NOVEL NEXT Chapter 818: Builders
These words had traveled back in time with Damon, carried from the final moments of Valarie Sunwarden before her death.
He was never certain if she had been the original source of them, or if she herself had heard them from someone else, from somewhere long forgotten.
What mattered was that they endured.
And now, spoken again, they had changed something within these children.
Damon was giving advice he refused to use himself.
It was almost laughable, like that one friend who had never dated yet always had the best relationship advice.
Don't cling to the dead.
Don't let despair end you.
Interesting words, coming from someone doing the exact opposite.
Creating meaning forward.
He had lost that.
All while fully intending to die.
Damon knew the right answer. He simply did not believe it applied to him.
Lazarak watched quietly, a soft smile resting on his small face. He understood his role in moments like this.
Gods did not create legacies.
They observed them forming.
He placed a hand over his chest, watching the mortals do what mortals did best.
They lived.
They dreamed.
Lazarak couldn't help but recall something his brother had once told him.
"Gods shape systems. Humans shape meaning."
His gaze drifted to the orange glow of the flames.
'Was that why he became so distant.' he thought of his brother.
Still, the god observed. By all accounts, all three of them were nothing more than children. Their combined time in this world barely reached a century, yet they carried immeasurable possibility.
Lyn bit his lip, looking at Damon. His eyes flickered with a spark of resolve, his glossy dark hair catching the firelight.
"Can we really do something like that."
Damon did not answer immediately. He turned his gaze toward the darkness beyond the fire, where the night swallowed everything whole.
He saw something there.
"You can't see it from here," Damon said quietly, "but there is a hatchling in a tree."
He turned back to them.
"When a hatchling is born, it is bald and weak. It has no feathers. But if it lives long enough, one day it falls from the nest and soars into the open sky."
Sithara tightened her grip on the book, the remains of her father. His pain and gasps still echoed faintly from within.
"Can we hold a funeral for our father," she asked, her voice steady despite the tears still clinging to her lashes.
Damon nodded slowly.
"Yes. You may."
Lyn clenched his fist.
"Can we take his ashes afterward. His body is no more, so we can only cremate what's left."
Lazarak glanced at Damon, who had no intention of stopping them.
"Where do you intend to take his ashes," Lazarak asked gently. "You cannot keep them forever. He must return to the earth."
Sithara nodded, her eyes red as she squeezed the book closer.
"We know. We've decided to bury him in Lysithara."
Damon smiled softly.
So they had decided.
"Lysithara does not exist," he said.
The two siblings reached for each other's hands, gripping tightly.
"It will," they said together. "When we create it. Then we will bury our father."
Fire burned in their eyes. Their voices carried iron resolve.
"We will create something beautiful. The greatest place in the world."
"In Lysithara, it won't matter if you're poor or rich, noble or peasant, human or elf, short or tall, talented or talentless," Sithara continued. "There will be a place for everyone. To learn and to grow."
"A path to forging your own legend," Damon finished quietly. "A legend of tomorrow."
Perhaps no one could know what would grow into a legend capable of changing the world for epochs.
But Damon knew this much.
The greatest of oaks had once been saplings.
And before that, they were ideas and intents.
He passed them the cooked meat from the crocodile monster, urging them to eat. Tomorrow, they would cremate their father.
Later, the two children slept peacefully, exhaustion finally claiming them.
Lazarak sat beside Damon, watching over them.
"Once again," Lazarak said softly, "I am reminded that you have quite a way with words, my friend. I am most impressed."
Damon sighed, shaking his head.
"Not quite. I just wanted them to move on. There is no need to burden them with naive thoughts of vengeance."
"They could have been pushed toward hatred," Lazarak said thoughtfully.
"They would hate everyone," Damon replied. "The world. The gods. It's exhausting, hating like that. Never forgiving. Never forgetting. Nursing every grudge into resentment."
He crossed his arms.
"They'd be worse off."
Lazarak glanced at him.
"Thank you."
Damon frowned slightly.
"For what."
"For changing their fates," Lazarak said, smiling softly. "For giving them a new purpose."
"This world has too many destroyers," Damon replied. "We need builders. And believers."
Lazarak nodded.
They spoke quietly until the glow of morning crept over the horizon. As the sun rose, Damon glanced at the sleeping children and lifted his hand. Shadows surged upward, forming a dense veil that blocked the sunlight from waking them.
He wanted to prepare the funeral site.
Damon carved a tombstone in the same style as Valarie Sunwarden's, working alongside Lazarak to arrange everything. Before they finished, the children woke despite the shadows.
It must have been a strange sight. Towering darkness holding back the sun.
The dawn felt hollow in their eyes, yet it was beautiful. Warm and Gentle.
They placed their father's remains, the book, upon the stone. Lazarak sang a low dirge, his voice carrying sorrow older than worlds.
Damon ignited a torch with a flick of his finger and handed it to Lyn.
The boy stepped forward and placed it against his father's remains. The black flames burned gently, leaving behind only ash.
Standing there, Damon felt an unsettling familiarity.
This place looked too much like the cemetery of Lysithara.
Dawnbreak Hollow.
The thought made him smile faintly.
The children packed the ashes into a magical jar created by both Damon and Lazarak. Damon shaped its body, while Lazarak wove the magic and finer details.
And with that, they sealed their father's remains.
Not as an ending.
But as a beginning.