Queen Arran stood atop the outer wall, her eyes drifting across the land she once ruled. The gently rolling hills, the lush grasses, the narrow inlet just large enough to be an inconvenience, but not large enough to be useful; it was all as beautiful as it had been the morning prior. For a moment, she held a faint hope that it would remain that way for a day longer, but she knew such a thought was mere fancy.

The ground shook once more; the fourth and final leg emerged, showering the hills with fresh dirt as the earth roared. It was so slow. Perhaps it was showing mercy, giving time for one’s last breath to be used for goodbyes. It was a comforting thought, that even the instrument of their demise might hold some shred of humanity.

She turned away when the mountain finally rose free from the ground. All remained still as she walked down from the wall and into the streets, the only remaining soul in the city. Her people had abandoned her, but they were far from safe. No amount of distance would protect them from what was written. Be it ocean or land, death was coming for them all. The earth was merely the beginning.

The first step came when she stepped into the palace. The stained glass windows, portraying the landscape as it had been, shattered before her eyes. The hills were unrecognizable as they lay broken and ugly at her feet. And yet, she thought wryly, the glassy inlet was no less inconvenient than before.

She stepped gingerly through shards, trying to focus on the memory of their image, rather than the image of their future. As she wandered the empty halls, the second step caused her to stumble. Wood splintered, stone cracked, and when the quaking stopped, she found herself kneeling before the crooked archway of the garden.

She crawled numbly to her feet, seeing the garden was not untouched. The ground around her was bulging and misshapen. Delicate flowers were broken at the stalk, their petals torn or missing. The single magnolia tree lay flat on its side, branches crushed and roots exposed. Arran still held the memory of planting the tree as a little girl so many years ago. Perhaps it was foolish to mourn for a plant, but her fool was not there, so the task fell to her.

As she sat against the magnolia’s trunk, the garden was suddenly cast in shadow. The third step impacted. It was weaker, but it came with a great splashing, as the inlet seemed determined to hinder even the mightiest traveler in the smallest of ways. The sound of crashing waves immediately followed, deeper, heavier, accompanied by a piercing shriek that split the clouds, driving the final nail in the world’s coffin. The ocean had arrived.

Water seeped up from the ground, muddy and dark, yet still lighter than the serpentine shape rising to the south. Arran closed her eyes, focusing on the roughness of the bark against her fingers. She heard the roars, she felt the shaking, but all she saw behind the blackness of her eyelids was the gently rolling hills of the land she once ruled.