Epilogue

This brief epilogue to the Journals of Zaxony Dyad Euphony Delatree is written by the hand of the Lector himself: Supreme Ruler of the Collectorium, High Priest of the Church of the Sanguine, Defender of the Skies, The Crown Incarnate, He Who Tends the Grasses, The Ender of History, Champion of Champions, The Terror Above, The Wheel-Breaker, The Ice Axe, The Pure Vein, The Broodfather – well, it goes on. It seems every world I conquer wishes to gift me with their own unique sobriquet. Some whisper their names for me with the awe due a prophesied king, and others spit it with fury at a foreign interloper, but I accept them all equally.

I will shelve this journal in the office of whatever world I eventually settle on as my Prime Throne, and encourage visitors, penitents, and acolytes to read it as a cautionary tale, and as a testament to my greatness. Zaxony began with natural abilities I could only dream of having for my own, and if he had he possessed the courage and the strength, he would be the one dripping titles from the end of his name – but it is not just power that makes a king. It is will. I had the will, and so I took his power.

Zaxony attempted to make a last stand to thwart me. He failed, obviously. He is in custody, in a filthy room on the grounds of this laughable fortress. He has been filled with stimulants to keep him from sleeping his way out of this situation. I will go see him, soon. We are old friends, Zaxony and I. In a sense, I owe everything I have now to him.

For those reasons, I will execute him with my own hand, and will do so as painlessly as possible, given that my chosen tool of execution is a very large knife.

Then I will move his body to a sterile room, and apply much smaller knives. I have been eager to dissect him. Given the wonders I found in his blood, what else might I find in his body?

My story continues, but this is where the tale of Zaxony must finish.

Thus ends a chronicle of failure.