Meanwhile, in another universe entirely, Azrath was frustrated. He had thought his desire to save the people of Earth would be enough to activate the sword's hidden power, but no. As he stood there holding the sword aloft, he could feel his embarrassment grow by the moment, even if no one was around to see. 

Now what?

Trying to regain the sense of purpose, Azrath swung the sword downward. The muscles in his arms bulged as he stopped it mid-arc and changed his swing from vertical to horizontal, followed by several alternating diagonal slashes. The blade whistled through the air. Each slash transitioned smoothly into the next, partially due to his training but mainly to the sword's perfect balance.

But admiration alone wasn't enough. Azrath felt the rush of power leave his body as his faith in the sword's power diminished. Nothing is happening! Why?

He had expected—well, he didn't know what he expected, just something! His father had said that he would use the sword to unlock the universe when the time came, but that was it. There was nothing concrete. No secret code or specific movements. Nothing. Unless…

Azrath remembered his father's dying words: "In my study… my journals… They have my research on the sword. Learn what you can from them, my son, and maybe you can unlock its true power."

He had refused to go in there. The pain of his father's death was too fresh for him ever to want to even step into that house again. He even had to fight the urge to burn the place to the ground. No one would have cared, but, no, he had only burned the body, as was tradition. But with the death of his father, Azrath was now the only one left on Eziro. 

As Azrath exited the palace and flew to his father's home, he again began to register the silence that not even the wind rushing through his ears could hide. There were no birds to sing their songs, no insects to chirp and buzz, not even the azillo fish hummed their sweet melodies. They were all gone. Like its people, the animals had fled this world as well.

When the world first went silent, it had felt somewhat tranquil. But it wasn't long before Azrath missed the sounds of Eziro. That, and he began to miss the taste of meat. The silence began to haunt him everywhere he went. It was inescapable. His father was the only one who could break the horrible stillness, but no more. It was only Azrath now, cursed to solitude, forced to wander the world alone.

It took a moment for Azrath to realize that he had instinctively landed at the front door of his father's house. He just stood there, letting the silence and his dark thoughts wash over him, staring at the door he had closed for the last time over fifty years ago.

Ivy had encased the house in that time, almost covering the door. Azrath tore away the fauna that hid the door from him, exposing the wood to the evening light. When he was satisfied, Azrath stopped and just stared at the door, damaged by the roots.

He knew what he had to do, but he couldn't muster up the will to push it open. "It's just an empty house," he told himself, "just like all the others."

Closing his eyes, Azrath took a deep breath and stretched out his hand, letting his palm lay flat on the worn wood for a moment before giving the door a strong push. It barely budged.

Azrath opened his eyes. He should've expected this. It had been fifty years since he last opened this door. So, he braced his large shoulder against the door and shoved. Once, twice, three times! Little by little, the door opened until suddenly giving way to Azrath's bulk on the fourth push.

He stumbled forward, mercifully managing to keep his balance. He tried to breathe a sigh of relief, but on the inhale, Azrath took in a good helping of dust disturbed by his entry. Choking and coughing, Azrath impulsively used his beard to cover his mouth and nose as he took a proper look around his childhood home.        

The room was too dark for Azrath to see, so he fumbled around the wall until he touched a glass fixture, willing a light into being. A sphere of white shined into life, filling the room with its glow. One by one, four other fixtures lit up. Azrath was surprised that there was any Eingh left after so long. Reserves only lasted a few years, but he supposed that some of his father's will still lingered within these walls, and Azrath could easily guess where the source might be.

Azrath wanted to head directly for the office, but looking around the den made a mixture of nostalgia and loss well up in his throat. The ivy had not only overtaken the outside of the home but the inside as well. It had crept in from the chimney and the windows. It was not enough to let the frequent rain and fog in, but the house had begun to rot, as indicated by the rank smell of decay. 

His heart hurt as he saw the nearly ruined carpet by the fireplace where he and Emuè played as children, studied as students, and enjoyed each other's company. He had always hated that carpet, but it was an heirloom from his mother's side of the family, so there it stayed. 

His eyes drifted naturally to the large wooden rocking chair where his father would sit after a long day of smithing. Azrath's eyes fixed on the small writing gouged into one of the front legs. As a mischievous youth, Azrath had gotten the idea that if he wrote his name on things, they would belong to him. He had written his name onto everything he could get his hands on in ink, but with his father's chair, little Azrath had the bright idea of using one of his father's knives to make the chair his in a more permanent way. The lecture he had gotten from both his father and Emuè would make anyone want to wither up and die. Yet his father had kept the carving, saying that the chair would be Azrath's once he was done using it.

Azrath's lips quivered slightly at that memory. Thinking of that chair made the pain of losing his father as fresh as if he had died only yesterday. His mother had died as well while he was off to war. The pain of her death still lingered as well, but it was far less sharp. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He had come here for a purpose; he needed his father's journal.

Azrath tore his gaze from the chair, focusing his attention on the door to his left. This door was much easier to open, probably because it had less exposure to the elements. The light automatically lit as he entered the next room. It was as if his father was guiding him to his destination—or so he'd like to think—a hallway with three other doors. Azrath entered the center door, walking into the study as the light lit for him.

It was a simple study, with only a desk and a bookcase filled with books on smithing techniques and the language of enchanting. Azrath had read them many times, trying to understand any of the wisdom they contained. He had never been particularly great at smithing, but he had learned as much as he could about the craft. As for the books on enchanting, he could hardly read a word. They were written in an ancient language that was only ever to be written. The words held no power when spoken, but when they were written, they could be imbued with the writer's will, but only to those who understood them, which Azrath did not.

However, his father did, and through these words, he created the Blade of Urzuran. It had taken him years of work and study to figure out the perfect combination of words to carve into the sword, but he had eventually done it, and it could not be recreated by any other smith who tried, even when they knew the words. Some said that it was a fluke, to which his father agreed. "The sword is as much a mystery to me as anyone else," he had told them.

Azrath shook his head again. Stop getting distracted, you old fool! Just get that book! Maybe his age was getting to him. Azrath was by no means an old man, but his hair and beard had turned grey a few years ago, which upset him greatly. He had at least a little pride in his appearance, even if there was no one else who could appreciate it.

He quickly scanned each of the books, looking at the titles but refusing to think of the contents lest he distracted himself again. No luck. None of the journals were among the thick volumes, leaving only one place. Moving to the desk, Azrath opened the lone drawer, which was empty except for what he was looking for.

"Aha!" There were six of them sitting snugly in three neat stacks within the drawer. They were all similar, medium size, and bound in thick leather. They looked to Azrath as if they had been waiting for him for over fifty years. The truth of those words resonated with Azrath. For as soon as his fingers closed around one of the spines, the light in the room shut off.

Azrath looked up, staring sadly at the place the light had once been. The last of his father's will was gone. His final wish was met.

His desire to be in this place had disappeared with the lights. Pulling each journal carefully from the drawer and balancing the stack in an arm, he made his way carefully out of the office, down the hall, and back into the main room where the lone light he had lit had also been extinguished, but he didn't need it to leave. Pulling the door shut behind him—it took considerably less effort to close it—Azrath began to make his way back to the palace, where he had left the sword.

He pulled the top journal off the pile and began to one-handedly thumb through its pages, hoping to find the passages his father wanted him to read. Notes on various enchantments filled many of the pages. As well as projects his father had worked on over the years. A few passages caught his attention, passages that seemed more like ramblings about this and that—mainly about the trouble Azrath caused as a child— which he guessed was just the way his father vented his frustrations. 

He chuckled here and there when he remembered a particular incident written in the book, and his heart skipped a beat every time his father mentioned Emuè's name. But he continued to skim until he reached the notes on the sword's creation. 

"Urzuran has been growing quite sick of late. He's had to isolate himself for days on end as he vents out the excess Eingh. That man's will is far too much for his body to handle. If only there were something I could do to help him. I have to think of a way for him to store that excess power before it becomes too much for him to bear."

Azrath was surprised at how informally his father treated the Great Urzuran, not capitalizing ‘him,' as was tradition. He even called Urzuran a man, as if he were equal to Him.

"Urzuran summoned me today. He requested a commission for a sword, which was a shock. He'd always been one to advocate for nonviolence, saying that life is something to be preserved and even worshiped. Our culture is based on this idea, yet he asks me to craft a sword. It has been eons since anyone's even thought of making one. I'll have to research the old smith's techniques. When I asked why he wanted a sword specifically, he told me, ‘I'm preparing for the inevitable.' What did he mean by that? I can never tell what that man is thinking."

Another entry, a few days later.

"His specifications are… interesting. He wants a blade enchanted to act as a conductor of Eingh. Simple enough, but then he told me also to make it store Eingh indefinitely. It's as if he knows what I've been planning. Though what he asks has been considered impossible, at least for Eingh. 

There are other forms of power capable of indefinite storage, like magic, but Eingh is a power born from the soul's will. There can only be power if someone wills it. By its very nature, Eingh is fleeting. Sure, if someone's will is strong enough, it can linger within an object for years, that's common knowledge, but even that has to fade eventually. But if Urzuran believes I can do it, then it can be done. I should have more faith in Him."

The following few pages were filled with design concepts wrapped with weaves of ancient enchantments. Azrath couldn't understand it, but he could at least tell that each intricate line was slightly different from the next. His father must have been working out the perfect sequence of words, changing one word at a time. He kept flipping page after page of variations, page after page of his father venting his frustrations at his failure. He reached the end of the first journal and switched to the next, carefully rotating the stack to find the next chronological entry. Dates flashed by, days turning into months, months into years. Until, after seven years of entries, he came upon this:

 "I did it. I don't know how, but I did it. What did I do that was different from the last failure? Was it the way I carved a certain letter, was it the depth in which I cut? I'm not sure myself, but it is finally done."

Azrath stopped walking and sat down along the roadside, placing the volumes he wasn't reading beside him on the ground. He was far too engrossed in the contents of the journals to want to multitask. He flipped the page; the entry was dated for the next day.

 "We're going to war. I presented the blade to Urzuran, and as soon as he had taken it, he told me we were joining that infernal War of Gods. What I feel is beyond words. I just do not understand what he is thinking. His justification is that we are joining to defend the defenseless, but at what cost? Have I aided in the deaths of countless Eziron?"

Next entry.

"My FOOL of a son is joining the war with the rest of his friends. Though I suppose that may be my fault. I let him worship Urzuran blindly for his entire life. I suppose I did as well, to a degree. I worry for him. He might fall into the same trap that I did. Only it might lead to his death. I'm not the only one, though, as soon as she found out, Emuè gave him such an earful, but that boy of mine is as stubborn as they come, just like her. I doubt even she can deter him from fighting."

"Please, Lord Urzuran, just bring my boy back safe to us."

Tears fell from Azrath's eyes, landing on the pages, blotting the ink what he would have done to have heard these words those centuries ago. His days as a Peacekeeper were some of the worst of his life. The things he witnessed— the things he did, all in the name of life and Urzuran, were unspeakable. But he had done them because he had faith in Urzuran. He still did, despite what his father believed. And now, in his life of solitude, it was all he had. Urzuran acted only for others. His desire to preserve life led him to sacrifice his own. His father knew nothing of the pain Urzuran suffered as he witnessed the death of innumerable people. The ground soaked with blood of every color, much of which He had spilled.

Azrath pushed those painful memories back into their place deep in his heart and continued reading. Each page was filled with worry for Azrath and mourning for his wife after she died, each entry ending with a variation of "bring my son back to us." It was hard to read, but he read every word.

"After two years, my boy has returned! Though it might be longer or shorter for Azrath since time can be drastically different from Eziro. But he is back in one piece. At least his body is. As for his soul, only Urzuran knows. Telling him about his mother was not easy. That added to his suffering. Why was fate so cruel? Emuè is far happier to see him than even I was if that's possible. Azrath seems happy to see her as well as he should. That girl could have married any boy she wanted, but she chose to wait for that stubborn fool. The first thing she told him when she saw him was ‘marry me, now. I've waited long enough.' They're going to see Urzuran tomorrow."

Azrath did not want to read what happened next. He did not want to relive his worst moment: the day of their wedding and the beginning of the Exodus. Nothing he did in the War of Gods could compare to what he did to her. His betrayal of his beloved.

As quickly as it was possible, he flipped through the pages that contained his father's thoughts on the Exodus, the subsequent years, Azrath's guilty confessions to his father, and his later journey to find someone, anyone else in the world, which of course had been in vain. He flipped through the following two journals in the same way.  

Barely glancing at the pages, Azrath flipped until, in the fourth journal, he stumbled on a page about his father cleaning a statue or something. He had no idea why his father would write about something so mundane. Azrath was about to turn to the next page when something about the passage caught his attention.

The entry was dated two hundred years after the Exodus: "…I figured since I was getting on in age, I would enchant a washcloth to aid me in my work maintaining Urzuran's statue. It's a simple enchantment. Not many words are required to imbue it. But as I was cleaning, the most curious thing happened. One moment, I was humming a tune as I worked, then my cloth was gone, vanished out of my hand. I thought I had dropped it, but it was nowhere to be found. Curious. Most curious."

Azrath was confused. A cloth that vanished into thin air, what did that mean? Azrath curiously thumbed through more entries until he found another about Urzuran's statue.

"…I brought another enchanted cloth with me today. I tried to recreate the scenario that had happened before, and, to my surprise, it worked again—no more cloth. I prepared myself, though, as I brought another cloth, this time not enchanted. Nothing happened. The cloth stayed in my hand. That was until I channeled Eingh through it. Then, poof! This is more than just an accident. Fate is at work. There is something important here that needs discovery. Should I tell Azrath? No, I might have a clue of what this anomaly might be, and if I know my son, he will not like what I might find. Not at all."

Gods may not be mortal, but even we are flawed, and that includes your Urzuran.

Those words echoed in Azrath's head once more. He didn't know why, but he was afraid that he was about to find out.