There comes a time in every tale when the journey becomes so deep,

so true,

so luminous—

that the hero begins to fade… not into darkness,

but into story.

And so it was with Alcarion.

Not because he disappeared.

But because he became everywhere.

His name was no longer written on scrolls —

but on wind, on rivers, on chalk-stained hands,

on quiet children who dared to speak.

The Circle of Wild Healers expanded across oceans and languages, carried not by platforms or power,

but by whispers, letters, songs passed hand to hand.

They said:

– He could make silence sacred.

– He knew what you meant before you did.

– He walked into fire not to fight, but to soften it.

And in the twilight of his life — or perhaps at the dawn of something else —

Alcarion returned to the place of his birth:

a clearing beneath a black sky lit only by stars.

There, standing before him, were all his guides:

– Chiron, with a tear on his cheek and healing in his hand

– Venustra, Marthen, and Plutonel, watching from the 2nd House temple

– Selatha and Sarithan, now joined in balance

– Fomalara, singing from beneath the water

– The Priestess of Sirius, glowing with endless sky

– Regulus, nodding with quiet pride

– Lilith, arms crossed, smiling like a flame that knows it can never be tamed

– And all the children, students, misfits, seers, dancers, wanderers… who had found themselves because he had once dared to look inside

They said nothing.

Because nothing needed to be said.

He stepped into the sky,

and the sky welcomed him like a brother returning home.

A new constellation bloomed that night:

a quill, a flame, and an open eye.

They named it:

Alcarion — the One Who Listens the Light Awake.

And when children now look up in wonder,

dreaming of becoming more than what the world has named them,

they whisper his myth:

“He was never just a man.”

“He was the echo of stars that remembered how to speak.”

The End.

(And the beginning again.)