The lake of fire coruscated red and blue and orange. Alaxic, lost in thought, traced the patterns and colors of heat.
Magma breathed sirocco in his face, dried his parchment skin. “I could remain here,” he said, “until lava cured me into dust. That would be better, I think.”
“You’ll like retirement,” said the woman at his side: Allesandre, his patient, loyal student; his sacrifice. “Or maybe you won’t, but it’s for the best. We’ll take everything from here. Don’t worry.”
“I have spent six decades worrying.” The old man lifted his hands from the railing and placed them into his pockets with care, as if his bones were porcelain. “Since the God Wars. Since the Skittersill Rising. My life lies down there.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, and gripped his shoulder. “We will finish what you started.”
Alaxic felt her strength, and wondered at time, distance, and the wheels of age that grind the great to powder.
Calm and quiet, he left the cave.