Sylwia al’Ashad was the last to arrive at the village, and as she walked among its desolate, burnt down houses, she saw that there was no shelter here anymore. It had been torched. The fire-blackened bones of its past residents were hard not to step on and the ashes that had once been here was now long blown away. Sylwia did not believe in gods, but she hoped that wherever these people were now, they could find comfort among theirs. Then, she remembered: the gods had left.

Perhaps the world truly was forsaken.

At the gates, the war mages tried to slay the invaders, yet they, being strengthened by Aum’s magics, calmly killed all the defenders of the citadel with little effort. Such power was only dreamed of, for most people—and Aum could safely say that he was one of the most powerful people alive.

He entered the citadel and slew everyone inside, leaving Saali for the last. He relished the moment; he approached her throne calmly, a smile plastered onto his dark face, his cruel eyes shining with twisted pleasure as he spoke the words of his cursed spell: “You are mine, and you are dead.”

“No!” Fictorium cried out, as Saali shattered and all was done. “Saali….”

“What is this, Fictorium? Is that… disobedience I sense in your voice? Is that sadness?” Aum asked, turning to them. “Surely you cannot feel so terrible about a woman who sought to stop our every move. Surely there is no way you can empathize with—with a creature such as she.”

“I should have known,” Fictorium said, the runes burnt into their skin coming aglow. “I should have known that you would turn on her. Next, you’ll want to kill him—you’ll want to kill the one who drew me from the darkness, and who raised you. You are twisted; you are vile. The Daemon inside you cannot be allowed to live longer. I—I must kill it.”

“Fool! Your emotions cloud your judgement!” Aum said, watching Fictorium’s magic flow within and without them. “If you try that, you will die as well. You don’t understand the cost of what will happen—and it will not even work.”

“No—I am the most destructive mage in the World—Mithion said as much—I knew as much—” Fictorium burst aflame, a magical aura surrounding them, the twisted corruption hidden within then coming out. As it built, they screamed, a primal fury and horrid outcry of pain, revulsion, and most prominently, fear.

Fictorium was afraid of their son.

They drew all their power, and attempted to cast the Dream-Eater out. It didn’t work.

As Saali did before them, Fictorium shattered into a million tiny pieces, and each piece burnt to ash, which blew away on a magical wind, never to be seen again.

Aum cared not. Fictorium had been foolish. Let them die. This was no matter for Aum; Aum was ultimate, he was the most powerful mage. Now, it was time to find his “father”.

- Arcturus's End

“Forfader,” the lönnmordare said, bowing. The Snow Elven music stopped. The Elves themselves studied the lönnmordare, and one of them, wearing an icy crown that was not the Vinterkrona but something more magnificent, stepped towards him. A melody was played on the ice xylophone, a regal melofy.

“Her Most Icy Highness, Queen Sjalafol the Unmelting,” an Elf called out. “Please bow and kiss the snow in respect.” Every Elf, save the Queen, did so, and now they looked at the foreigners expectantly.

The lönnmordare was the first to try this strange tradition. He felt it very strange, having to kiss the snow. That chilled him even more.

“Greetings, those of you from Lowdown,” Queen Sjalafol said, her voice like ice. She, like all of her people, possessed blue skin and blue eyes, but instead of their white hair, she had black hair, marking her as royalty. “We have not gotten visitors since we retreated to this point. Why are you here?”

“We seek the location of the Staff of Jotun,” Arcturus the Fiftieth said. “With its power we will be able to stop the crisis that plagues the World. As Norr is close to your realm, and it’s been affected, we thought we might tell you about it before we took the Staff.”

At the word Norr, the Elves glanced at Arcturus. Queen Sjalafol said, “Our descendants deny our continued existence, so we are not on good terms.”

“Forfader,” the lönnmordare said again. “My people refuse to acknowledge you as our forfader.”

“Yet you are here, seeking the Staff of Jotun,” Queen Sjalafol said. The lönnmordare noted that the Snow Elves’ breaths left no clouds of mist in the air; their breath was as cold as their surroundings. Sjalafol took three steps forward. “The Staff of Jotun is extremely powerful; only I may look upon it, and only I may touch it. Why do you expect me to grant you access to it?”

“Because we have this,” Arcturus the Fiftieth said, and presented Queen Sjalafol with a heart encased in ice. Though it was completely frozen, it still beat, and glowed with a strange cold energy. The Queen eyed it carefully, then nodded slowly.

“We will exchange treasures; the frost-heart for the Staff of Jotun,” said Queen Sjalafol. “Come.”

Snow Elf Queen Sjalafol walked slowly and gracefully, and the procession of her people, both Arcturuses, and their companions followed. Arcturus the Fifty-first began singing again, much to the dismay of all.

They ventured into a glittering ice palace, but passed all of its magnificence, descending into its frozen depths. The lower the procession went, the less refined the structures were, until it seemed they were walking in hollowed-out tunnels. Then, a massive vault, covered in magical ice, could be seen. Queen Sjalafol approached it, pressed her hands on the frozen door, and spoke her command word, permafrost. Her eyes flashed an iridescent blue. The ice around the door melted, and the door itself sprang open.

“Welcome, most honored visitors, to the Vault of the Snow Queens,” Queen Sjalafol said. Inside was a cold metal room, the walls lined wish shelves containing all manner of treasures. One of these was the Staff of Jotun—this was perfect!

Arcturus the Fiftieth walked up to the glittering Staff, took it, and gave Queen Sjalafol the frozen heart. At the last minute, Arcturus also took the Star and the Wand, the two other treasures which Des had told him of on their ascent.

The Snow Elves bid them farewell in their unique ways, and the group made their long way back down the mountain.

The Frohiqui’in winds carried sand, which covered the lower reaches of the tower. Hanging beside the grand doors at the very bottom were two banners, bearing the sigil of the Archmage—a glowing eye with swirls emanating from it. The banners were Enchanted to show the eyes watching visitors. That enough deterred most from its doors, save for those who truly deserved an Archmage’s assistance.

The tower was fifty floors high, and all floors served their purpose. However, most floors didn’t see much use to anyone but the Archmage, for, to them, they were just decorations or things unworthy of their time.

The only floor most visitors ever got to see was the very bottom one, containing tapestries and rugs, a few bookshelves and boxes of books, and a seating area. This floor was named the miniature library, for there were four library floors. The other three were each stacked on top of one another, together forming the famed Trinity Library which the two rivaling Frohiqui’in mage groups, the Bashrahni and the Azar, could visit and read in. The Library consisted of over a million books, only fifteen percent of which came from this Multiverse. The others were much older tomes, each one documenting the events of the First Multiverse, whether factious, fictitious, or an amount of both.

The very top floor was a special floor. Aside from the impressive floor mosaic, there were also no less than fifty Teleportation platforms arranged in a circle around the center of the room leading to various areas of importance, an area devoted to astrology which contained two telescopes (one was magical), and a throne, beside which was a table with a comfortable pillow for any familiar worthy to be the Archmage’s. The throne was most commonly named the Seat of the Stars, for when one seated themselves in it, their vision expanded so much so that they could See. They Saw everything, and all but the most experienced of Seers couldn’t handle it.

It was this magnificent tower Aum Arcana had once called home, and it was this magnificent tower he was returning to now. He stood in front of the locked doors, grasped the crystal chain hanging near, and pulled. That was the doorbell, and it could be heard resonating throughout every floor, an Enchanting melody of chimes resembling a tune a certain Raven used to hum when he felt homesick for the Unknown.

The doors opened as the bell was heard; Aum entered. Within, he passed everything, concentrating on reaching floor forty-nine. He ascended each silver spiral staircase quickly, using magic to hasten his movement.

On floor forty-nine, he saw what he needed: the most well-stocked, most advanced mages’ lab ever devised. On one wall was a large mirror that, when given a name, would tear a hole in the Fabric of Reality to let one reach the dimension containing that name. Aum could tell it rithic and it’d open a portal to a dimension full of the gemstone. Rorrim’s Mirror of Ytilaer was a very useful device. That, however, was not why Aum was here.

Aum approached the area set aside for scrying. It was walled off by a wood-and-glass divider, and the only way to get past it was with the set of doors in the center. Aum expected them to be locked, but just to be sure, he tried the handle. It worked—what a fool was Mithion to keep his magical devices unguarded.

He took a step back, unsure of why he was doing so. Then—Aum approached the area set aside for scrying. It was walled off by a wood-and-glass divider, and the only way to get past it was with the set of doors in the center. Aum expected them to be locked, but just to be sure, he tried the handle. It worked—what a fool was Mithion to keep his magical devices unguarded.

Wait, Aum thought, that has occurred… twice, and my thoughts were the exact same.

He instinctively retreated a step again—Aum approached the area set aside for scrying. It was walled off by a wood-and-glass divider, and the only way to get past it was—

A Time Loop! Aum realized, and burst free of the spell. It was barely noticeable to all but the trained mage, and its effect…? It placed those it affected into a loop, repeating one or many moments of the past. Some people’s entire lives were stuck in a loop.

That’s how he wants to play this, Aum thought. He cast a protective spell blocking Time magic, then approached the doors again. This time, he was able to open them without repeating the loop. He closed the doors behind him and approached the marble pedestal.

Carved within the pedestal was a hexagonal basin filled with shining water. Aum looked into it and cast the scrying spell, hoping to learn where his not-as-foolish-as-originally-thought father was.

“You assume I leave my own tower undefended?” Mithion challenged, looking directly into the eyes of the scryer. “Intruder, you have been wandering through an Illusion….”

Everything melted away. Aum was standing in the middle of the desert, and the real tower stood not fifty feet away from him.

“Nas’ha-al,” Aum swore, realizing he was paralyzed. The sand swirled around him.

- Arcturus's End

Prologue: Missing gods and broken divinity

Far up, past the clouds, on the tallest peak in the world, there was a point in space where the realms of the divine became one with the realms of mortals. This was the point of ascension, and pilgrims from far and wide had long labored to climb this mountain in order to meditate there. Now, however, the gods were gone, and their divine sparks were faded from the world. No pilgrims came now, which was good for the Snow Elves who lived near the point of ascension.

The world was forever changed, split now between two timelines, both equally distinct and strange. The other timeline mattered not now; only the one where the gods did not exist did.

A twisted energy, though faint, wove its way through everything, changing it, darkening it. It was most concentrated in Frohiqui, where new laws were being put into place by its Judges—of which Aum Arcana was now one.

In an attempt to redeem herself, Aum Arcana had presented herself before her father and the rest of the high Frohiqui’in mages after everything had passed, and formally apologized. Then, she had enlisted in the ranks of the Judges, a noble position sought by many, and, upon donning her hat, she had revealed that she was to be addressed as a woman now.

The efforts to prevent another “Aum-ish” disaster were high, resulting in the Judges passing many new laws on magic, specifically the summoning and ensorcellment of Dream Eaters and other such mind daemons. The Bashrahni and Azar covenants of Frohiqui, in particular, restructured their rules on daemonology to accommodate these new laws, and several proud mind-daemonology experts quickly found themselves struggling to come up with a new field of expertise. Many went underground. A few fled to other parts of the world. Others still took up the arts of illusion and regular daemonology.

One of the fleers from Frohiqui was a young prodigy, a student of mind-daemonology. She was half elf, half Frohiqui’in, and she was of the noble line of al’Ashad, given name Sylwia. She had come to Anhasi, to the city Sandport. From there she had sailed on the Shady Waif to the Realms, and had traveled, alone, from the port of ruined Lightlandia to Dawnbreak. There was a small village there, an isolated community of magically-gifted people, that she and a few other fleers had come to, in hopes that the locals would welcome them and their now-illegal craft.

Sylwia al’Ashad was the last to arrive at the village, and as she walked among its desolate, burnt down houses, she saw that there was no shelter here anymore. It had been torched. The fire-blackened bones of its past residents were hard not to step on and the ashes that had once been here was now long blown away. Sylwia did not believe in gods, but she hoped that wherever these people were now, they could find comfort among theirs. Then, she remembered: the gods had left.