The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1815

Chapter 1815: The Last Honor

Rowan followed the gaze of Primordial Time. For the first time since he appeared, he truly looked at Vyraak. There was recognition in his eyes, but no gratitude, no anger. It was the look a sculptor might give a block of stone, an assessment of material and potential. Rowan had picked the right person for his plans.

“The blade found a worthy vessel,” Rowan stated, his tone matter-of-fact. “It required strength, resilience, and a certain… stubborn pride to survive the journey. To find this place when I could not. This blade was forged of my flesh and Will, and very few would be able to wield it.”

The words should have been another blow to Vyraak’s pride. He was a vessel, a tool, confirmed by the maker himself. Yet, hearing it in this chamber, before the map of all things, the sting was lessened.

He was a tool, yes, but one that had been used to knock on the door of a Primordial’s house. There was a dark honour in that.

Xyris’s lips curved into a thin, bloodless smile. “So the great Rowan, who stands alone against the dying of the light, needed a dragon to show him the way home. The poets would feast on such irony.”

“The poets are dead,” Rowan replied, his eyes returning to the map, to the spreading cracks. “Or they will be, if I continue to watch from the shadows. The time for observation is over. The time for battle has begun.”

He stepped forward, towards the great table, his presence causing the swirling galaxies on the ceiling above to slow their dance.

“You have tasted my power and you know that the Primordials within Reality will fall, but the others… The question is no longer if they are coming, Xyris. It is what I build from the pieces that are left. Before I kill you, will you help me build a fortress? Or will you choose to die like the rest?”

Xyris flowered, causing the entire chamber to freeze. “You make quite some bold claims, Eos. Why would you think I would help my executioner?”

Rowan brought both of his hands to his face and imitated tentacles, a surprisingly playful gesture for a being of his power,

“I have been you, Xyris, and I know that separated from your other self, your mind is free of the madness of the Primordials. You know the right thing to do, you understand that the Primordials no longer serve any function but destruction and madness, and a part of you mourns for whatever glory you have lost. Make it right, Xyris. I am your executioner; expect no mercy from me. This is simply me giving the Primordials a chance to stand for something after they have lost everything.”

Xyris went still, so much so that he could have been mistaken for a statue. Finally, he sighed and waved his hand. With that gesture, Vyraak vanished. “He does not need to be here for this.”

Rowan shrugged, “He was under my protection; he would have survived the weight of knowledge.”

“No, he would not have,” Xyris spoke with confidence, “You always tend to overestimate them all. He would have fallen to madness and corruption.”

“No, Xyris, I believe you all underestimate them, for without them, I will not be here. They are weak, yes, but in that weakness is a strength you can never understand.” Rowan smiled in contemplation, “A strength I would have never understood if I were not broken and made a mortal.”

“That may be true, but your core was always different from a mortal, and you might never know the truth of this statement if you use yourself as the basis of judgment. Still, I am not here to bash your belief, because in a manner, I am like you, Eos.”

Xyris pointed, and the wall of the chamber became opaque, allowing them to see through it to the other side, where a man hunched over his task was busy trying to drill his way into this chamber by using his teeth.

As if aware that he had been discovered, the man looked up, and it was the Third Prince, and even though his present state should have made it impossible, he smiled. A truly horrifying sight.

Chewing through the walls of this chamber had dislocated his jaw, giving him the gape of a monstrous snake. His lips were shredded, stretched back in a permanent, silent scream.

His teeth were gone, ground down to ragged, brown stumps level with his gums, and a few shards of enamel, like tiny, wicked diamonds, were embedded in the meat of his cheeks and tongue.

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