The ending unfurled with an inexorable and sombre revelation: the price for an attempt at salvation was a life.

Amidst its towering guards, sacred totems, revered shrines, devoted citizens, cherished history, brutal wars, Avatars, mortals, and Gods, the fate of the Dawnspear converged on the frail shoulders of a young boy named Dawlish. Murmurs of dissent echoed within the sacred chambers of the Oibri, and even softer whispers of disapproval murmured through the streets of Targossas. Was it fair to stake the survival of an entire civilisation on such tender youth?

But the decision was made.

His voice muted by tightly sewn lips and his skin marred by symbols of ancient rites, Dawlish approached his destiny, trying to emulate the heroes he had always admired. Terrified yet valiant, he channelled the spirit of warriors he'd mimicked during his more playful days at Rally Point.

He hoped they would remember him when he was gone. He hoped it would be enough to save the only place that ever welcomed him. He hoped his friends would be happy, and he hoped they would be proud to call him their friend. He hoped it would be enough.

He hoped.

When it was done the sands of Time shifted, granting years instead of mere days. But it was inevitable and relentless. Memory demanded its price and it would not negotiate.

The once-booming heart of the Dawnspear grew silent. Streets lay bare save for the caravans that snaked out and away. Some headed to New Hope and Jaru, but others paused to witness the denouement. The city, devoid of life, braced for its final act.

Then, like a phoenix consumed by flames, Targossas was engulfed. But this fire was no ordinary blaze; it attacked the very essence binding the city to the Prime. The city's lifelines were being severed, and the Excision was in motion.

All eyes turned to the Avatar of Righteousness.

In a declaration that shook the Reaches, Alyzar Al'Jafri took action, the spectral silhouette of Lord Deucalion in Memory mirroring each stroke. As the final threads were slashed, Targossas crumbled to its end.

The aftershock was profound as island after island tumbled into the abyss, leaving only fractured remnants in their wake. Silence, deep and haunting, enveloped the onlookers. They had traversed this path of loss before, and now fate would have them retread it.

Yet from despair emerged a glimmer of rebirth. A celestial roar rang out across land and sea in herald to both beginning and end. A blinding light, juxtaposed against the vastness, hinted at a new era. And from Memory's depths there was an obstinate female cry.

The Lightbringer acted swiftly, well-acquainted with the arduous task of city-building. In an act of Divine audacity She concluded years of work and wrenched Shallam from its moorings in Memory just as the Dawnspear fell to past promise. And thus did both cities momentarily collide, their dance a chaotic twining of one to another as the plane interplay grew ever more precarious.

In the wake of Shallam's expulsion by the Goddess, an ethereal explosion ensued as the final tether between Memory and Prime snapped. The fabric of reality mended, contradictions rectified, from two sets of ruins emerged something Old made New.

Targossas, the Guardians' Hearth, carved from Memory but moulded by its own fate, stood tall, asserting its rightful place upon Sapience.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Summary: The final links between Memory and the Prime were severed through the actions of Creation's guardians. Though the city known as the Dawnspear was destroyed in the process, instead Targossas rose anew in unity with the memories of lost Shallam to be rechristened the Guardians' Hearth.

Penned by My hand on the 17th of Chronos, in the year 928 AF.