Chapter 5: Blackout
The return to Glasten’s Landing should have been a balm. The weary feet of Sanctuary Inc. dragged them across the cracked desert floor, each step heavy with the weight of Scorpion Pointe still clinging to their bones. Their day had been carved in fire and metal: Deremitru falling beneath their blades, the rasp of dragonborn slaves finally tasting freedom, and the chilling moment when Gambit’s life burned away like flash paper and into the heart of Ildris, the Keeper. By all accounts, tonight should have been quiet, their bodies surrendered to rest and their minds dulled in exhaustion. But Glasten’s Landing, the hollow little town that had once felt more tomb than home, was alive in ways they had never seen before.
The festival of Finis had transformed it. Lanterns strung from old iron lampposts sputtered in hues of copper and green, casting flickering light across faces lined with joy. The air throbbed with music: clattering drums, shrill flutes, voices raised in laughter and cheer. Fireworks shattered above the rooftops, their blossoms of red, violet, and gold momentarily bleaching the old timbers of the shacks. Merchants long thought departed had returned, their carts brimming with steaming pastries and candied fruits, and even the children of the town raced through the square, sparklers fizzing in their small hands. What had been a ghost town only yesterday now pulsed with warmth and life, the illusion of prosperity stitched together for this one night of celebration.
But Sanctuary Inc. found no rest. Even as they lay in the foyeur of Petunia’s hostel, the walls trembled faintly with every roar of a firework, every shout of joy from the street. The endless revelry pressed in on their skulls, keeping sleep as elusive as the peace they longed for. And then, sometime after midnight, the night itself shifted. The familiar thunder of fireworks began to deepen. The pops became guttural, reverberating through the marrow of Komana itself. The flashes that bloomed on the horizon grew fewer in color and more in intensity, until what spilled across their shuttered windows was not the jubilant glow of crimson or emerald but an unearthly, sterile white.
The first to draw back the curtains, Echo, beheld a sight that would be forever burned into his optic sensors. To the north and west, the horizon was alive with crawling columns of fire. Enormous plumes clawed upward, slow and dreadful, crowned by searing white bursts that outshone the stars themselves. What once might have been mistaken for fireworks were no longer celebrations,they were detonations; city-shattering blooms tearing into the night. For every crack and roll of thunder that followed, the walls seemed to bow inward as though Komana itself recoiled from the violence. This was no festival. This was war writ across the sky, vast and merciless.
And in that moment, as the air seemed to split between revelry and ruin, Sanctuary Inc. felt the world tilt beneath them. Finis had always been the marker of endings, a turning of the page into another year. But tonight, its name became prophecy: the end of peace, the end of innocence. The beginning of a global war that none of them could outrun. The quiet before the storm was loud and relentless, but now the storm was here and its Lightning and Thunder shook the world.
The screen flickers on, a thin sheen of static buzzing faintly before resolving into the solemn face of the anchor. Their posture is rigid, hands folded tightly upon the desk, knuckles pale. The polished cadence of their voice carries the weight of trained professionalism, yet beneath each measured syllable lurks a tremor of disbelief, as though the words themselves were too heavy to be spoken aloud.
“We come to you with breaking news of a scale that is without precedent in Beaumont's history. Shortly after the Finis celebrations concluded last night, an hour when most were returning home from fireworks and festivities, an event unlike any other unfolded across our world.
Massive, coordinated explosions struck the nations of Pægor and Kiqueo simultaneously. Entire cities were leveled in a matter of moments. What began as bright flashes on the horizon has since revealed itself to be nothing less than a full-scale assault on a global scale.
In Pægor, the cities of Lightgrand, Fort Mixin, Skowermound, Amberglass, Lastlight, Evocall Stronghold, Cambophol, Rubyscale, Ryot, Aethercourt, Linium, Neosteer, Leatherman’s Stitch, Wendalee, and Skycaller’s Reach were all hit at the same moment. Not hours apart, not minutes - but in unison.
At that same hour, the nation of Kiqueo suffered an equal strike. The cities of Aluzón, Challie, Rena Dorada, Silverstream, Troan, Quelmárida, Firstlight, Dennue Font, Jogul’s Fiction, Norg, and Wirtzenval were each reduced to ruin. Reports from those who live outside the blasts describe the devastation as ‘absolute.’ Entire skylines erased. Whole neighborhoods torn from the earth. Many are saying their neighboring towns are simply… gone. One survivor, choking through static on a rescue line, said: ‘There’s nothing left. Just nothing. Where the city was... it’s only dust now.’
Casualty reports are, at this time, impossible to confirm with accuracy. But the scale, given the size of the cities struck and the fact that these attacks occurred in the heart of celebration, means that the loss of life is, without question, catastrophic. Early estimates suggest the death toll will reach into the tens of millions, with civilians making up nearly all of the victims.
Authorities urge calm, though we cannot deny the truth: this is a moment that will define the course of history. Entire nations stand paralyzed, stunned by what has been unleashed upon them. We do not yet know who is responsible, nor what the next hours may bring. For now… for now, we mourn.
Stay tuned as more information becomes available. This is…” the anchor’s voice falters, the mask of composure briefly slipping before they clear their throat, eyes glistening as they look away from the camera “…this is your emergency broadcast.”
The screen fades to black, leaving only the low hum of dead air.
Static erupts, swallowing every channel, every device. Screens flicker into black, radios drone with distortion, phones vibrate as if seized by unseen hands. Then the voices come: layered, discordant, fractured across octaves, as though dozens of beings speak in unison through a tunnel of broken glass. The cadence is cold, detached, and inhuman, each word echoing with quantum distortion.
Peoples of Beaumont,
You cling to your festivals, your technology, your companies and magic… and yet you do not see that your days are already numbered. Last night’s sky has burned with your first warning, your cities erased, their light snuffed out in silence. But understand: this is not conquest. This is not war. This is inevitability.
Your world is sick with its own heartbeat. You measure your time in hours, in years, in lifetimes. You scurry, you build, you explore, you hope. But all of it, all of you are grains in time’s inevitable hourglass, unaware that you’re moments away from your final fall.
We are the viewers of the glass: watching, waiting for the final grain to tumble down.
From this day forward, you live on borrowed time. In one year on the turning of Finis, our world will fall silent. Time herself will cease to move. The pulse of every living thing will still. The cycle will end.
Do not waste your final year with delusions of resistance. Do not search for us: we are already within every breath you take, every second you count, every lull between your heartbeats.
We are the Deremitru. Destined by the Gods of old. Ordained to stop time… and end all life alongside it.
The static swells, drowning out the voices until nothing remains but silence. Then, just before the transmission cuts, a single phrase lingers—a promise, or a curse:
The end is not coming. The end is here. We are not destroyers. We are not conquerors. We are extinction.
The festival of Finis had transformed it. Lanterns strung from old iron lampposts sputtered in hues of copper and green, casting flickering light across faces lined with joy. The air throbbed with music: clattering drums, shrill flutes, voices raised in laughter and cheer. Fireworks shattered above the rooftops, their blossoms of red, violet, and gold momentarily bleaching the old timbers of the shacks. Merchants long thought departed had returned, their carts brimming with steaming pastries and candied fruits, and even the children of the town raced through the square, sparklers fizzing in their small hands. What had been a ghost town only yesterday now pulsed with warmth and life, the illusion of prosperity stitched together for this one night of celebration.
But Sanctuary Inc. found no rest. Even as they lay in the foyeur of Petunia’s hostel, the walls trembled faintly with every roar of a firework, every shout of joy from the street. The endless revelry pressed in on their skulls, keeping sleep as elusive as the peace they longed for. And then, sometime after midnight, the night itself shifted. The familiar thunder of fireworks began to deepen. The pops became guttural, reverberating through the marrow of Komana itself. The flashes that bloomed on the horizon grew fewer in color and more in intensity, until what spilled across their shuttered windows was not the jubilant glow of crimson or emerald but an unearthly, sterile white.
The first to draw back the curtains, Echo, beheld a sight that would be forever burned into his optic sensors. To the north and west, the horizon was alive with crawling columns of fire. Enormous plumes clawed upward, slow and dreadful, crowned by searing white bursts that outshone the stars themselves. What once might have been mistaken for fireworks were no longer celebrations,they were detonations; city-shattering blooms tearing into the night. For every crack and roll of thunder that followed, the walls seemed to bow inward as though Komana itself recoiled from the violence. This was no festival. This was war writ across the sky, vast and merciless.
And in that moment, as the air seemed to split between revelry and ruin, Sanctuary Inc. felt the world tilt beneath them. Finis had always been the marker of endings, a turning of the page into another year. But tonight, its name became prophecy: the end of peace, the end of innocence. The beginning of a global war that none of them could outrun. The quiet before the storm was loud and relentless, but now the storm was here and its Lightning and Thunder shook the world.
Broadcast
The screen flickers on, a thin sheen of static buzzing faintly before resolving into the solemn face of the anchor. Their posture is rigid, hands folded tightly upon the desk, knuckles pale. The polished cadence of their voice carries the weight of trained professionalism, yet beneath each measured syllable lurks a tremor of disbelief, as though the words themselves were too heavy to be spoken aloud.
“We come to you with breaking news of a scale that is without precedent in Beaumont's history. Shortly after the Finis celebrations concluded last night, an hour when most were returning home from fireworks and festivities, an event unlike any other unfolded across our world.
Massive, coordinated explosions struck the nations of Pægor and Kiqueo simultaneously. Entire cities were leveled in a matter of moments. What began as bright flashes on the horizon has since revealed itself to be nothing less than a full-scale assault on a global scale.
In Pægor, the cities of Lightgrand, Fort Mixin, Skowermound, Amberglass, Lastlight, Evocall Stronghold, Cambophol, Rubyscale, Ryot, Aethercourt, Linium, Neosteer, Leatherman’s Stitch, Wendalee, and Skycaller’s Reach were all hit at the same moment. Not hours apart, not minutes - but in unison.
At that same hour, the nation of Kiqueo suffered an equal strike. The cities of Aluzón, Challie, Rena Dorada, Silverstream, Troan, Quelmárida, Firstlight, Dennue Font, Jogul’s Fiction, Norg, and Wirtzenval were each reduced to ruin. Reports from those who live outside the blasts describe the devastation as ‘absolute.’ Entire skylines erased. Whole neighborhoods torn from the earth. Many are saying their neighboring towns are simply… gone. One survivor, choking through static on a rescue line, said: ‘There’s nothing left. Just nothing. Where the city was... it’s only dust now.’
Casualty reports are, at this time, impossible to confirm with accuracy. But the scale, given the size of the cities struck and the fact that these attacks occurred in the heart of celebration, means that the loss of life is, without question, catastrophic. Early estimates suggest the death toll will reach into the tens of millions, with civilians making up nearly all of the victims.
Authorities urge calm, though we cannot deny the truth: this is a moment that will define the course of history. Entire nations stand paralyzed, stunned by what has been unleashed upon them. We do not yet know who is responsible, nor what the next hours may bring. For now… for now, we mourn.
Stay tuned as more information becomes available. This is…” the anchor’s voice falters, the mask of composure briefly slipping before they clear their throat, eyes glistening as they look away from the camera “…this is your emergency broadcast.”
The screen fades to black, leaving only the low hum of dead air.
Hijacked Doomsday promise
Static erupts, swallowing every channel, every device. Screens flicker into black, radios drone with distortion, phones vibrate as if seized by unseen hands. Then the voices come: layered, discordant, fractured across octaves, as though dozens of beings speak in unison through a tunnel of broken glass. The cadence is cold, detached, and inhuman, each word echoing with quantum distortion.
Peoples of Beaumont,
You cling to your festivals, your technology, your companies and magic… and yet you do not see that your days are already numbered. Last night’s sky has burned with your first warning, your cities erased, their light snuffed out in silence. But understand: this is not conquest. This is not war. This is inevitability.
Your world is sick with its own heartbeat. You measure your time in hours, in years, in lifetimes. You scurry, you build, you explore, you hope. But all of it, all of you are grains in time’s inevitable hourglass, unaware that you’re moments away from your final fall.
We are the viewers of the glass: watching, waiting for the final grain to tumble down.
From this day forward, you live on borrowed time. In one year on the turning of Finis, our world will fall silent. Time herself will cease to move. The pulse of every living thing will still. The cycle will end.
Do not waste your final year with delusions of resistance. Do not search for us: we are already within every breath you take, every second you count, every lull between your heartbeats.
We are the Deremitru. Destined by the Gods of old. Ordained to stop time… and end all life alongside it.
The static swells, drowning out the voices until nothing remains but silence. Then, just before the transmission cuts, a single phrase lingers—a promise, or a curse:
The end is not coming. The end is here. We are not destroyers. We are not conquerors. We are extinction.
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