Prologue

Decay clawed at the edges of the universe, leaving its borders red rimmed and ragged, ground raw by the corroding waves of encroaching entropy.  

A lone witness to the cosmic death throes, Larondis held a silent vigil within his citadel perched upon the lip of reality.  His reality. Ashamed for his role, unwitting though it was, in the onset of this destruction and aware there was no absolution to be had, he did his best to emotionally distance himself from it.

After all, this was but a prelude to the annihilation he would soon unleash.  

He shaded his eyes with the elegant hem of his sleeve as searing bursts of energy, light-years across, gouged lavender clouds of degenerating matter, an avian’s talons ripping through the fatty flesh of its prey.

The destruction was frightening in its scale and finality, yet still presented itself with a grim beauty Larondis couldn’t help but admire.  A flood of unbidden ideas came to him on how best to capture the sight in a series of living flame-reliefs. Despite what he’d become, it eased his mind to know he still possessed the soul of an artist and that the passion to create continued to burn within him.  Once, he’d known nothing else.  

Early in life, his considerable talents had ushered him into the grandest halls of his civilization.  Later they’d led to power unsought and now unwanted. His life had been an unpredictable and winding road leading here to his final destination, transforming him from gentle artisan into the crushing fist of doom.  He sighed at the thought, knowing that despite his misgivings he must accept the change in order for justice to be served.  

A geyser of liquid fire scored the cosmic heavens overhead.  The paroxysm, a result of antimatter sheets rolling across a binary star system, was just another sign of his reality unspooling.  Judging by the estimated distance from him, he guessed it had actually happened nearly two years ago, the light of the inferno only reaching him now.  He bowed his head grimly, wondering how many souls had been engulfed in the blazing turmoil and knew their “deaths” wouldn’t be the end of their suffering.

The worst would be ahead of them, with the dreaded and inevitable resurrection.

For that misery, they had Larondis, their formerly beloved sovereign, to thank.  Desperate to save his people, he alone had upset the balance of existence itself long ago.  Now they were all, every being in his universe, paying the price for what he’d done. The people he had nurtured and bled for, the people he had created for, dwelt forever in a state of eternal pain and smoldering madness, suffering moment by moment, torment by torment, until the end of all time.

And among his people, only he understood the dread truth of just how long that was.

It had been this way since the advent of what they had once foolishly called “The Gift”.    

But in a cruel twist of fate, that gift, a medical miracle he’d found when his race faced extinction from the gnashing teeth of insatiable disease, had unforeseen consequences and had forever destroyed the balance of life and death.  Symmetry could never be reestablished, leaving him with but one choice: wiping the board clean.

He was prepared to do just that, and on a scale Creation had never before witnessed.   This ultimate solution, he knew, would require extreme sacrifice and exact an incalculable toll on his soul, a fact that weighed heavily upon him.  But he’d come to terms with it and was determined to see it through. That alone would grant his people peace. 

The expanding maelstrom shredding the heavens reminded him the time to begin was nearly upon him, loathe though he was to take the first step.

Anxious for a distraction, he took a lightning sculpture from its base in the nearby display case, and studied it closely, comparing it to the rain of energy rending the cosmic expanse outside.  It was heavy in his spidery hands, the very first work he’d ever done in the medium and a tribute to a dear friend now long gone. And though not exactly what he would classify as an exemplary work, he was still proud of the piece.  Rudimentary it may be, but it was still a part of him.  

He closed his eyes and remembered the feel of the tools in his hands, those first awkward moments as he got used to them and how they worked, the smell of the burning electricity imprisoned within the molds, the sheer pleasure of seeing it come to life as he had envisioned it.

If he had a soul, there was undoubtedly a piece of it now breathing within the sculpture.  The pure innocence of the memories it brought back were staggering, reinforcing not only how different he was now, but also how much pain he had endured since he was a boy and apprentice artisan.  There was, unfortunately, no doubt that person no longer existed.

The same could be said for his people.  They were now all but shadows of what they had been, husks forced to live through the agony he had wrought.  Again, that brought him back to the painful truth: nature’s equilibrium had been destroyed, he was solely responsible and there was no way to restore it.  

So now he would push it even further.

“Lord Larondis?”  Rastalian’s voice came from behind him, calm and measured as always, echoing through the deep recesses of the fastidiously kept study.

Larondis opened his eyes with deliberate measure and turned to his servant, “Yes?”  He took a deep breath realizing he was now on the threshold of no return, “You’re here to tell me it’s time to begin, are you not?”

“I’m afraid I am, Lord.”  

Larondis managed a weak smile for his friend and confidant.  “Your punctuality, as always, is deeply appreciated.”

“Yes, Lord.  Although I doubt you truly feel that way today.”  

Larondis always found Rastalian’s voice reassuring in an almost paternal way.  The irony there had never been lost on him. Running a finger over the edge of the lightning sculpture, the energy within crackling beneath his caress, he replied softly, “You’ve never been more right in your life.”  He took a last look at the sculpture and put it back into the case, angling it with care so its facets would catch the light of a nearby luminorb and scatter it across the room.

Turning away for a last look outside where the creeping fingers of death clutched at the interstellar sky, Larondis coldly evaluated the inexorable entropic churn.  Very soon, if his plans proceeded as he hoped, he’d unleash a force to dwarf that power. “Rastalian, you are sure all the necessary preparations have been made?”

The servant nodded, “I am, Lord.  But the question is, are you sure this is what you want to do?  No one would blame…”

Larondis cut him off with a curt wave of the hand, “If you truly think that, you don’t know our subjects as well as you believe.”  He breathed deeply, recomposing himself, “Nor do you want to at this point in time, I assure you.” Turning from the blistering bedlam outside, he put a hand on Rastalian’s shoulder, “I apologize for my rudeness.  But this weighs heavily upon me. No, I am not ready for this. However, I have resolved to undo a great wrong. No matter the price.” He shuddered, “And now the time has come to begin.”

He remembered an old axiom he’d learned about the balance of death and rebirth: From the ashes of destruction, there would always spring a fount of creation.

No.  Not this time.  The possibility simply didn’t exist.  He would see to that. He had no choice.

Closing his eyes he wished for a way to make penance for what he was about to do.  But it was in vain.

If he succeeded...No.  When he succeeded, only damnation would await him.