The bloody battles spread to three different worlds and leveled entire continents. Not one of Butterfly’s own friends survived. He saw each of them die over the course of the first eight years.
Though it’s been a very long stretch of time since, his idle moments still seep memories of wandering empty, ruined streets. He never knew what became of his mother.
What ended the war was not any treaty, but the cold. It put an end to summer and harvest so quickly, there was no time to adapt. The sky dimmed over the course of two-and-a-half vicious seasons. What could not flee—in ships, on celestial currents, through hastily conjured splices in time—froze and died. If any of the few surviving refugees ever found each other, that story is untold.
For his part, Butterfly had been fortunate to find a current that was steady enough and threw himself onto it. Glancing up a last time at the withering sky, he may have been the only witness to a tiny, but very bright, white flash—a single ragged lightning bolt that let fly two little embers. They flared, spun and vanished as the gentle pull of gravitational eddies drew Butterfly away.