For the tenth day straight, the chaos storm swirled outside the walls of Almadyn. Purple-black clouds writhed in twisting streamers, trailing from the sky to rake the ground. Whole forests rotted at their touch; metal rusted, and stone crumbled to sand. With each day it drew closer to the city, a tightening noose.

King Aurelian, third of his name, watched the violet sunset from the roof of the tower. He sat on a simple wooden stool, eschewing his throne as he did the rule of his kingdom. What did it matter? His was the last city standing, and soon there would be none.

How could it end any other way? They had warred with the gods. No matter that they’d nearly won— the outcome could only be victory or destruction.

Six gods lay sealed away, imprisoned by insignificant mortals. All for nothing. To think, he had almost dared to hope…

“Sulking again, I see?” Nicomedes eased himself onto a stool, one hand bracing his crooked back. He set his cane across his knees. “Should I send for some wine?”

The king’s eyes remained fixed on the whirling clouds. The storm-winds whipped at his clothes, chilling him. “I’m not in the mood.”

“It’s just as well,” said the chancellor. “Only a sour vintage pairs with self-pity.”

Aurelian flushed, stung by the rebuke. “And why should we not pity ourselves, when there are none left to pity us? The world is gone.” A constant rumble filled the air, the growl of an angry god.

“Is it?” The old man arched a snowy eyebrow. “Look at the city, Your Majesty. Tell me what you see.”

Aurelian crossed the tower to gaze at the crowded streets below. As the storm devoured the countryside, the smallfolk had huddled into the city— as if walls could shelter them from divine wrath. With them came survivors from across the continent, refugees of every race, until the city filled to bursting.

“I see desperation, squalor. I see bodies heaped on bodies, with nowhere to lie for the crowding. I see people plagued by hunger and disease, praying forgiveness from gods who despise them. When the storm comes for us, it will be a mercy.”

Behind him came the slow shuffle of feet, the click of cane on stone, as Nicomedes joined him at the wall. “Then my aged ears must deceive me, because I thought I heard song. Look again.”

The king did. Music drew his gaze to the great square, where centaur pipes, gnomish fiddle, and lizard drums melded into a bizarre but vibrant medley. The refugees, people who once scorned each other, danced by torchlight around the statues of his ancestors.

“I don’t understand. Why do they celebrate?”

“Because they’re alive. Because they are free. The yoke of the gods is lifted.”

Aurelian snorted and waved at the storm, the fingers of cloud even more sinister in the waning gloom. “Is it now? Have you forgotten Hastur, whose doom approaches us by the day?”

Nicomedes thumped his cane and looked at him sternly; the king shrank from that stare as he had when a child. “Of course not! His yoke is lifted from them who dance in the square, who will not cringe and cower, but I see it still weighs heavy on you. You neglect your duty to the city, to your people, to your family— all to sit on this tower, day after day, feeling sorry for yourself. Be ashamed, Your Majesty.”

The king opened his mouth to speak but found no words. He slumped onto the battlements, defeated. “But why?” he whispered finally. “Why should I bother, when all is ending?”

 “Because,” the old man said, his voice gentler now, “a king must believe. When the torch of hope flickers low, your fire must rekindle it. That is a king’s duty— to see the possibilities, and strive ever toward them.”

Darkness stretched across the city, but in the streets lights flared to life, a thousand sparks blending into one great blaze. The eerie music floated up from the square, a melody woven by rival peoples, enemies brought together by shared struggle. Before they fought the gods, they had for centuries warred with each other.

Yet here, at the end of all things, they danced. 

Aurelian’s weary heart thumped to life. The world wasn’t gone, not yet. The shards of it filled the city below like the many-colored stones of a mosaic. They formed a new picture, an image of the world that could be if only they survived.

Nicomedes placed a hand on the king’s shoulder. “It’s chill out here, lad, and I’m old. I’ll see you in the morning.” He shuffled to the stairs, his cane drumming its familiar, slow tattoo.

“Oh,” he called from the stairwell, “and go see the queen. She misses you.”

King Aurelian, third of his name, remained on the walls a while longer. As he watched the lights dance in the square, he dreamed of a new age free of the gods. He dreamed of the peoples of the world forged, by blood and fire, into one. He dreamed of clawing back, league by league, the wasteland wrought by Hastur’s storm— sowing it with new life. He even allowed himself a tiny smile.

And as the hour approached midnight, he went to see his wife.