Oblivion, they call him.

  Well is he named, for he seeks the end of all things. Even himself.

  -Excerpt from Terlat Khal, a text on the Khazath prophecies of the End of Ages

  Alaran Valeo was going to die, and soon. Every time he saw the Talar fighters soaring through the sky above Iral City’s shield, he saw it happen again, and knew it true.

  I should have never gone into that cursed room. He’d known he would find Torment eventually, of course, all men died eventually. But to know exactly when it would happen, and how, and to watch that day creep closer and closer…

  There was a reason, Alaran decided, why mortals were so good at ignoring their own mortality. It was necessary, if you wanted to function.

  At least I’ve found Xanala, now. That was an anchor most did not have. An anchor he had not been given until recently. When he died, he could at least do so with the knowledge he would soon be saved. Already, he’d encouraged the rumors circulating through the city about her; though he hadn’t started them in the first place, he’d made certain to increase them once she’d returned and accepted her role.

  He straightened his red and silver uniform as he made his way through the Grahalan military headquarters, nodding to soldiers who stared at him as he passed. Red and silver. Grahala was the only nation that used red in their national colors, except for the Khazath — if you could even count the Khazath as a nation. The exact reasons for that had been lost to time, but Alaran suspected he knew why.

  Red for Void, silver for Unity. The threat that loomed over them all, and the prophecy that they all hoped would be fulfilled. Together on the same uniform, they showed a contrast. Hope had no meaning without fear. Courage was only courage if there was risk associated.

  A beautiful truth, if a difficult one. Alaran hoped he could live it, in his final days.

  He caught a glimpse of the city outside as he passed a large glass window. The haze was even stronger than it had been yesterday; the buildings were barely silhouettes.

  Yet it was only the beginning of what these people would suffer. Alaran knew he would not be there to guide them through the coming months, and, in a way, that was what he feared most.

  Focus, he reminded himself. Xanala needs you. She must be ready. That is your highest priority. A part of him itched to go meet her at the training grounds; they’d agreed to do more exercises in an hour. First, though, he had to take care of something.

  He turned down a side corridor, and though the soldiers’ eyes followed him, none of them followed him with their feet. The hallway was a clear dead-end, but he walked to the end of it anyway, then burned Ever to hover just slightly in the air, pressing his hand against a groove in the ceiling. As expected, he felt the slightest bit of cold crystal touch his fingertips.

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  He sucked in a deep breath, then Reached, burning all the thoughts he could find. His glow intensified, lighting the entire hallway ablaze. Then he mentally pushed all of that Ever into the crystal.

  The Surge trembled as it absorbed the ethereal energy, and Alaran had to close his eyes as it ate up his glow, becoming a blazing fireball directly in front of his face. It shrieked as it overloaded, unable to contain all of the Ever Alaran had provided it. The air grew hot, and Alaran felt it twisting and churning around his skin.

  Then, he felt a yanking in his gut as he jumped between Realms.

  He stood in complete blackness for a moment, outside of space altogether. Then blue mist flooded into existence around him, an entire sea of it. It churned violently as he appeared in its midst, then gradually slowed to a stop a few moments later. When it had stopped completely, it started to bend inward, coalescing into shapes, then objects. A tile floor appeared underneath Alaran’s boots. White walls appeared at his side, and a ceiling painted with an extravagant mural of the Goddess. A chandelier formed hanging from the mural, crystalline, glowing with soft green lights. A table formed in front of him.

  Alaran ignored the rest of the still-forming details as a man appeared at the table. A man with a face that lacked all emotion.

  It was still unsettling, even after all the time Alaran had now spent around one of the Formless. The man’s eyes held no glimmer, just deadness. His lips, cheeks, and forehead were all perfectly relaxed. He was sitting, and both his legs and his arms were perfectly symmetrical with one another. He twisted his head as he saw Alaran, his expression completely unchanging.

  “Valeo. You have come here. The siege has gotten worse then.”

  Alaran nodded. “That it has.”

  “And you wish me to leave, then.”

  It was not a question, merely a statement of fact. They’re always blunt, Alaran thought. Don’t expect anything else. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t want you anywhere near Iral City when it falls.”

  “And you are sure that this Jadis Larsh will know where to find the Ever Surge?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  The Formless nodded, a robotic gesture, one clearly meant to imitate a signal of emotion, but lacking the fluidity of a human who truly knew it. “Then it is logical for me to flee.” It paused. “Do you have any suggestions as to where I should go, Valeo?”

  Well, at least no argument this time. That was one advantage of working with the Formless — without emotion, they were far more practical than working with, say, an emotionally scarred teenage girl. It had decided to wait to flee the last time he’d spoken to it, but now that the siege had grown more dire, it was willing to cooperate. “I do not know,” he said. “I am contemplating my own way off of the planet right now. My efforts, however, have not yielded much fruit.”

  That was a half-truth. He knew he would die here, at Cyrla’s hand. It had been foretold. But he sure as Torment intended to find a way to get Xanala off world before that happened.

  “I see. That is understandable. I, at least, have the benefit of being able to hide here.” It paused. “I will take your advice, Valeo. You will now return to the physical realm.” The last sentence was spoken as a command, and Alaran immediately obeyed, nodding, then closing his eyes and Reaching for the crystal that had brought him here. The room fuzzed back to mist around him, churning, spinning, until even the mist faded into blackness. A moment later, Alaran found himself dropping to the floor, his knees straining as they struck the cement ground of the hallway where Alaran had hidden the Formless’ Surge.

  The Formless would leave soon, he knew; the creatures did not lie unless it was logical to do so, and this particular Formless knew Alaran well and knew him to be an ally. So, Alaran left. There were still many preparations to make. Things to teach Xanala, things to prepare the Grahalan people for his death.

  He’d always tried to live his life so that, when his death did come, he wouldn’t have any regrets. But he was starting to realize just how futile his attempt had been. No matter how hard you worked, it seemed that, when Torment finally came to your doorstep, you still found yourself wishing for more time.