Many Years Later
The Temple of the Last stood dormant, a relic of forgotten worship; its lamps long extinguished, its fabled magic faded from existence. Though the former campgrounds remained, they existed as a quiet outpost—a tourist ground for mourners hoping to reconnect with the afterlife, only to find the towering stairway eroded into the cliff face and the spiritual presence reduced to legend.
For the desperate-hearted, Ravenna’s magic lingered, if only in their imagination, drawing pagans and cross-worshipers alike to kneel upon the sacred grounds where Anneliese had once stood. Their minds’ third eyes opened in prayer toward the haloed outline of blue sky between clouds and mountaintop.
It was a journey befitting an abdicated prince turned wealthy vagrant, one that had become Gideon’s yearly pilgrimage. Though well past his prime, the enduring magic of Bjarke’s broken axe shaft kept his energy youthful.
His arrival followed a solemn ritual. Draped in a heavy bear hide over richly embroidered robes, he left his guards behind and kneeled on the frostbitten ground. Slowly, he removed his gloves, allowing the icy air to bite at his fingers before pressing his knuckles into the rough, unyielding soil. With his head bowed, he offered silent homage to the ceremonial tombstone of Cestmir and Draconian.
A thousand etchings scarred the broad granite slab, crowned by a copper plaque that read:
“Shall each generation born of their sacrifice make their mark upon this stone and pray one day it turns to dust.”
At the base, Gideon placed a small velvet-lined chest holding a single scroll of five names. One by one, he whispered each name aloud, carving a fresh notch into the stone with every utterance.
Beside Draconian and Cestmir’s gravestone stood the fabled phoenix—a stone-carved monument rising from the ashes of a perpetual fire, sustained by the generosity of wayward travelers seeking redemption.
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Gideon added his offering to the flames before whispering the words etched into the sculpture’s base: “May the wrong path be merely the longer journey, and your arrival proof of your transformation.”
A short distance away, crystallized shards lay scattered around the bent and broken head of Bjarke’s battle-axe. No plaque adorned the toppled monument of the controversial figure, but the ground bristled with rusted blades—tributes from warriors who understood and honored their own.
“We’ll get’em next time, big fella,” Gideon murmured.
Then, as though responding to his words, the shattered axe ignited with its signature green glow.
A flicker in the distance caught Gideon’s eye. The axe heightened his senses to the demonic presence, hidden among the endless tundra.
A familiar whisper drifted over his shoulder, soft yet unearthly. “She’s been waiting for you.”
Gideon tightened his grip on the broken shaft, its warmth pulsing against his palm, as the ghost of Ravenna emerged from the mist.
“What’s the child’s name?” he asked.
“Sebastian,” Ravenna replied.
“He gave me something I didn’t know I needed,” he murmured, shedding his bear hide and jewels. He kept only the axe shaft, its warmth anchoring his purpose.
From the distant white, a young albino wolf with blue and hazel eyes emerged—Anyata’s reincarnation, his guide. Together, they vanished into the soft afternoon haze, destined to complete his life’s journey and usher in the next generation of demon slayers.
“You must be proud of yourself and your son,” said Ravenna, turning to the frail but still sharp ghost of Burtrew.
The former foreteller materialized among the gravestones, his trembling limbs carried into the spiritual world. Leaning against Kulum’s gravestone, a faint expression of pride flickered across his tearful visage as he reached for Ravenna.
“I always thought the day I stepped away would mark the end of everything we accomplished,” he said.
“You weren’t wrong,” she replied.
“But I was,” Burtrew admitted. “The future is not mine alone. It changes with every generation, and every generation should make it their own.”
“So... this wasn’t your doing?”
“No,” Burtrew said, his voice tinged with admiration. “But I suspect Weddle had something to do with it. So yeah, I am proud of him.”
Together, they watched Gideon vanish into the endless white, his figure growing indistinct. Ghostly hands intertwined, Ravenna and Burtrew shared one final moment before the last true generation of wizards was swept away with the breeze. Their memory faded into the winds of change, making way for a new era of belief and possibility.