The Newt and Demon
Chapter 49: Epilogue

Theo Spencer,

23rd Day, Season of Blooms,

873rd Year of Balkor’s Betrayal

I’m writing this message in the old Drogramathi script. If you’re reading this, you’re a Dronon. Hello, fellow Demon. How are you?.

It’s a curious thing. To be ripped from your previous life to be deposited in a new one. I don’t know who is going to read something like this. Perhaps it’s just for me, but I feel the need to express my thoughts. As I sit on the walls of my town, looking down at the little lives these people lead, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride. My Tara’hek, Tresk, sits beside me. Every moment with the woman is a surprise, but she is a rock that I can tether myself to. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the NøvᴇlFirᴇ(.)nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of nøvels early and in the highest quality.

Half-Ogres don’t live up to their name. I’ve never met an Ogre, but I have to imagine they’re not very bright. I’d also wager that they’re mean. The people of Broken Tusk, who are mixed among Marshlings and Half-Ogres, are kind. They’re intelligent in a way that I could never be, and they have a sense for community and the world as a whole. My mind goes back to my first encounter with one. Her name was Miana Kell, and she wasn’t the best first impression.

Miana is a hard woman, I know that, but she has her reasons. I never pry into her business, but it’s clear that the mantle of mayor was thrust upon her at an early age. Before the convergence, the people of this town were scraping by. They could barely survive.

Luras was my next introduction to the race. He was a man without equal. His kindness in my early days shows the mettle of the Half-Ogres. He was selfless to a fault, and nothing I can do will properly repay him.

On Marshlings, they are the most curious of the races I’ve seen so far. Elves might be the most similar to their fantasy counterparts, but Marshlings are chaotic. They speak their mind, even to their detriment, but are fiercely loyal. My Tara’hek attacked a level 130 inquisitor. He could have crushed her with little effort, but she did it. Her father, Throk, is equally fierce in his convictions.

Elves, as far as I can tell, are kind enough people. My sample size is small, but Fenian has been a blessing, like I could have never imagined. I’ll write more about the man once I figure him out.

I’d like to write about the Harbinger, but I’m afraid I know little about him. Or her, I realize that it’s impossible to tell. Between that entity and Drogramath, I keep looking over my shoulder.

A thought lingers in my mind as I write this. My Tara’hek left me to my scribbles while she runs around town. I sit here alone now. There’s something I wouldn’t even admit to her. I have a strange hope that Yuri Valkov, a man I knew far too little about, might yet still live. I’ll write more about him later. He was a hilarious guy. That squad we found ourselves in was meant for a single purpose. A suicide mission against some unknowable enemy. If the nukes wouldn’t kill him, why would a few soldiers with guns?

I was born into the war, if you could call perpetual conflict that. I didn’t know what peace even looked like until 2345. They found me at an early age, in the summer of 2305, if I remember correctly. My father already fell into that never ending machine, and my mother was looking for work. Military indoctrination from an early age—that’s something to think about. It reminds me of Luras and Aarok applying to the Qavelli irregulars. I wonder if they would sleep as soundly as I do with so much blood on their hands. I’m rambling. The famine took my mother from me, and then I saw the beauty of peace. Through old media, of course, the kind of thing they held as contraband. The scales might have fallen from my eyes, but the end was already near. My mother was dead, and the sun was expanding.

The only thing I could do to honor those times of peace was to not pull the trigger. I didn’t fire on the Harbinger. If this is my reward for pacifism, I’ll do everything I can to make it right by that strange entity.

Who will read my story?

Who, among the countless number in this world, will care about what an alchemist did in the southlands of a fading kingdom?

I hope that, if you’re reading this, you understand I did my best. I worked as hard as I could, turning this ball of mud into something worth talking about. I worked so hard to change who I was. Pushing those thoughts out of my mind as hard as I could. Maybe I washed some blood off my hands that way. Maybe not. Either way, I think the Harbinger would be pleased.

I’m not much of a writer. Never have been. These simple thoughts have taken me hours, and I’m afraid I have too much work to do. I have a barrier to break through. Perhaps, one day, there will be enough time for my story to be told. By who, I cannot say. Until that time, there are potions to make.

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