His turian and krogan squad mates knelt beside him and tried to revive him while yelling incomprehensible words. Until finality overtook them and they rose and charged into the horde with weapons blazing. The battle cries eventually blended into the growing tide of mechanical roars.

He looked back at the sky, staring strenuously through the closing darkness. His only wish now was that he would be considered a worthy warrior and be taken away by Kalros.

Through the drifting ember above him a raven glided gracefully, unmoved by the devastation, and landed on top of a leaning skyscraper. A caw echoed in the air, and as he strained his entire mortal existence to focus, it was not a raven, but a battle-armored asari with jet-black wings.

The asari stood at the edge of the rooftop, her feather flowing in the blowing ash, and she looked over the destruction below in contemplation. She unstrapped an obsidian horn from her belt, lifted it up, and a low ghostly ring resonated across the sky.

And before his dying eyes the sky opened. Golden rays of light shot through the clouds and bathed the landscape in a blinding bloom. Out of the rays poured waves after waves of winged beings. They were species of the galaxy, each armed with everything from spears to rifles to other unrecognizable weapons. They charged and crashed down upon the Reaper forces like driving rain, filling the battlefield in a gush of light as they cut down the horde around him.

The asari put away the horn, and with a flick of her wrist a black katana materialized in her hand. Her wings spread in the wind as she swung the katana high into an aggressive stance and leapt towards the Reaper destroyer, drawing a long trail of frosty mist from the frozen blade before slashing viciously across its glowing red eye.

His arms slumped lifelessly by his sides as he finally closed his eyes at the sight. He was cold from blood-loss, and the sound of battle around him was slowly becoming muffled echos. Until suddenly a harsh voice grunted.

“You aren’t done yet, son!”

He was pulled up roughly by a glowing figure. He squinted, but all he could discern in the light was one of those winged beings in the shape of a krogan, wearing an incredibly old suit of armor.

Her fingers idly trailed the creased parchment as she read the story calligraphed in the book. It was a story of a turian, who was born and raised on Palaven. He was a law-abiding citizen of the Hierarchy, and a loving son, husband, and father. Above all, he was an outstanding soldier, and a strict adherent to the turian spiritual beliefs. The turian traveled the galaxy on a warship, defended his Hierarchy faithfully on countless worlds, and spent almost all of his time on Palaven with his family.

Until one day the Reapers came, and his family was taken from him. He vowed revenge, joined the desperate battle across his home planet and moon, and finally fell on Menae. His comrades rushed him back to the field hospital, crowding around him and praying for him. He laid unconscious on a stretcher under frenzy medics, and slowing faded away to darkness.

The story ended here, and the rest of the page was blank.

She stared at the last sentences and gently picked at the cover of the book, contemplating closing it, before looking out to the light-bathed landscape with a frown. It was a good story, a sad one, and a heroic one. But the story wasn’t complete, not yet anyway.

She looked back to the book and whispered softly, “I‘m sorry, turian, but your time hasn’t come. Your family is waiting for you, I promise.” She smiled, and turned to the next page.