Chapter 106: The Seer’s Final Breath

Ragnar went to the high tower to visit the seer. The sky above the cloud manor was heavy with gray, the sun hidden behind a thick veil of clouds, and the wind carried the cold bite of approaching winter.

He had received the letter just that morning—a single sheet of parchment, written in the seer’s shaky hand, telling him that she had no time left and she needed to see him. The words had been brief, almost curt, but Ragnar had read the truth between the lines.

The seer was dying.

She had been dying for years, her body slowly failing her even as her visions grew clearer and more urgent, but she had always managed to hold on, to keep herself alive through sheer force of will. This time, the letter told him, would be different. This time, she would not hold on.

So Ragnar flew from the manor of the clouds to the high tower to see her personally. The journey was long and cold, the wind tearing at his robes and the clouds parting before him like curtains, and he did not slow his pace.

He had known the seer since before he had ascended to his position as a God, had been her student, her apprentice, her friend. She had taught him everything he knew about the visions, about the threads of fate, about the delicate balance between light and darkness that held the world together.

She had been the one to guide him through his own visions, to help him understand the terrible things he saw, to remind him that the future was not set in stone, that there was always a choice.

And now, she was dying. And he could not save her. No one could. The seer’s death was one of the few things that even the Gods could not prevent; because it was the inevitable fate.

When he got there, the candles lit up on their own and reveal the figure of the seer. The high tower was a place of ancient magic, a place where the veil between the worlds was thin, and the candles that lined the walls and the ceiling flared to life as Ragnar stepped through the door, their flames steady and bright despite the wind that howled outside.

The light revealed the seer, she was weak and pale, laying in bed while still keeping her white blindfold. The blindfold had been with her for as long as Ragnar had known her, a strip of white silk that covered her eyes and hid whatever she saw when her visions took her.

No one had ever seen her without it. No one had ever dared to ask. She was thin now, thinner than she had been the last time Ragnar had visited, and her skin had taken on the gray pallor of someone whose body was slowly giving up. But her face was calm, peaceful, and her hands, resting on the blanket, were still.

Ragnar bow as a sign of respect, "Seer, I have came here to see you for the last time." He said, and he’s not trying to cry. He was a God. He was supposed to be above such things. He had seen death before, had witnessed the passing of mortals and immortals alike, had held the hands of the dying and listened to their last words.

He had thought he was prepared for this. He had thought he could face the seer’s death with the same calm dignity with which she had faced everything else in her long life. But standing here, in this room that smelled of old paper and candle wax and something sweet and sad, he found that he was not prepared.

He was not calm. He was not dignified. He was a student saying goodbye to his teacher, a child saying goodbye to the only parent he had ever known. The seer was his teacher before he ascended to his position as a God.

She had been the one to find him when he was young and lost and afraid, the one who had recognized the spark of divinity in him, the one who had nurtured it until it became a flame. She had given him a home when he had none. She had given him a purpose. And now, she was leaving him.

"Ragnar... I will use this last time to warn you. Eiravelle, that girl. Sooner or later, the world will fall upon her hands, and she will have the decision to destroy it or save it." She said, and Ragnar sigh at the suddenness of it. The words were a blow, a confirmation of everything he had feared, and he felt his heart sink in his chest.

He had known this. He had seen it in his own visions, had watched the threads of fate weave themselves around the omega who had captured the hearts of so many, and he had known that she was more than she appeared.

But hearing the seer say it, hearing the words spoken aloud in the quiet of the high tower, made it real in a way that his own visions had never been.

"I also had the same vision, teacher. I saw that she will become the light that will take the darkness, and when I glance at the other side of the world, she will also become the source of this darkness." He said, and he was clearly worried no matter how hard he is trying to hide it.

He had seen the omega, had looked into her eyes, had felt the weight of her kindness and her pain. She was a good person. She was a kind person. She had suffered more than anyone should ever have to suffer, and yet she had emerged with her heart intact, with her compassion unbroken.

She was, in so many ways, the best of them. And yet, the darkness was in her too. It was not a corruption, not yet. It was a potential. It was the capacity for destruction that lay dormant in every soul, waiting for the right moment, the right push, to be unleashed.

And Eiravelle, with her power and her position, with the love of the sovereign and the Golden Rabbit and so many others, was uniquely positioned to become either the savior of the world or its destroyer.

"You must guide her, Ragnar... That’s the only last thing you have left. You cannot stop this prophecy, but you can guide her to be a better person. If she is to be the savior of the world, then you must know... She is the saint." The seer said, and Ragnar was dumbfounded. The word hit him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs, and he felt his legs weaken beneath him.

The saint.

The one who would come to the world in its darkest hour, the one who would stand against the darkness and either save it or destroy it. The one who was destined to die young, to die peacefully, to die at the age of thirty. The one whose death would mean the destruction of their making, whose life was a gift from the heavens and whose loss would be a tragedy beyond measure.

Eiravelle was the saint. Eiravelle, the omega who had been beaten and neglected and abandoned, the omega who had found love and acceptance and a place to call home, was the saint. It was almost too much to believe.

"W-What... What did you say?" He asked, his voice was straining as he heard the seer’s voice. He needed to hear it again. He needed to be sure.

"Light and darkness cannot become one. If she save the world, she proved to this world she is the saint. But if not... She is the destruction that I had anticipated for years... Grakhorth... Is coming soon, and he can use Eiravelle to strengthen his darkness. So protect her at all cost." She explained, and Ragnar doesn’t understand.

He did not understand how Eiravelle could be both the savior and the destroyer, how she could be both the light and the darkness, how she could be both the saint and the destruction. He did not understand how the heavens could give the world such a gift, only to put it in the hands of someone who could so easily be corrupted.

"Why can’t we predict the coming of saints? Why do we have to rely on uncertain intuitions?" Ragnar are stressing about it. The words came out louder than he intended, tinged with frustration and fear, and he felt a flicker of shame at his own outburst.

But he could not help it. He had spent centuries trying to understand the will of the heavens, trying to make sense of the visions that came to him, trying to find patterns in the chaos.

And yet, the most important thing—the coming of a saint—was something he could not predict, something he could not prepare for, something that was left to chance.

"The saints are the darlings of heaven... Their coming is not announced as they are destined to die young. The world should not love them for their power, the three Gods made sure of that. Because if they exist that way, people can take advantage of them, and can corrupt them easily if they’re announced." The seer started to explain with bathed breath, she was clearly gasping for air but she’s not fighting against her lungs. She had accepted her death, had made peace with it, and now she was using the last of her strength to pass on what she knew.

"You know the story of saints. They all died peacefully, at the age of 30. They’re the most blessed beings that were given to us as a gift. That is why killing one means destruction of our making." She said, and Ragnar finally understood why Eiravelle is different. She was not like the other saints, who had lived short, quiet lives, who had died young and been mourned and then forgotten.

She was different because she had been given a choice. She had been given the power to destroy or to save, and the freedom to decide which she would be. She was not just a saint. She was the saint. The one who would decide the fate of the world.

"Can she know?" Ragnar asked, and the seer shook her head. The movement was slow, barely perceptible, but it was clear.

"She must find out all by herself. The Golden Rabbit did not make a mistake, but you must not tell her. No matter what happen." The seer warned, and Ragnar was confused. He did not understand why the truth had to be hidden, why Eiravelle could not be told who she really was. Would it not be easier for her if she knew? Would it not help her to make the right choice?

"Teacher, tell me why?" He asked once again, but the seer let out her last breath and passed away peacefully. The words died in the air between them, unanswered, and Ragnar was left alone with his grief and his questions.

The candles flickered, their flames are dimming for a moment before flaring back to life, and the room felt suddenly empty. The seer was gone. Her body was still there, still and pale on the bed, but she was not there anymore.

Her spirit had passed on, had moved to whatever came after, and Ragnar was left behind. He had not been ready. He had not been ready to say goodbye. But then again, no one ever was.

Ragnar frown and approach to kiss her hand once again. The seer’s hand was cold, colder than it had been just moments before, and he pressed his lips to her knuckles in a gesture of love and respect and gratitude.

"Rest well, thank you, teacher." He said, then he slowly walk away and left the high tower. He did not look back. He could not. If he looked back, he would see her body, lifeless and still, and he would break. He would fall to his knees and weep like a child, and he would not be able to stop.

So he did not look back. He simply walked away, his footsteps are echoing in the silent tower, and he did not stop until he was outside, until he was standing on the balcony, until he was looking up at the gray sky and the clouds that seemed to press down on him with the weight of his own sorrow.

As he flew away, the high tower started to collapse and crumble. Ragnar didn’t look back, it is gonna happen since the tower was connected to the seer’s existence. The stones tumbled and the walls cracked, the tower folding in on itself like a dying flower, and within moments, it was gone.

Where it had stood, there was only rubble and dust, and the wind carried the debris away, scattering it across the clouds. The seer was gone. Her tower was gone. All that remained was Ragnar, flying through the gray sky, his heart heavy with grief and his mind racing with the weight of what he had learned.

"I will do whatever it takes... Just wait." He whispered to the wind, to the heavens, to the seer who was no longer there to hear him. He did not know what he would do. He did not know how he would protect Eiravelle, how he would guide her, or how he would stop the darkness that was coming.

But he knew that he would try. He would try with everything he had, with every breath in his body, with every ounce of power he possessed. He would not let her fall. He would not let the world be destroyed.

And he would not let the seer’s sacrifice be in vain. The prophecy was not set in stone. There was always a choice. And Ragnar would make sure that Eiravelle made the right one.