Erynd walked until the scars stopped hurting.
That was how he knew the world no longer needed him the way it once had.
Not healed.
Not fixed.
Simply no longer leaning.
Years passed without announcement.
No prophecies marked the time.
No systems rebooted.
People argued, failed, tried again. Laws changed. Some collapsed. Others endured—not because they were perfect, but because enough people chose them.
The Archivist wrote everything.
Especially the mistakes.
Caelis died quietly.
Old.
Satisfied.
On his grave, there was no title.
Only a line carved by uncertain hands:
He chose, even when unsure.
The Devourer faded last.
Not destroyed.
Spent.
Its final whisper came on a windless night.
You carried them well.
Erynd did not answer.
There was nothing left to carry.
In the end, no one knew when Erynd stopped walking.
Some said he crossed into the uncharted lands beyond the maps.
Some said he simply sat down and became a man again.
Children told a softer version:
That when the world grows too certain, a tired figure with black hair and silver scars passes through history and reminds it to hesitate.
The Archivist closed its final record.
No gods remain.
No rules endure alone.
Meaning persists—because it is chosen.