The prophet fell to his hands and knees as he became human once again. His limbs trembled as pain surged through his body. Memories flooded his soul. He remembered an army of dragons soaring through the young skies of Eberron on scaled wings of a dozen different hues. He remembered the demonic horde that marched across the plains, staring up at the impudent draconic invaders with hateful eyes. He remembered the power that wracked the earth and sky as it tore through demon and dragon alike. He was the power, surging through both armies. His breath tore the flesh from immortals. His touch burned impure beings from reality itself. The feeling was incredible, and with each being that died, a part of their being added itself to his. Bit by bit, he awakened. Bit by bit, he came into being.
The memories faded, buried under the weight of eons.
The prophet returned to himself, awakening to the present. His long fingers curled in the mud left behind by the recent storm. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, waiting for the agony to pass. Magical power wracked his being, setting his limbs trembling. No matter how many times the Legacy was unleashed, the pain never ceased to strike him as it did now. Though he despised the weakened state in which it left him, he welcomed the pain. It reminded him of how much closer he drew to his goal. Such was the price of power.
Zamiel’s eyes narrowed into slits as he looked to the north. A distant plume of smoke curled above the forest. Destroying Fort Ash had been, admittedly, a somewhat cathartic experience. It was not the first time he had been forced to do so, but in the past, it had always been due to failure. This time, it was a simple matter of expedience. Mortals were such easily distracted creatures. With the Prophecy still resonating deep in the caverns beneath Fort Ash, they might have spent forever pondering its mysteries. At this stage of the game, such things served only as distractions. He no longer needed the Prophecy. All had been set into motion.
If Marth should somehow fail at this point, time was still on the prophet’s side. He was, after all, timeless. He could retreat where even the Mourning Dawn would never discover him. He would wait until his enemies were dead. He would wait until the mortals forgot about the caverns beneath Fort Ash. He would return to clear the rubble and steer some new prodigy to their discovery.
Even so, the idea disgusted Zamiel. He had waited so long to reclaim what was rightfully his. He had seen so many fools attempt to grasp the secrets and fail. Ashrem had come closer than any before, and Marth was a worthy successor. Tristam, if he performed as predicted, would complete the cycle once Marth had fallen. This time, there would be no failure. The anticipation was driving him mad.
And that disturbed him. Over the ages, he had learned the value of patience. He accepted victory and failure in equal measure, for time was always on his side. He had waited lifetimes and watched nations rise and fall. The fulfillment of his dreams had seemed within grasp many times before, but never did he allow himself to presume victory. What was so different now?
The prophet rose, clasping his hands into fists within his sleeves. With a whispered spell, the dirt fell away from his hands and garments. Zamiel composed himself and surveyed his surroundings. He was almost disappointed that no one had noticed his descent. He yearned for a reason to strike down a few of those smug paladins, as senseless as it would have been.
Perhaps he had simply grown disgusted at the state of this world. Conflict had always been the defining attribute of Eberron’s existence. Good fought evil. Chaos struggled against law. Nation struggled against nation. Yet now, the denizens of this world struggled against order. As much as the Five Nations still mistrusted and despised one another, none of them truly wished for another war. The majority of Eberron’s inhabitants seemed, for the time being, to desire peace. The idea unnerved him. It was simply unnatural. At least there were those, like Marth, who could easily be turned to seeing things his way. Zamiel would return Eberron to a state of conflict-it would be his parting gift to the world.
In the distance, he could hear men shouting to one another. That would be the Thrane knights, searching the rubble for clues or survivors. Zamiel ignored them. Everything of importance in Fort Ash had been buried, and his Cyran allies were of no further use. The Thrane would enjoy their illusion of victory, grow bored, and leave in good time. They did not matter. The two who had discovered him were long gone from here, aboard the Mourning Dawn.
The prophet scowled. That was another thing that was quite different from before. In the past, none of his pawns-ally or enemy-had come close to discovering the truth about him. He had never expected Tristam to find Zul’nadn so soon, let alone destroy it. The two paladins had been another unexpected wrinkle. They had escaped knowing more than Zamiel intended to reveal. Marth, he suspected, had begun to discern the truth as well. Was the prophet’s fear of discovery leading to his impatience, or was his impatience leading to unprecedented mistakes? Perhaps mortals were simply growing more difficult to predict? Perhaps he was simply too set in his ways.
Such meandering thoughts were pointless. What was done was done, and what his enemies had learned could not be unlearned. Zed Arthen and Eraina d’Deneith would almost certainly misunderstand what they had seen-or at least comprehend the truth too late. Marth would not betray Zamiel now-he could not betray him now-he had descended too deeply into madness. He would not stop until Sharn lay in ruins.
Marth’s success was unavoidable now-even if he died, the prophet’s ends would still be met. All that remained now was for Zamiel to prepare for the inevitable results.
The prophet whispered words of magic and took a step forward. The world rippled and faded around him. The tall trees of the Harrowcrowns were replaced with a gaping canyon paved with brittle shards of bleached white. The hollow eyes of gigantic inhuman skulls glared down at him. Twisted spires clawed toward the sky on each side of the rough path where he stood. A low, mournful wail hung upon the air though no wind moved the prophet’s robes.
Zamiel walked forward, looking up at the ancient, massive expressions with a strangely wistful expression. Some of them were almost familiar to him. He traced the fingers of one hand along a large rib protruding vertically from the earth. This place was at once comfortable and alien to him. Soon, all of this would end.
He felt a sense of dread and was bewildered by the feeling. For countless ages he had sought his destiny, but now that it was close at hand, he was strangely afraid. The prophet realized that had become too comfortable in this state of existence. He had almost come to enjoy the pursuit, the endless quest to complete himself. Now that victory was so near at hand, he was uncertain what to do.
The sound of shards of bone sliding against one another drew his attention. Zamiel chided himself once again for such pointless musings. He peered up at the shambling hulks lurching through the shadows beneath the bony towers. Their formless bodies oozed over the terrain, pushing showers of shattered bone in their wake. The earth itself softened and oozed out of their path. Dozens of bloodshot eyes and misshapen mouths gaped upon their putrid flesh. Rotten teeth chewed the air. A pitiful gibbering sound rose as they approached.
Zamiel winced, irritated at the sound. The gibbering tried to gain a foothold in his mind, to drive him mad. Zamiel ignored their feeble magic. Much like the bones, these creatures were oddly familiar to him. While the ancient remains inspired a sense of nostalgia, these mindless beasts simply disgusted him.
“This is all that remains of Khyber’s proud empire?” Zamiel said, deep voice echoing across the bony waste. “Where once a demon horde ruled this land, now only their mindless beasts lurch across the earth, seeking vermin to devour?”