The ground screamed.
Every inch of the Maw now buckled, not under weight but under decision—as if the world itself strained to bear the truth of what was unfolding. And above it all, the wound in the sky narrowed, as if holding its breath.
Jack, Lola, Kael, and Nyssa charged together.
The Devourer—calm, terrible, elegant—raised one hand.
A shockwave blasted outward.
Nyssa vanished in smoke. Kael slammed into a cliff face, blades tumbling from his hands. Lola spun mid-air and caught herself in a ring of fire, while Jack rolled to a stop, blade still clutched tight, feet sliding across fractured stone.
The Devourer walked toward him slowly.
"You still think you are new, Jack. That you are something different. But you've been me."
"No," Jack gasped, rising. "I've been broken. But not you."
The Devourer's eyes narrowed.
"I remember the Sundering now," Jack said. "All of it. The Mirror Hall. The First Flame. Aevareth. I remember being cast out—not just by you. By everyone."
The Devourer paused, surprised. "Then you remember why I became this."
"I do," Jack said.
And he charged.
Their blades clashed—not iron against iron, but will against will, the echo of uncounted cycles grinding through their strikes. With each blow, visions flared between them:
—Jack as a tyrant in one life.
—A savior in another.
—The Devourer as a boy, clutching the First Flame's hand before the world turned against him.
—The First Flame, screaming as she bound him in light.
"I was made to end!" the Devourer roared, striking harder. "You made me the villain because you feared my love would undo your order!"
Jack shouted, "No, we made you because we couldn't understand you!"
And then Lola stepped in.
Her voice rang like bells cast from molten fire.
"Varthael il'sar!"
Her hand ignited—not with ordinary magic, but with memory. Her true self. The lost self.
Aelira.
The First Flame, reborn.
A column of fire struck the Devourer in the chest, stopping him mid-strike. He screamed—not in pain, but recognition—as memories surged from him and into her.
Lola collapsed to her knees, shaking.
"I remember everything," she whispered.
Kael limped toward her, bloodied but alive. "What did you see?"
She looked up. "He was never evil. Not at first. The Devourer was born to protect the cycle. He only became twisted when the world refused his mercy."
Jack blinked. "So we really did make him."
"No. I did."
Everyone turned.
The sky was not just mending now—it was rewriting. Light and shadow spun threads through the heavens like a loom of stars. And descending from the center—
Was her.
The true First Flame.
Not a god. Not a being of war. But a figure older than the Devourer himself. Her presence silenced the battlefield.
"You remembered," she said softly, gazing at Lola.
"I did," Lola/Aelira whispered.
The Devourer stepped back. "You were gone. You chose to vanish."
"I chose to give the world another chance," the First Flame said. "Through her. Through Jack. Through all of them."
The Devourer fell to his knees.
The earth shook.
Jack approached him slowly.
"You could end this," the Devourer said, head bowed. "You could destroy me. You always have. You always will."
Jack looked to Lola, to Kael, to Nyssa—who had now returned, one arm limp, but defiant as ever.
And then Jack said:
"I won't kill you."
The Devourer raised his eyes—stunned.
"Because that's the cycle," Jack said. "End and begin. Devour and rebuild. We're not doing that anymore."
The Blade of Echoes hummed in his hand.
He turned it—not to strike.
But to offer.
"Stand with us."
The Devourer stared at the blade.
"You would trust me?"
"No," Jack said honestly. "But I trust this."
He placed the blade between them, and light poured from it—not just light, but voices. Past selves. Past lives. Every Jack who had ever tried. Every failure. Every victory. Every scream.
And then—
The Devourer reached out.
And grasped the blade.
Not as a weapon.
But as a tether.
The darkness inside him shrieked—and began to peel away. Layer by layer, form by form, until what remained was not a god, nor a monster—but a boy. A soul. A broken thing, reaching toward the light for the first time.
The sky wept golden tears.
And the Maw—the endless wound—closed.