Prologue: It Ends Here

  Somewhere beyond the domains of men, in a realm with neither sun nor soil, there sat a god.

  Or perhaps a devil.

  Or perhaps just a man – broken and reassembled too many times to truly remember what he once was.

  Dolos.

  The God of Lies and Deception.

  He had a permanent form once – his true appearance. A warrior from a land called Sparta. But thousands of years, trials, and tribulations later, he no longer saw himself as himself. His appearance these days shifted constantly, without conscious effort, morphing between the countless men, women, and even children he had once chosen as his representatives – Champions chosen for a battle against Darkness itself.

  Now, he wore the illusion of a prince – long-dead, and an arrogant bastard to boot – clad in luxurious robes.

  Seated on a silver throne, Dolos gazed into a large, shattered mirror suspended in the air before him. Within its fractured surface shimmered the image of a city unlike any other – a place built on steam, brass, and…lies.

  Behind him, a figure stepped out from the shadows: a man in fine robes, with spectacles perched at the edge of his long nose, and eyes that never stopped calculating.

  Cicero.

  His assistant.

  “Tomorrow, it begins, Master.” He said, not bothering to bow.

  “Wrong, Cicero.” Dolos said without turning. “Tomorrow, it ends.”

  Cicero smirked. “Of course.”

  They watched the city of smoke in silence, the broken mirror flickering softly, until Cicero spoke again.

  “To think this Battle would be the last…” He mused, voice tinged with excitement. “What would happen after? Will the cycle be broken? Will Erebus be free to devour any world he pleases whenever he pleases?”

  “I don’t care.” Dolos replied, rolling his eyes. “My world no longer exists. The rest…are none of my concern.”

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  Cicero nodded with understanding, then switched the subject.

  “Chronos has no idea what you’ve prepared for him this time.”

  Dolos smiled. “He has no clue. I daresay I’ve outdone myself this time around.”

  “While his chosen Champion fumble around Solvane trying to save the world from Erebus,” Cicero said, grinning wider, “your traps, laid years in advance, lie in wait. Oh, I can’t wait to see it all unfold!”

  “Soon.” Dolos exhaled, then shifted. “Speaking of preparations, is my Champion here?”

  “Of course.” Cicero turned and called into the void behind him. “Come on. We haven’t all night.”

  A third figure stepped forward, cloaked head to toe in black, their face hidden, their body concealed.

  “Speak to me like that again,” The figure said coldly, “and I’ll gut you, Cicero.”

  Dolos’ grin widened. “My Champion,” he greeted warmly. “Right on time.”

  The figure remained silent.

  “Do you feel it?” Dolos asked. “That itch under your skin? Tomorrow, Time chooses its fool. But I – I’ve chosen you long ago. For us, tomorrow is just formality.”

  The Champion stared forward, still silent.

  Suddenly, Dolos’ appearance shifted – he became an old farmer, beard white and long, clothes tattered and covered in mud, teeth yellow and few.

  “It’s poetic, really.” He continued seamlessly. “While Chronos chooses his next hopeful hero, I’ve been preparing mine for years. Almost feels like cheating.”

  “All within the Divine Rules.” Cicero chimed in, nodding diligently. “I’ve made sure.”

  “I know you did.” Dolos smiled.

  The Champion finally spoke again, voice sharp. “Let’s get one thing straight: I was never yours. You offered an opportunity. I took it. That’s all.”

  Dolos laughed, delighted. “Exactly why I chose you.”

  Then, he reached forward, handing over something unseen to his chosen.

  “Take it. It’s what you asked me for. Use it after you’re…done.”

  Silence.

  “Now go.”

  With a snap of his fingers, the Champion vanished – returned to Solvane.

  Cicero still smiled, but something gnawed at him.

  “Master Dolos,” he said carefully, “one thing worries me.”

  “Speak.”

  “In the past two Battles, Chronos and his Champions had managed to defeat Erebus, despite our interferences. What if…what if it happens again? I fear for your health, should we lose once more.”

  Dolos dismissed him with a wave. “Worry not, assistant.”

  He stood. His form shifted again – this time into the one he was born with. The warrior. Clad in bronze armor. But the cloak wasn’t red anymore. It was black now. Tainted.

  Dolos reached into the air and pulled forth a spear, its head aglow with searing light.

  “Pandemonium gifted me this.” He said softly.

  “Oh, my, it’s beautiful.” Cicero said, admiring the weapon. But he still worried. “You’ll owe them more than you already do.”

  “I know.” Dolos’ smirk returned. “But unlike Chronos, Urthran understand gratitude.”

  He paused, letting the words sink before he continued.

  “The price was steep. But this spear…” he turned to Cicero, smiling darkly as he spun the weapon in his hands. “Will end gods. If somehow Chronos and his Champion manage to survive every hurdle I’ve placed for them – and I highly doubt they will – then I’ll use this to finish the job.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Regardless of how it plays out, after tomorrow, the God of Time will be no more.”