At the Bedside of Elycthes by Jason Campbell

I sat at the bedside of he who was called Elycthes, Sorcerer-King of all the inhabited lands once called the Imperium. In his mind dwell all the secrets of the Spheres, of Earth and Spirit, Water and Life. So too at his beck stand Death and Pain, weapons he once wielded as a soldier his blade, subduing one after another all the thinking men to the farthest horizons. It is said that he knows the one theurgic Phrase so powerful that once uttered, its supreme vibrations would unravel the fabric of Creation, leaving not even the whisper of dust behind. But he who was called Elycthes no longer wears that name. Now this wheezing husk is Aurenatri, the Golden Reborn: he who turned from darkness to light, the last of the dwellers in shadow to bend the knee to kindness. Though it cost the lives of 99 of my sisters, at the last he knew my love and it changed him forever. I sit now next to him, holding his feeble hand, he who once felt the stolen vigor of thousands course through his veins. I smile, joy flushing my face, knowing that he goes to his rest a man of peace. Bending close, I hear now his last wheezing, short slow sounds from his throat; it is the Phrase—