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That night, Alaria did not sleep. Sometimes, when inspiration struck Catharsis, she would stay up late with her writings, as happened now. But the bright glow illuminating the night sky made her set aside her writing implements and rush out onto the balcony — ignoring what was happening was certainly not an option, and so the Thanarsian wanted to see the cause of the phenomenon for herself.
In the lenses of her glasses reflected a fantastic symphony of destruction, in the form of a city plummeting swiftly through the skies. There could be no doubt — it was Margel. "Sooner or later it will have to come down," the warrior recalled her own words. But she had not expected it to come down like this. Nor so soon. She had seen in the mysterious city of the sun a threat to those who dwelt on the ground. To expect anything else from a theocracy floating in the clouds, worshipping a cruel sun goddess, would have been naive of her.
But life had a way of surprising, and this "threat" fell before the primitive, by comparison, ground-dwellers. Tisia had managed to survive Ifilla's attack. The shards of Afezeria still clung to life. Even Tezoth, despite its fragmentation and the flames of war threatening to engulf it, managed to stand. But all of them were outdone by the city that had hidden itself from human woes in the celestial expanses, walling itself off from the suffering of others. A city that relied on mighty technology and the mercy of its cruel goddess. But none of that had saved it.
One question remained: "How?" Ifilla? Had she possessed such power, Tezoth would not have stood. The ancient chaos and fragmentation inherent to Margel? Not out of the question. Chaos in closed systems, as is known, only multiplies, finding no other outlet. But there could be something else. Something from without. Something the denizens of the sun city, softened by their own luxury, were not prepared for. The higher you climb, the harder you fall. And the celestial aconites had climbed higher than most — in every sense.
To some extent, this spectacle was a demonstration of strength and power. Margel was not a random victim. Just as a warrior seeking glory and recognition would choose a more fearsome opponent, so too would the other side, wishing to announce itself, strike down the mightiest of modern civilizations. In that case, it would soon have to reveal itself.
Alaria found it hard to deny the beauty of what was happening. There was something mesmerizing about how the last shard of something once great perished in a bright flash. Had she one of Margel's cameras, she would certainly have captured this historic moment. Had she been a painter, the events of tonight would have found their way onto her canvas. Alas, the Thanarsian was distinguished by neither the wonders of scientific progress nor a talent for the visual arts.
But that did not negate the horror of the sight. Thousands of innocent people, who had done nothing to deserve their fate, were living out their final moments. Families that had only just begun their journey were, together with the city, already hurtling toward their inevitable end. Along with them, a culture was dying. The history of the old world was dying. All their achievements, in an instant, turned to nothing.
Though no love for Margel remained in Catharsis's heart — it had always felt to her an unfamiliar and unwelcoming place — she still had a number of warm memories tied to it. Warm evenings at the "Carneol" headquarters, spent cooking and in philosophical conversation. Beata's circus performance, where their whole squad gave it their all. And, of course, their joint stand against Despair, which had threatened to erase the heart of Velfern from the face of Anuzish.
It was somewhat strange to see, after millennia, something you had been ready to give your life to protect meeting its inevitable end. The long span that your heroism had granted it was finally running out. Alaria involuntarily recalled the words from her recent essay, where she had called the immortal guardian, who had witnessed the fall of his civilization, a "warden of dust and ash." And now, more than ever, she realized how close that title was to her — the last living member of "Carneol."
Smiling faintly, Catharsis lowered her gaze to her ring and gently ran a finger across the surface of the stone. Fate had once again made her the final bearer of the memory and legacy of something that had faded into oblivion. Only this time, she had been fortunate enough to witness this epochal moment. But she felt no bitterness or regret — those had long since remained in the realm of the Raven of Dawn. Quite the opposite — the Thanarsian was glad to be alive here and now. And the coming threat, even if it led to her own demise, did not frighten Alaria in the least. In other cultures, the wish to "live in interesting times" was nothing short of a curse. She readily accepted that curse.