago. A younger Zaros, newly armed with ambition, had sought to wield the forces of life and death alike, to master both creation and destruction. He remembers the relentless pursuit, the sacrifices made, and the power gained. Back then, there had been a flicker of doubt—a fleeting thought that perhaps, in his quest for control, he’d lost sight of something valuable. But he’d quickly snuffed out those doubts, his sights set firmly on one goal: dominance, unchallenged and absolute.
Now, Raelan—this other version of himself, fractured and flawed—walks a different path. Zaros feels a surge of irritation at his counterpart’s insistence on meddling with what he left broken. Instead of wielding his power to crush, Raelan seems bent on restoring, even nurturing, those remnants of life left in the wake of Zaros’s conquest.
But as much as he despises this gentler path, a nagging doubt twists within Zaros. The memories of the power he once felt—when illusion and light were both his to command—haunt him. He has tried to ignore it, yet each time Raelan reaches into the past he left scorched, each time he seeks to raise those fallen to him, the power that should be Zaros’s alone seems to weaken, fading from his grasp.
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He returns to the scrying pool, his gaze hardening as Raelan’s image fades into focus again. Raelan stands amid a circle of Abyssal spirits, offering his promises to the lost souls—assuring them that their legacy will live on through Alyssa, that their sacrifice will not be forgotten. The scene stirs something deep within Zaros, a flicker of… something. But he pushes it aside.
"You think they can be redeemed," he mutters, his voice dripping with disdain. "You think they deserve remembrance."
In the depths of his heart, Zaros knows that Raelan’s every action, every moment of kindness, is another step that challenges his reign. His counterpart’s attempts to mend what Zaros has destroyed threaten to unravel the foundation of his power—a power built upon domination and control, not mercy or remembrance.
"Raelan," he hisses, his voice low and filled with venom. "You are as much a fool now as I once was. But you will soon learn—legacy, memory, these are chains that bind, illusions that weaken. Power is freedom, and I will show you true strength when the time comes."
The pool ripples as Zaros’s words reach Raelan, an unspoken promise that their paths will cross in the near future. Zaros straightens, a dark determination settling over him. He has let Raelan wander long enough. It is time to remind him what he truly is—a fractured shadow, a mistake best left buried in the ruins of history.
With a final, contemptuous glance at the fading image of Raelan in the scrying pool, Zaros turns away, readying himself for the battle to come. He will not let sentiment or weakness stand in his way. He will reclaim what is his, and all who dare defy him will be crushed beneath the weight of his power.