The sword was cold.

Jorah held it gingerly, half-expecting it to start whispering or glowing or turning into another version of Kael just to mess with him. But it didn't. It just sat there — heavy, silent, ancient.

The tavern was empty now. The laughter, the music, even the dragon had vanished. Only the echo of time ticking in the walls remained, slow and patient.

He looked at the blade. "You know," he said quietly, "I really hate being the last one standing."

No response.

Jorah sighed. "Figures."

He slung the sword across his back and walked outside. The world beyond the tavern wasn't a world anymore — just fragments floating in a dark sea of stars. Time had collapsed into shards, little slices of reality spinning around each other like debris from a shattered clock.

One shard shimmered closest to him — a glimpse of a city made of light, Kael's old domain maybe. Another flickered with forests, rivers, laughter. And far away, one burned red, pulsing like a dying heart.

Jorah muttered, "Well, if I were an arrogant god who can't die properly, where would I go?"

The sword pulsed faintly — one heartbeat, soft and blue.

Jorah groaned. "Don't start that spooky nonsense again."

The light pulsed again, stronger this time, pointing toward the red shard.

"Of course it's the creepy one," Jorah said, and stepped forward.

He didn't fall. He slid — through layers of forgotten history, through moments that were never supposed to happen. Each second he passed through whispered fragments of Kael's life: laughter, pain, war, and something deeper — regret.

When his boots hit solid ground, the world around him was crimson twilight. The air shimmered with heat. The sky was a swirl of molten gold, dripping like wax from a broken sun.

And there, standing in the middle of a field of cracked glass, was Kael.

At least… it looked like him.

He was kneeling, head bowed, the Chrono Blade's twin — a darker version — buried in the ground before him. His once-blue mark now burned faint red, like a dying ember.

Jorah approached cautiously. "You look terrible, buddy."

Kael didn't move. His voice, when it came, was hollow. "You shouldn't have followed."

"Yeah, I know. You say that every time. And every time, I ignore you."

Kael's eyes lifted — glowing faintly, unfocused. "This isn't a place for mortals."

Jorah crossed his arms. "Well, good thing I'm not a normal mortal anymore. I've been exploded, erased, and emotionally traumatized enough times to qualify as something else."

That got a faint twitch of a smile from Kael.

"Where are we?" Jorah asked.

Kael looked around at the burning horizon. "The remnants. A place that exists when time gives up. Every god who ever forgot their purpose ends up here."

Jorah frowned. "So… like a cosmic junkyard?"

Kael chuckled softly. "Exactly."

He rose slowly, the motion weary but deliberate. "Lyra was right. I erased myself one version at a time. Every fix, every rewrite — it all stripped away something until there was nothing left but this."

Jorah studied him. "And yet you're still here."

Kael's gaze drifted to the red sun. "Barely. The universe doesn't remember me anymore. Not even the stars say my name."

"Then I'll remember it," Jorah said. "Somebody has to."

Kael looked at him sharply — the first true spark of emotion in his eyes. "You'd do that?"

Jorah shrugged. "You've annoyed me into near insanity for who knows how many timelines. I might as well honor the effort."

Kael laughed — a rough, raw sound. "You're an idiot."

"I know."

The ground trembled. The red sky cracked. From the horizon, shadows began to crawl forward — tall, thin, shifting figures made of fractured light.

Kael's expression hardened. "They're coming."

"Who?"

"The Forgotten," Kael said. "The remnants of gods devoured by their own stories. They want a name again."

The nearest one reached for him, its hand unraveling into threads of time. Kael swung the Chrono Blade in a flash of light — severing it. The creature screamed without a mouth, its body collapsing into dust.

"Jorah," Kael said, his voice suddenly firm, commanding. "If they reach me, it's over. They'll make me real again — but not me. Not the one you know."

"So what do we do?"

Kael looked down at the sword in Jorah's hands. "You carry my memory. That means you hold the last record of what I was."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," Kael said, stepping closer, "you're the only one who can rewrite me without becoming me."

Jorah blinked. "You want me to—what, edit you like a bad manuscript?"

Kael smiled faintly. "Exactly like that."

The ground shook harder. More Forgotten spilled from the cracks, dozens now — whispering in broken tongues.

Kael grabbed Jorah's shoulder. "When I say go, drive the sword into the ground and think of the moment you met me. Nothing else. That will anchor the rewrite."

"Kael, this sounds insane."

"Everything I do is insane."

"…Fair point."

Kael turned, raising his blade. "Now!"

Jorah plunged the sword into the ground. The world split open. Light erupted — not gold or red but pure white, cutting through the collapsing horizon like dawn.

Kael's voice echoed through the storm. "Remember me right, Jorah!"

Jorah shouted back, "You're an arrogant, sarcastic god with a hero complex!"

Kael's laughter rang out — bright, fierce, defiant. "Perfect."

The light swallowed everything. The Forgotten screamed, the shards of reality shattered — and then, silence.

When Jorah opened his eyes, he stood alone in a new dawn. The world was whole again — quiet, real. Birds sang. The sun moved.

The sword lay beside him, cold once more.

He picked it up — and on the blade, just faintly, a reflection smiled back.

Kael's voice whispered from somewhere deep within. "See? You remembered me right."

Jorah grinned through a tear. "You still owe me that drink, you bastard."

The wind laughed softly.

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