On a ruined world, through a passage hewn in the last peak standing, rests a dark looking glass older than the star around which the dead world spins. The great slab of volcanic glass sits at the edge of a vast domed chamber. Pale starlight reflects from its polished surface, cast through the oculus in the dome high above. Near the ancient relic skulks a robed figure, lean and slate skinned; a pillar of darkness among the pools of shadow. His eyes of smoldering amethyst are all but hidden within his gold-trimmed hood. On the chamber's opposite edge is a figure hung by his wrists, bound with rings of iron to a crude block of milkstone not much larger than the figure itself. He hangs wounded and bare, his once fine silks lying tattered at the altar's base.
After a long labored breath the hanging man croaks through cracked lips, "No more."
A murderous smile creeps across the dark figure's face and whispered like a viper's hiss replies, "But come now. I have so much more to show you."
Stepping into the light, the robed figure draws the hood back, revealing a hairless face of stone, eyes shifting to a smoldering scarlet, the neck collared by a thick braided torq of bronze. Startled, the hanged man gasps, instinctively jerking his head to the side, shutting his bruised eyes with difficulty. He mouths a silent prayer, desperate to spare himself from his tormentor's gaze.
The stone face clicks his tongue mockingly and sneers. "Despite what the others have told you, you need not look away. Though all I can ever see is death, my eyes alone have no power to grant it."
As he moves silently to the center of the chamber, the robed figure's eyes narrow and raising a hand, gestures to his prisoner. "Open your eyes, soothsayer."
The Anachron strains to turn his head still further and mutters a reply, "They will end you."
Cackling, the robed figure steps forward and declares darkly, "They can no more end me than I could end myself. Why do you think I am here?"
Eyes still shut tightly, the prisoner gathers fragments of his broken pride and musters a rebuke, "You will never set foot on our world, Silus. The Council will see to that."
Silus drops his hand to his sides, clenching both tightly. "The Council? The Council?!" he rages, stepping forward. "The Council is broken and scattered …and their lap dogs, the Anachronos, you so-called Time Mages, are betrayed by your own and now belong to me." Regaining his composure, Silus draws himself up, and after a deep breath continues with a forced calm, "You say I will never set foot on your world but my hands have been at work among you since before you were born."
Each word lands with increasing significance. The face of the prisoner goes slack, though his eyes remain closed.
"Do you think this is the first world I have taken, boy? I have consumed countless others across oceans of time …and each brought me closer to yours." Silus glances down to his upturned hands and speaking half to himself says, "From the moment of my transformation, when I received my terrible gifts, my coming was inevitable. Your end, a certainty. You see, the threads of power all flow from your world. It is the spindle on which all threads are woven. It is the source and by its unweaving so all will be unmade."
Looking up from his hands he clenches them again before raising his right hand slowly, palm outstretched and with words of power, commands, "Now. Open. Your. Eyes."
As each word is spoken, threads of power arc in the air between them like traces of smoke from a burning corpse. As they fade, the Anachron's body convulses, his head turning involuntarily. Cords of muscle raise on his shoulders as he struggles to regain control of his own body, his brows spasming as his eyes are forced open.
"Good. …good." Silus mutters as he gestures from the broken man to the hunk of polished obsidian. "Now… look deeply…" Peering keenly into the black his eyes go wide, a feral smile creeping back across his face. "Do you see?"
As the broken man struggles to force his eyes shut against the words that pried them open, the still black surface of the mirror begins to change. The dome and the sky above fades, the reflection dissolving then erupting in a sea of new stars, still and bright, unoccluded by cloud or sky, unwaveringly brilliant. Silus' eyes narrow and he smiles. From the other side of the glass a shadow moves across the face of the deep, obscuring the glittering starscape.
"Behold!"
Formless shadow resolves into a flurry of thick ropes of jet black flesh, twisting wetly into one another like an orgy of enormous larva pressed suddenly against the great seeing stone from the other side. The largest, spanning nearly the length of the mirror, splits in half, a great eye bursting into view. The misshapen iris flitting its gaze about the room like a ravening predator.
Again Silus speaks, the madness in his voice rising to a howl. "Prostrate yourself and pray that you are made part of Uul's great harvest. For it is on the worlds of the spell born that it feeds and by their blood the way is opened. You are honored by the gift of death. …a gift I myself am denied until the cycle is complete. By the gears of his infernal engine the world will be cleansed and by holy oblivion all shall be remade."
"Once released, Uul shall consume the sundered stone of your world, flatlander, and by its consumption we shall fuel the final ending. Death is ever hungry and with this final act its feast will be complete …and my torment ended. By my will alone oblivion will gorge on all of creation."
Startled from his invective with sudden awareness, Silus turns slowly, his arms outstretched palms raised, addressing the open air. "Hear me watcher, for I sense your prophecy. Observe this future and tremble, my heralds approach. The end is at hand."
…
Stunned, Obin Anvaras, Lord Sovereign of the Time Mages, collapses to the floor of the seer's chamber, the now pearlescent void stone tumbling from his hands to the carpeted floor. The High Magus’ robed acolyte rushes to his fallen master. "My Lord, what did you see?"
Clutching at the young anachron's robes, his eyes reeling, Obin groans, "The future, brother Oleus. The signs are true. He comes." Shuddering, his eyes focus abruptly. Turning and with sudden urgency, he says, "We serve a new master…and must prepare the way."
Collect special Limited NFTs related to this story at https://www.splintertalk.io/nfts/
Credits:
Story: Jeremy Stanton
Editor: Sean Ryan
Narrative Lead: Joey Shimerdla
Character Art (cover): Candycal
Illustrations: Mateusz Majewski
Graphic Design: Tamer Oukour
Voice Acting: David Dahdah
Music / Post-Production: Isaria
Creative Director: Nate Aguila
