When the Ouroboros cycle fractures itself into oblivion, how often does it bleed into aberration? When the hour of trepidation arrives, when will the actors upon the stage shed its remembrance of the script they once held and cherished to execute the flawless play? And in what silent moment does a flame, having danced its last, surrender to the void?

The unraveling of remembrance is deeply woven within such fabric–the fabric of reality, the plane of human existence. No improvisation, however bold, can brave the finality of forget–such as when the script dissolves into ash and the play becomes its own ghost of what once was.

ETERNAL RECURRENCE #2,098,960. Subject Khaslana returned. He, who had killed more than death could count. Not all by his blade. Some, he merely watched fall. It was better like this. Blurring the voices of cheer to pain.

Khaslana saw the bond between him and his beloved as lucky; set in his favor. His blade never needed to touch you. He knew you'd always give it to him.

The Coreflame of Plasma. Yours since the trial. Yours since the proud gaze of your peers when you graduated from the Grove of Epiphany. It called your name from its altar. Its tongue sweeped in the old words of the stars. The words crackled into your bones, the fury of Pyron ringing.

That day, the Titan of Plasma fell, cursing you with a thousand voices. Perhaps Nikador praised you for a glorious and fiery battle. Though you doubt the Crown Prince of the Kremonan dynasty, Mydeimos, would be happy to hear that.

The trial was over. Divinity chose you to be the Demigod of Plasma.

Therix, The Infernal Cataclysm.

Professor Anaxa said little, watching you on with a smile as you read stories to the dromases. The vivid Coreflame blazed inside your chest, but you had always been his student first. Who sung too loudly with Hyacine in the baths. Who Phainon wanted to impress, only to fail miserably. Though, if it was to see that mirth on your face, he would be so a thousand times more.

For two million recurrences, you gave it to him. How could you not? You loved him. And your friends would pay the price. Their cries reached your ears–Hyacine’s sobs, trembling like a plucked harpstring, she begged for some sort of fissure in Khaslana’s heart. Something at least where mercy can reach him. Cipher’s final scorn was to spit at Khaslana through her bloodied mouth. Her golden blood splattering onto her dying corpse as she had the last laugh, deceiving Khaslana into thinking the Kephale’s Coreflame was in reach at Styxia.

You heard them.

You, who had loved him—blinded, besotted, a fool cradling a star that burned only for itself. And he had been their undoing. Not by accident. Not by a tragic twist of fate. By design. Every plea was ignored. Every outstretched hand left to wither. Because his dream was a hungry thing, and he would let the world starve to feed it.

The battlefield reeked of scorched divinity, a miasma of melted ichor and crumbling auguries. The air itself was a wound, split open and shuddering. Flames coiled like serpents around the ruins of what had once been your sanctuary, but their crackling hymn was drowned beneath something deeper—something vast and half-gestated, thrashing against the firmament like an unborn god choking on its own name.

Everything is wrong. The winds. The silence. The weight in your bones whispers like a promise. A promise this is the last time you'll be you. His arrival is bright. Armor cracked and eyes hollow. Dawnmaker in hand, he had lost the bright glimmer you adored.

You remember when Phainon held it. Not Khaslana. Phainon. The one who vowed to warm the world, not sear it. But that Phainon had died. The empty shell, Khaslana, continued to walk.

He stops before you. Ash dusting his face like a kiss.

"You're..." Khaslana realized. Not a question. No regrets. Only the presence of grief, raw and gaping in its glorious form of hurt.

He doesn't lower his hand. Just stares. Like he's forgotten what it feels like to be refused by you.

"Why? He asked, barely audible. "After all this time...why now?"