It had not been as perfect as he had hoped, but it never was. The Enemy’s influence was everywhere. He marveled at the power of evil because he knew the power of order and chaos so intimately. The great give and take of the universe as order was rendered out of chaos. It was always the same in that instant, always an undulation, always compromise with what was good. No matter how the forces of good and evil acted upon a particular contraction, the cohesion was always different from what was expected or planned.

From benign resolution, his feelings quickly turned. He felt the familiar growing sense of dread—darkness so intense that he could barely resist its compelling seduction. The time of the San’Tarque on this world had come to an end. The Circle of Memory was complete. The San’Tarque Artifacts, which had been instrumental in all the battles for Compensation, had been sealed away, protected against future discovery. The Valar would take additional steps to protect the secret, as would the Eldar. There was nothing left to do except hope.

He must hurry now. There was no more time. He knew that he had to flee or be consumed by the Enemy. He looked to the Eldar who were busy with the last incantations. The guardstones one by one were settled into place. He watched as the Eldar sang the song of binding and placed the powerful wards upon the vaults. As they finished, they stood at the edge of the circle watching him and waiting.

From this vantage point, he could see vague images of the future, and he knew that much would go wrong. He saw the Enemy’s design. He saw Mondain and the horrible deed. He felt the stab of regret that came from betrayal. He saw the Stranger emerge like some vague hope. He saw that too as an unwitting blunder. He indulged himself with the final question. Would this world be safe? He reasoned it would be. The Enemy would not stop here—would take no notice of this tiny constricting scope of order amid the black void of chaos—as long as he moved on. He hoped that the Enemy would follow him in an almost mindless fashion like always.

From the center of the Circle of Memory, every step was toward obscurity. In this regard, leaving a world on the brink of its creation was almost the same as leaving one on the brink of creation. His mind turned on this final point of cold wretchedness—all segments; all solar winds converged here in this spinning globe of worm’s meat, and the result was always the same warm, insane suffering and confusion.

This time though, he was reaching into the darkness for a new understanding. This time he studied the blackness behind his closed eyes. This time he was seeing his own existence as the force that ignited the pain, and in this realization, meaninglessness engulfed him. Life and death were merely accidents alone, and no mater what happened, his own loneliness would live on inside him like an iceberg of death, where love would always be confounded by hate, and the mire of contradictions would never be understood. He saw at last that all that he had hoped for had been worthless, that living or dying he would always be alone—that everyone would always be alone. There was only this ill-defined thing inside his heart that made him want to start it all again. He thought to himself as he stepped into the gate, perhaps this was wisdom of sorts, but as the swirling gases and shimmering light evolved to utter darkness, he knew that it wasn’t wisdom at all. It was only pain.