Upon the ashen plains of Tivaria, where the wind howled like mourning spirits and the ground still wept with the blood of the fallen, Randia cradled his dearest sibling in his arms.
Smoke still curled in the distance, curling up like prayers never answered. The echoes of battle had faded, but silence was no peace—it was a cruel, suffocating thing.
The war had taken everything it could.
And all that remained was nothing but a pair.
And even that—Randia could feel—was slipping through his fingers like ash.
"Asmar... don’t talk. Save your strength."
But Asmar, ever the stubborn one, smiled faintly through cracked lips.
"Ran... the blessing persists. Their voices remain the same."
Randia bit his tongue as he adjusted his brother’s weight. His hands, once calloused from sword and spell, trembled with the fragility of a child’s.
Blood soaked through Asmar’s robes, warm and endless, like it could fill the whole plain.
"Stop talking. We can still fix this."
But he knew. Gods help him, he knew.
The healing mantras had failed. The medical incantations did nothing. He had whispered every prayer, recited every forbidden rite, bartered his mana until the veins in his arms glowed like molten iron. Still, Asmar’s life ebbed away.
His heart beat slower now—more like an echo than a rhythm. His skin had taken on that unholy shade of pallor, somewhere between moonlight and death.
Randia pressed his forehead against his brother’s. “Don’t go. Not you. Not after everything.”
Tears came, unbidden. Not loud, not wild—but quiet, steady. The kind of tears that knew death intimately. The kind that didn’t scream—they endured.
"Ah... I see it now," Asmar murmured. "I’ve failed. But... it’s not over yet."
"No." Randia’s voice cracked. "You know that’s not true! It's over, Asmar! We won!"
Asmar’s hand fumbled at his chest, unfastening the necklace he had guarded his entire life—the sacred emblem of the Champion of Ruala, The Goddess of Light. Its chain, once polished to brilliance, was now dulled by time and war, but the crest at its center still pulsed with divine light. Even in his weakening grip, it glowed faintly, as if the gods themselves lingered within it, watching, waiting. This was no mere heirloom—it was a legacy, a burden, and a promise. And now, with trembling hands, he offered it to his brother.
He pressed it into Randia’s hand.
“Won?”
coughed, and this time the blood that followed was not a trickle. It poured—a sudden, violent burst that stained the earth beneath them like spilled wine at a cursed feast.
“There is no victory in war, brother,” he said, his voice worn and unsteady. “Only pain. Only loss.”
His chest shuddered and his breath caught halfway to his lungs, as though each inhalation had to force its way through a body already beginning to fail. He drew in another ragged breath, but even that seemed scarcely enough to shape the words.
“Nevertheless...” he rasped, “you must carry on. All life must pass. And today, I’m afraid, it’s mine.”
"No . . . Please no." Randia clenched his teeth so tightly they ached.
"Work, dammit! Work!" he screamed, pouring the last of his magic into his brother’s body, hands glowing so brightly they shook.
But it was no use.
The light dimmed.
The magic faded.
And his brother was still dying.
Asmar’s eyes fluttered open one last time. He reached out, brushing his fingers against Randia’s cheek with a touch so soft it felt like memory.
He studied his brother's face, and for a moment—just a moment—he frowned.
“Don’t make that face, big guy. You’re sending me off looking like that?”
Randia shook his head violently, words caught in his throat. “I’m sorry, brother. I'm so useless.”
“No, you're not,” Asmar whispered. “Relax. You know there’s no way I can hate you. And I’m sure the others ... they’d understand. They always did.”
His fingers curled weakly into a fist. He raised it slowly and bumped it against Randia’s chest—so soft, so fragile it felt like the wind could break it.
“Be strong, Randia. For the sake of children ... and a brighter dawn.”
"Brother!"
Asmar’s eyes glazed over, but his lips still moved—barely.
“Even the darkest chasm has its light, brother ... May we be reunited in a much kinder world ... Asla gracia.”
And with that, Asmar exhaled.
It was not a sigh, not a whimper. It was peace.
Something rare. Something sacred.
And then—nothing.
His soul, unseen yet unmistakable, rose with that final breath.
The silence that followed was heavier than death. It wrapped itself around Randia like a shroud, pressing on his chest, echoing in his bones.
He didn’t scream.
He didn’t move.
He simply knelt there, arms around the shell of the only person that matters that he failed to save.
Then came the rage.
He cursed the gods and goddesses, the folded and the unfolded fate, and everything in between.
Thus began the path of the ghost of Tivaria—its sole survivor, and its breathing witness.