(This story takes place in a land called Eldoria. It's a setting I created based on a dungeons and dragons campaign that I worked on a while back. The characters in this story other than the big bad were originally played by real people in a campaign together that I miss terribly.)
A quaint homestead sits on the quiet edge of the town of Rhydin, where farmland gives way to rolling hills and the distant roar of the gorgeous waterfall that draws most travelers to the town. Here, in the shadow of that sound, stands a single-story cottage made from wood and stone, with a weathered roof and stout chimney, a place clearly built with care more than wealth.
A worn dirt path winds from the road to the ochre hued shuttered windows and its solid wooden front door with a crescent moon and star etching a quiet tribute to a forgotten lullaby. A covered porch, with two chairs and a rough bench, overlooks a small vegetable garden and patches of wildflowers left to grow freely.
The setting sun cast long shadows across the farm, painting the landscape in hues of gold. John Jones sits on his porch in his favorite chair, contemplating his situation. He’d spent the afternoon wrestling with a stubborn patch of weeds, each bend and straighten of his back sending a dull ache through his spine, a constant companion in his twilight years. As he settled into his chair, striking a match to light his pipe, his hand trembled, a small, frustrating tremor that amplified the sensation of time slipping through his fingers.
“Even this simple act is a struggle now,” he mused, exhaling a plume of smoke that dissolved quickly.
At dusk he had hung lanterns from the porch and nearby trees, their flames wavering, struggling to stay lit as a cool breeze would come and then subside consistently, the earth itself seeming to breathe.
“What use is a man when even his hands betray him? … Waiting. That’s all I'm good for now. Just waiting for the last echo of my heart to fade, for the promise of quiet reunion to finally arrive.” he said.
The long roads and endless travel of his youth were a distant dream, a past life of vibrant chaos that now seemed totally foreign to the man he was. A man who often felt a pang of guilt for ever having relished such untamed freedom when his beloved Gwen and Lily were gone. He was able to keep this guilt at bay, standing defiant with companions in battle. These days he was just surrounded by reminders of what he had lost.
It had been decades since he’d drawn a blade in anger. Fields of grain were in a way kinder than battlefields, and his hands, once so sure with a sword, had long since traded steel for soil. His aches were no longer trophies of survival, merely the cost of getting out of bed each morning. The only thing that kept him going now was the eventual promise of death. That promise of being reunited with his wife and daughter that he had lost tragically so many years ago. Memories flooded his mind often. He could hear Gwen’s laughter. Almost feel Lily’s small hand in his.
As he sat on his porch, smoke from his pipe curling into the cool air, the world stilled. The cicadas fell silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Suddenly, a familiar feeling of calm washed over him. He thought it strange, and his eyes noticed something moving in the distance. A flickering of shadows. At the treeline, a figure emerged. John readied himself and cautiously looked about for anything he might use to defend himself. Then he saw her. Her long, sable hair, resting about halfway up her back, had caught the last glow of the sun. She wore a knee length dress of emerald green with intricate patterns embroidered upon it with what appeared to be a silver thread. Just for a moment John’s heart lurched. His Lily… or what she might have looked like had she lived to be a woman. Then she spoke, and he immediately knew.
“Hello, John,” the figure said in a hushed tone, her voice carrying both the comfort of memory and the weight of eternity, a subtle vibration that seemed to hum in the very air around her.
John slowly exhaled, the pipe smoke wavering, his posture stiffening almost imperceptibly as the familiarity, and something deeper, settled over him. “Ahhh… Breya. You always did like wearing familiar faces,” he muttered.
“I thought it might ease your heart, my old friend” she replied, her expression warm, not mocking, yet with an ancient wisdom in her eyes that belied the simple kindness. “Do you wish me to change it?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s alright. I wasn’t expecting to see you again, is all.”
Breya stepped closer, and in the lantern light her eyes shimmered and glowed like starlight. It had been many years since he had seen her. He wondered to himself what she could possibly want.
She spoke with a sense of urgency, “Something terrible has happened. Some friends of ours need your help. Delivesh and Damascus have been taken by a deeply disturbed warlord known as Malkor. He has machinations and desires to rid the world of all divine influence. He toys with rituals older than kingdoms, magics far beyond his grasp. He seeks to rip the magical power from their souls. He’s chained the two of them deep in a fortress warded by runes from the First Age. They’ve been imbued with such power that I can’t get close. I would be ripped apart if I dared.”
The words struck him like a physical blow, ripping him from the present and plunging him into the deafening roar of a memory. All at once, he was back in some shattered ruins in a distant corner of Eldoria. The air was thick with the scent of blood. Damascus, a whirlwind of motion, his pale drow skin a stark contrast to his dark, intricate leathers, sang a chilling dirge that electrified the air around a charging beast, its momentum faltering as invisible bonds constricted it, before a flash of his short sword completed the kill. Beside him, Delivesh, her shoulder length white hair a beacon against the gloom, her dark eyes alight with raw power, conjured a searing column of fire from the cracked earth, incinerating a wave of advancing soldiers. Her magic bent the very air to her will, leaving nothing but ash in her wake. And a younger, more formidable John, moved through the fray like a shadow, his longsword was a blur, a dance of steel and precision, finding openings, every movement lethal.
He remembered the easy trust between them and the unspoken understanding in the heat of battle. A bond forged in shared danger, victory, and loss.
“John, did you hear me?” Breya asked.
He snapped back to the present. Slowly, John leaned back in his chair, his joints protesting, a reminder of the body that had betrayed him into a life of quiet waiting. After a moment he spoke, “That’s truly awful. But why not find someone younger and stronger? Some bright-eyed sellsword with knees that still work?”
Breya sat in the chair beside him, her gaze steady. “Because those wards and the magic he's using drain him. He’s put so much of his power into them that at this moment, he's weakened. Dangerous… yet mortal. But not for long. And you…,” the edges of a sly smile tugged at her lips, “you know how to kill dangerous, mortal things better than anyone else alive.”
For the first time in a long time, John was overtaken with a deep laughter that slowly evolved into a coughing fit. Breya seemed unamused.
After he regained his composure, he spoke. “You know I'm no longer the man I once was.” John muttered, his voice low and rough. These hands can barely lift a plow some days, let alone a sword.” He looked past her, out to the fields he’d coaxed into life, and the peace he’d earned. This wasn’t mere land. It was a sanctuary, a carefully constructed barrier against the very chaos that Breya now offered to restore. A lone owl hooted in the distance. Ordinarily, this would bring him comfort, but it now felt like an echo of the solitude he’d chosen. “I wouldn’t make it past the gate.”
“I know, friend,” she said, her voice calm but solemn. “That’s why I brought you this.”
She opened her hand and lifted her palm. Above it, a mote of light bloomed, no larger than a coin but pulsing like a heart. Silver and pale gold threads of light unraveling and reknitting around it. The air around it hummed, and reality itself bent to keep its distance. John felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He’d lived countless lives and experienced untold wonders, but nothing quite like this. A strange warmth began to emanate from the mote, a subtle draw, a whisper of impossible power.
“What in the nine hells is that?”, he exclaimed.
“A piece of my essence,” Breya said, her tone carrying the weight of something sacred. “Not magic. Not a blessing. A fragment of me. Take it into yourself, and time will loosen its grip. The ache, the weakness, all gone. You’ll stand and fight as the man you were. Much stronger even.” Her expression hardened. “But know that mortal flesh is not meant to hold the breath of a god. When that spark burns out, and it will, it will take you with it. Even if you win, John, you will not see another harvest. Unfortunately, there is no other way.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the steady thrum of the mote, like a heartbeat echoing in the still night. John’s gaze drifted over his farm. The darkening silhouette of the barn, the small fields he’d plowed with aching hands, the house that felt too empty for a man who’d buried everyone he’d ever loved. The irony of it was brutal: he yearned for the sweet reunion of death, and here was a path that would grant him both one last ride and a certain end. Was this a detour, a final bloody errand, before peace? Or was it a last, glorious act to prove his worth, not to the living, but to the memory of those he’d lost? Maybe both.
He saw the drow twins in his mind. The friends who had always had his back and bled beside him. He could simply refuse and let his life dwindle here on the farm while he waited for what would come. But the images of their faces, twisted in torment while shackled in a warlord's chains, was a sharper agony than any ache in his bones.
After some reflection he spoke, “‘Loyalty isn’t given. It’s earned.’ That’s what my father always said. And those two earned mine with their blood. Time and time again. This farm will be fine without me. It’ll keep going under someone else’s eye anyway. I’ll do it.”
Her voice turned serious, “Are you certain?”
“For them… I’ll do it,” he barked.
“So be it”, she said.
She slowly raised her hand to his chest and placed her palm on it. As she did, the mote sank beneath his skin. For a moment, he felt nothing, a brief, terrifying stillness. Like a switch, his mind reeled, everything hurt, and he felt dizzy. He was struck by a maelstrom of raw energy that threatened to tear him apart from the inside. Brilliant white light exploded from his eyes, flooding the porch with light, and for a moment he screamed. Silver and gold rivers of light crackled beneath his skin as this essence of a god flowed through his veins. A feeling of exhilaration came over him. His back arched, a gasp escaping from his throat as decades melted away. Familiar aches were replaced by a silence in his bones. A stillness he hadn’t felt in years. Wrinkles smoothed. Muscles swelled. His spine straightened until he stood tall once more. His hair and beard, once white, turned a deep black.
The blazing light in his eyes slowly dimmed before settling back to his familiar green. A cold dread settled too. A clear understanding of the finite nature of this power. The ticking clock was now louder than any memory. His newfound youth was a great, but horrifying gift, and its cost was making itself known. His mind calmed and he realized how good he felt. He flexed his fingers, marvelling at the strength in his grip.
“My god,” he gasped, “Feels like I could tear the world in half!”
Part of Breya delighted in seeing this man, who meant so much to her, in the state in which they met, long ago. Nevertheless, her expression became grave. “Remember old friend, the brighter the flame, the faster it burns.”
John smirked faintly. “Not the first time I've been on borrowed time. Now, let's see if my armor fits again.”
He opened the door, beckoning to Breya, and walked into his home. The heart of the house was the main room, a space warmed by the crackling fire and the scent of woodsmoke and dried herbs that Gwen had hung from the rafters. Two mismatched rocking chairs, one that John had built himself, sat near the hearth behind a crimson woven rug that had faded from years of use. The walls bore the quiet reminders of the life he’d lived way back when. A faded carnival poster from his traveling days, the words Midnight Mirage a little worn but still legible. He ran a thumb over the creased paper, his mind flitting through memories like pages in a book.
He shifted his gaze away, moving to the large portrait of John, Gwen, and Lily that was painted with oils by a family friend that hung above the mantle. His eyes lingered on Gwen’s smile and on Lily’s happy face. A fierce new resolve hardened within him. This was for them too. A final act of the man they had known. In the corner, Lily’s wooden toys still filled a small chest, the lid slightly ajar, waiting for her return at any moment.
One day, little one he thought, a wave of bittersweet determination washing over him, “One day.” John sighed as he looked around the room and after a moment passed he walked into his bedroom, Breya in tow behind him.
The bedroom, though simple, carried an intimacy that felt heavier after their loss. A sturdy wooden bed sat beneath the lone window, draped in the thick unadorned quilt that Gwen had sewn, its stitches uneven but strong. On the bedside table rested a lit but waning candle stub, a flint striker, and his wife's hairbrush, strands of her black hair still caught in its bristles. John reached for the brush, his fingers tracing the worn wood. A large chest sat closed at the foot of the bed. The open wardrobe against the wall opposite it held his mostly worn clothes, but Gwen’s dresses and other garments still hung untouched, their faint scent of lavender lingering despite the years. At the bottom, a dark green bag full of travelling supplies gathered dust.
Though the space was still, every corner whispered with memory. Gwen humming along as she braided her hair each morning while he sang to her. Lily running and climbing into the bed during storms because she felt safe with them. For John, those recollections, once blurred and softened by time, now returned with startling, vibrant clarity. The pain sharper, the love more palpable, a force that both anchored and propelled him. Breya felt his emotions and thoughts running wild as they entered the room.
She broke the silence and spoke softly, “I know you miss them beyond words, John. Be assured, they wait for you.”
He looked at her solemnly and nodded, knowing somehow that there was divine truth to her words.
After a moment, he turned his attention to his aged chest. It opened with ease. Inside, beneath a folded wool blanket and a few scattered keepsakes, lay the suit of leather armor that he hadn’t worn in years. The armor was dark, weathered brown, softened and cracked at the edges from long use, yet still serviceable. Each piece smelled faintly of oil and age. Scars and cuts marred the surface, some stitched, others left as they were, reminders of battles fought on the road. Underneath it rested his longsword with a simple crossguard, the shimmering steel polished and sharp thanks to his habitual care. The grip was wrapped in dark, fraying leather, molded to his hand from all the years of wielding it.
The armor and sword were less like tools now and more like relics of another life, tucked away and rarely touched, but always there, waiting, knowing the day would come when he might have need of them again. He donned his armor and tightened it, swaying around, dancing as with a familiar love.
“Fits great. She’ll do just fine,” he said in a low, gruff tone. He reached down slowly and picked up the sword that he hadn’t had use for in decades and swayed it around, feeling the weight and nearly perfect balance of the blade. “I sharpened her last autumn. She’s ready to go as well.”
His eyes glanced back down to the chest. In the corner near where the armor and sword had lain lay a small unadorned wooden box. John reached down and opened it, and there it was, the small silver chain, cool to the touch, with the little locket still hanging from it. He turned it over in his hand, thumb running gently along the engraving on the back as he stood. The clasp creaked as he opened it, revealing the tiny hand drawn faces of his family, frozen in time, but smiling. For a moment, the room felt whole again, full of sunlight and soft voices. His throat tightened. He closed the locket carefully and slipped it into his pocket, where it belonged.
Breya looked at him, truly looked at him, and for a fleeting moment, she saw not just the man before her, restored to his formidable youth, but the echoes of their shared history. She remembered the day she met him, then she had taken the form of a younger child. She had seen this towering mountain of a man with a strength beyond even his appearance, yet she could sense a deep compassion lay in him. A confidence that couldn’t be broken. She recalled the efficiency of his movements in the crucible of battle, a readiness to cross lines others dared not, all in service of his own code. He had protected her at all costs without thought for himself. This man had good in his heart. He strove to be a better man, with a fierce, unrelenting desire for redemption. For purpose beyond mere survival. That was what had drawn her that day to his mortal, tempestuous life.
She returned to the present moment and said, “You look magnificent, John. We must make way at once.”
He nodded. "Let's go then."
His hand found the strap of his travel bag, but his feet remained rooted. His eyes performed one last, slow sweep of his home, drinking in every sight and lingering scent. Countless shared moments seemed to rise from the very floorboards, a symphony of lost laughter and forgotten conversations. He paused, a deep breath swelling his lungs, consciously imprinting the essence of this place into his mind. The sanctuary he was leaving behind forever.
"This is for them," he reminded himself. With a newfound resolve, he stepped outside the front door, closing it behind him. "One last road," he said, the words a quiet promise to the approaching night.
They wasted no moment, their footsteps already falling into a shared rhythm as they left the familiar bounds of his farm behind. The dirt path stretched ahead, a faint scar in the encroaching shadows. The last lingering light kissed the distant hills, painting the sky in bruised purples and dying embers. With each stride, John felt the earth firm beneath his renewed strength, a force that propelled him forward into the vast countryside, the quiet descent of night their only witness as the journey began.
After walking for some time they came upon a fork in the road. The road split beneath a well worn wooden marker, its weathered surface carved in forgotten days with words travelers no longer bothered to read. The northern trail vanished into the hills, the route wide open and stony, the shortest route to Malkor’s lands, but rife with bandits and other creatures. The southern path bent lazily around the range of mountains, a road John remembered from his youth, when he’d imagined there’d be time enough in the world to walk every road twice. It was much worse in those days, but he knew it was rarely used anymore.
He crouched by the post, fingers pressing into the dirt, the cold grit grounding him as the decision settled in his mind. His body was young again and every tendon and muscle felt alive. He was restless and eager to push forward. But the weight of years whispered to him, the instincts of a man who knew rushing into a fight wasn’t bravery, but stupidity. He had learned that lesson well.
“This one,” he said, his voice rough but certain as he gestured to the longer road. “I’ve spilled enough blood in mountain passes. The long road will cost me time, but spare me trouble.”
Breya stood behind him, watching with eyes like distant starlight, a shimmer rolling along her emerald gown, the fabric stirred by currents no wind could touch.
“Time isn’t yours to spend freely anymore,” she murmured, her voice soft, the edges carrying that strange, double-toned resonance that had begun ever since they drew nearer Malkor’s influence. “Every moment this godlight burns, so do you. But I trust your judgment. Very well. The long road it is.”
John pushed himself upright, the motion effortless in a way that felt alien, for his body had become something other than just his own. He didn’t answer Breya. He flexed his hands absentmindedly, watching the way the tendons shifted beneath his skin, a strength that thrilled and repulsed him in equal measure. Every breath felt fuller, every movement smooth, free of the aches and stiffness that had once been constant, and yet that absence left him uneasy, as if some vital part of his humanity was being stripped away. He adjusted the strap of his pack, feeling the weight settle comfortably against his shoulder, and turned his eyes toward the fading northern hills, their silhouettes sinking into the purple haze of twilight. For a moment, he lingered, listening to the distant sigh of the wind through the grass and the soft creak of his boots as he shifted his stance. Without another word, he started walking east, each step sinking slightly into the damp earth.
The road stretched empty before them, a pale ribbon of packed dirt winding through the rolling hills that marked the edge of the countryside. On either side of the trail, groves of maple trees proudly stood tall, their canopies swaying with the wind. The occasional patch of wildflowers and morels scattering bursts of color along the way. The sun hung low in the sky, staining the clouds in soft golds and pinks, and far in the distance, the silhouettes of ruins dotted the horizon like watchful sentinels. A warm breeze carried the earthy scent of tilled soil and blooming clover, and the only sounds were the rhythmic thud of their boots and the distant chirr of cicadas. The long route was quiet so far and John preferred it that way. After years of chaos at every turn of the path, the unbroken calm felt like a reprieve.
As they walked, Breya glanced sidelong at John. “You ever get tired of roads like this? All the nothing in between?” she asked, her voice breaking the steady drone of the evening insects.
John shook his head, his eyes tracing the crest of the next hill where the sky seemed to stretch endlessly. “Not anymore,” he replied, his voice low and steady. “I used to think silence meant I was wasting time. Now it feels like the only thing in this world that doesn’t take something from you.”
Breya smirked at that. “Guess there’s peace in boredom.”
John let out a quiet grunt that might’ve been a laugh, adjusting the strap of the pack slung over his shoulder. “Peace is rare. I’ll take it where I can.” The two continued on quietly, their figures small against the vastness of the road, as the last of the sun’s glow faded and the first stars began to prick through the deepening black of the sky.
They made camp beneath a sparse stand of birch trees, their pale trunks catching the firelight and gleaming. John built a small fire, its soft crackle filling the silence alongside the distant croak of frogs rising from a nearby hollow and the subtle scent of damp moss lifting from the ground. He ate a simple meal of hard bread and dried meat while Breya sat across from him, her gaze fixed on the shifting glow of the embers as they broke apart and collapsed into ash. The quiet of the night pressed in gently, broken only by the call of a lone owl somewhere beyond the trees. As the fire dwindled to glowing coals, he rolled his blanket out, resting beneath the birches until dawn crept pale and cool through the branches. When morning came, he packed his things in silence and set back onto the road, the air crisp with the lingering scent of last night’s smoke as the trail started curving northward.
The wilds were silent that morning. Almost too still. The air felt heavy. No insects buzzed. No birds called. Only the hollow whistle of wind threading through the trees that bordered the path as they walked. The silence seemed to amplify every soft crunch of leaves beneath their feet, every creak of a distant branch. The land carried an eerie weight John couldn’t quite name, though he’d traveled this way before, once or twice, many decades ago. Then it had been a busy stretch of road. They descended into a shallow glade, where the ground turned softer underfoot. A smell hit John, a choking tang of metal and rot, thick enough to catch at the back of his throat and cling there like smoke, making the air taste foul. He slowed, his eyes darting around as the scent enveloped him, and that was when he saw them.
Two figures lay sprawled by the roots of a great oak, their weapons scattered where they’d fallen. One was missing an arm entirely, ragged claw marks raking across his torn leathers. His pack had fallen beside him, torn open, with contents spilling out. He saw clothing, as well as a bundle of rope, a flint, and a number of other adventuring supplies. Near to the man was a broken lute, made of mahogany stained an emerald green, inlaid with gold engravings of trees, mushrooms, and a flower or two. The fretboard, apparently torn off mid battle, its strings torn and broken, sat a few feet away.
The other gentleman, a much larger man, sat upright, back braced against the tree, a broken sword clutched tight in his death stiffened grip. He investigated the man's weapon. He could tell it was forged from high grade steel with care. Whatever killed them was strong enough to break the sword in half. The ground bore deep gouges and blackened arcs, scorch marks clawing through the grass, suggesting something massive had whipped through with lethal precision.
John crouched, running his fingers along one of the gouges. The claw mark was so wide his whole hand could fit inside.
“Not fresh,” he muttered, his brow furrowing. “But not a bear. These claws were longer… heavier. Violent and wild.” His eyes scanned the treeline, his jaw tightening. “I know this place. Years ago, two manticore brothers hunted these woods. My friends and I killed them both.” His hand lingered on the scarred earth. “Perhaps we missed another.”
Breya hovered beside him, her edges flickering like a reflection in rippling water. Her eyes swept the carnage and the scorched earth.
“If whatever killed them lives, it will likely return soon.” Every fiber of her being told her to push him to continue on. Time will not be forgiving. We cannot slow for any reason, she thought to herself. Her voice, softly doubled, sharpened for a moment. “We should move. Every second feeds the spark, John. The longer we stay, the faster it burns you. Your gift and the lives of your friends depend on it.”
John looked at the corpses. Two nameless souls, cut down and left to rot. Strangers, but not so different from those he’d once buried shoulder to shoulder after battle, people with no one else to lay them to rest. Slowly, he unstrapped the worn spade from his pack and drove it into the soil with a heavy thrust.
“They deserve a grave,” he said. “I can be quick… And I won’t leave them for the animals.”
Breya hesitated, watching the first scoop of earth fall to the side. To her, the weight of each second was tangible. She could feel the ember within John burning brighter, consuming his mortal thread one breath at a time. Every shovelful was a flame licking closer to its end. But she said nothing. It would do no good. This was who John was. Even with death creeping through his veins, even knowing every heartbeat carried him closer to his own grave, he would not pass the dead like mere trash. This stubborn, at times infuriating decency was part of why she had stayed with him so many years ago. It was what made him more than a weapon. She stepped back and let him work.
The earth was compacted and dense, but his renewed strength made the task swift. Neither spoke as two shallow graves took shape beneath the oak. When the pits were ready, John lifted the bodies carefully, laying each within as the comrades they were in life. He crossed their arms, closed their clouded eyes with a rough but gentle hand. He placed the broken parts of the lute on the top of the smaller man’s chest. From the larger man, he took a dagger with an intricately rune carved white bone hilt. Its obsidian blade was wrapped in a sheath made of what he thought might be dragon scales, as they shimmered with a soft rainbow like hue. It was the only token that man carried, and he placed it atop his folded hands before covering them both in dirt.
He tamped the soil down, set two stones as crude markers, and stood over them for a moment. He whispered a half-forgotten blessing in his mothers tongue. Words that she had whispered at funerals when he was a boy. He didn’t understand most of the words he said, but they brought him comfort nonetheless. The old language was rough in his throat, but the sound of it settled into the glade like a small, quiet peace. His mother would be proud. When the final clod of dirt was pressed into place, John brushed his hands clean and looked down at the mounds. With a grunt, he hefted his pack again.
“Come on. If the beast continues to hunt, we may have enough time to get through here before it returns.”
Breya’s voice, softer now, resonated oddly. “This land hums with old wounds,” she said as they turned from the glade. “Malkor’s magic is stirring things best left buried. Even time feels thin here. He won’t end with gods. His machinations certainly go further.”
What little she knew of the madman’s true motives terrified her. John gave one last glance at the graves before the trees swallowed them, the wind wisping through the glade behind them, carrying something almost like a sigh for the dead.
That night, miles further on, beneath a sky scattered with cold, bright stars, they made camp by the crumbling remnants of a stone wall. The firelight cast Breya’s features in soft tones, but her outline blurred at the edges. Sometimes, the flames passed straight through her, throwing shadows where she should have blocked the light.
“You’re unraveling,” John said quietly, turning a branch in the fire. “The closer we get, the less… here you are.”
Breya’s smile was faint, almost brittle. “Malkor’s magic exhausts me. You help anchor me, John. That has helped me remain here this long…,” she said.
John’s eyes stayed on the flames. “I’ve always wondered why you pulled me into all this. Way back then. What was it that made you choose me to help you? You could’ve gotten anyone. Surely there were countless men with less weight in their souls. Less darkness to overcome.”
Breya’s flickering steadied for a moment as her gaze met his. “Because you weren’t like the others. When I met you, you were a man who had every excuse to be cruel, to take what you wanted… but you didn’t. You bore your strength like a burden, not a gift. You risked yourself for strangers who would never remember your name. And…” Her voice softened, almost human. “You reminded me what it felt like to care for mortals, as I used to, even knowing I would lose them all.”
He looked up, meeting her luminous eyes. “And now, here I am, at the end of my days, dying for my friends.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes,” she said softly. “That is what compelled me to follow you all those years ago.”
When the fire sank to glowing embers, John stretched out beside it, his pack serving as a makeshift pillow. The ruins around him faded to a dark and uneasy quiet. The only sound was the gentle hiss of wind through broken stones. Sleep fell upon him quickly, as heavy as a tide pulling him under. His dreams were a strange mix of color and shapes. He saw visions of things he couldn’t comprehend. He’d never dreamt anything like it. He wondered if it was his mind attempting to reconcile the energy that he could feel flowing through his mind like an inferno. The strange sleep didn’t last long.
A loud crack awakened him. A branch snapping somewhere close beyond the crumbling wall. Another sound followed, low and heavy, the crunch of a weighted footfall in dry leaves. His eyes snapped open, his heart hammering as a cold, unnatural calmness settled over the night. He noticed the fire had burned low, its embers dim and smoldering, when a vast shadow blotted out the stars in front of him.
A massive shape landed beyond the edge of camp, sending a shiver up his back. A god damned manticore! he thought, its human-like face twisted into a shape of pure rage. It had the body of a lion adorned with scars and bits of metal protruding from half healed wounds, its mane, tangled and torn. A long tail covered with spikes was barely visible behind its large leathery wings, one of them tattered, but still deadly. A piercing scream of wings and a guttural wail came next. Its one good amber eye burned with a hatred so deep it almost seemed human; the other, cloudy and scarred, only made it look more like a creature born of spite.
For an instant, John saw something more than anger there: a glimmer of recognition, a memory dredged from years past. The creature’s maw split into a snarl, its voice tearing through the night like metal on stone.
“Ahhhh… The coward returns. The meat that left my brother to the worms! I licked his blood from the stones where he fell. I dreamed of your screams as I chewed his bones. And now… NOW, you will scream for me the way he did!” The humid stench of its breath assaulted his senses.
John shook it off and rose with a quick breath, no weapon in hand, his muscles moving by instinct alone. He recognized the beast instantly.
“You talk too much!” he yelled.
The creature’s roar split the night like a crack of thunder, and then it lunged. The first impact sent John sprawling, claws raking across his shoulder and ribs, the tips biting through leather and skin with burning heat. He grunted, rolling to his feet as the manticore’s tail lashed overhead, poisoned barbs whistling through the air. The next strike caught his thigh, shallow but enough to send a flare of pain through him.
He bared his teeth, carefully grabbed the tail mid-swing, and wrenched. The beast shrieked, stumbling sideways. John drove forward, fists hammering into its jaw and skull. Each blow landed with a sickening crack, breaking bone and spraying hot blood into the cold night air. The manticore’s claws tore into his side again in a desperate swipe, leaving three jagged gashes. It lunged again, fangs snapping, but John pivoted, seized its throat with both hands, and heaved the manticore over his head. His roar echoed the creature’s own as he slammed it against the crumbling stone wall with such force that the wall collapsed around them. The brute’s spine shattered with a wet, splintering sound. Its body fell to the ground and twitched once, then stopped.
John staggered back, breath ragged, his hands trembling. The wounds along his shoulder, ribs, and thigh burned… then began to knit shut unnaturally fast, flesh pulling together, stitched by unseen hands. It should have reassured him. It didn’t. Black veins crawled beneath his skin, covering his hands and winding their way up his forearm, pulsing dimly like ink through glass. His heart skipped a beat as a deep cold set in his bones. Pain lanced through his skull, blinding and white-hot. A sickening nausea hit him and he stumbled for a moment, dizziness overtaking him.
The world tilted, and there they were. His family, their faces serene, hands outstretched in the flickering light, beckoning him away from all this violence. He heard Gwen call his name, her voice, though distant, reverberated through his skull. Breya’s silhouette coalesced nearby, her form dim and translucent, her voice layered and distant.
“The ember of divinity is taking its toll,” she warned. “We cannot delay.”
John tore his gaze from the phantom faces, the image of Gwen's smile persisting in his mind even as the taste of blood filled his mouth. He spat, wiping it away with the back of his hand, his jaw tight.
The rapid healing was a grim reminder of the bargain he'd struck, a whisper of the fire burning within him.
"I know," he rasped, his voice raw. He looked at the manticore's shattered corpse, then at the crumbling wall.
"Just... give me a moment." He closed his eyes, drawing a shuddering breath, trying to push the images of his family and the unsettling thrum of power from his mind. When he opened them again, his resolve hardened.
"Let's get moving."
They continued into the morning. The road was dark and empty, even the light of the sun avoided this cursed place. In the mid afternoon, the black fortress rose ahead, jagged spires clawing into a storm-choked sky. The closer they drew, the more the land twisted. The trees split and blackened, the ground cracked as if broken from below. A slow rain began to fall, cloaking the way forward in an ominous mist. Breya was no longer physically present, her voice was an echo on the wind. “Not much longer to go.”
Suddenly, one of Malkor’s patrols came out of the mist like wraiths not too far in front. Six figures, silent and calculating, their armor a patchwork of dark steel and bone, each plate etched with veins of glowing crimson. The runes pulsed consistently, like heartbeats, spreading along their armor and up their helms, which were wrought in twisted visages. Their elongated mouths and hollow eyes with faces stretched into expressions of mockery and rage. The sigils crawled with dim light, and as the soldiers moved, John could feel the magic in the air, the static stinging against his skin.
None of them spoke. But they saw him. Their movements were perfectly timed, intentioned. As one, they drew their weapons, curved swords of blackened steel, the edges glowing orange and crimson like iron pulled from a forge. John stepped forward, drawing his longsword with a rasp of metal against the sheath. His focus sharpened. His heart slowed, each beat heavy and strong as the essence inside him flared. They came at him like a swarm. The rain, now a downpour blurred his vision, but it felt like he could sense them.
The first two struck in tandem, blades flashing in a brilliant arc. John moved between them, his sword cutting low. He aimed between the breaks in the armor and one fell with his leg severed at the knee, a spray of dark blood hitting the cursed soil. The other he drove back with a shoulder slam, ribs cracking under the impact. A third soldier brought his blade down in a brutal overhead strike; John caught the blow on his crossguard, twisted, and drove his pommel into the man’s visor, caving it inward with a crunch.
The fight blurred into a storm of motion, steel on steel, sparks, blood, and the sound of breaking bone. One blade scored a line across his back, deep enough to make him grunt, and another slashed his forearm, a hot sting that nearly forced him to drop his weapon. But he didn’t falter. He drove forward, his sword carving brutal arcs, every strike precise and merciless. By the time the last soldier fell, the ground was slick with rain and blood, their crimson sigils flickering and going dark one by one.
John stood amidst the bodies, chest heaving, rain running pink down his arms. His back and forearm throbbed, the wounds lightly bleeding. He waited for the knitting of flesh… but it didn’t come. The cuts seeped slowly and stubbornly, seemingly refusing to close. He began to worry when he noticed the injuries slowly healing. He flexed his hands, staring at the blood. The consuming essence within him dimmed, beginning to sputter, even as he could feel it scorching its way through him.
Breya’s voice drifted to him mournfully. “Your strength wanes, John… and you are running out of time.”
John wiped the blood from his blade and sheathed it, his jaw set. His eyes fixed on the looming fortress through the storm.
“Then I’ll spend what’s left where it matters.”, he grunted defiantly.
“You know what to do. I’ll be waiting for you,” were her last words to him, her voice a soft whisper carried more through his mind than in the air.
The rainfall, a deluge now, and the wind howled as he trudged down the last hill alone, the black gates of Malkor’s keep yawning open in the distance.
The rain intensified even further. Sheets of it were hammering against the black stone of Malkor’s looming fortress, turning every surface slick and treacherous. The storm no longer felt natural. Each roll of thunder seemed to vibrate in John’s chest, not as sound, but as a deep resonance. Lightning spidered across the sky, bleaching the jagged spires for an instant before they sank back into darkness. The wind came in long, uneven gusts, carrying whispers that slid between the raindrops, familiar voices, or perhaps just a madness creeping into his mind.
John stood at the edge of the last rise, the fortress crouched below like a predatory beast in the mist. His fingers flexed around the grip of his longsword, the leather tacky beneath his gloves. The dark, intricate network of veins rippled beneath his skin, reaching past his elbows, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat. Every step now felt as if his bones carried embers, his blood heavy and hot.
He drew in a slow, careful breath, steam curling from his lips despite the warm rain.
“One last stretch,” he muttered under his breath, more to remind himself he was still there than to summon resolve. The spark within him pulsed in rhythm with the storm, sometimes surging in violent bursts that left him dizzy, other times guttering so low he feared it had burned out entirely.
The descent to the fortress wall was a series of measured bursts, each timed to the cracks of thunder. He moved like a shadow, darting between outcroppings and broken stone, his body obeying with practiced precision even as his thoughts lagged behind. Twice, he stopped to steady himself, leaning on his sword, his breath rattling. Each time, the spark’s pulse calmed just enough to allow him forward.
Two guards stood at the main gate, cloaks plastered to their armor by the rain, faces hidden by twisted helms. Their stances were loose, inattentive, their gazes outward. He sheathed his sword and pulled his trusty dagger from his belt. He moved when the next thunderclap split the sky, crossing the slick cobbles in a low, purposeful sprint. The first guard did not turn his head before John’s blade slid beneath his gorget, silencing him with a wet gurgle. The second spun, eyes widening, but John’s gloved hand clamped over his mouth as the dagger thrust into his gut. Both fell silently into the mud.
John crouched over their bodies for a moment, his vision wavering. The courtyard seemed to warp, the walls bending and rippling like reflections on disturbed water. A stabbing pain lanced behind his eyes, and when the world steadied, he realized he had bitten through his own lip. He spat blood onto the stone, wiped his chin, and continued.
The courtyard ahead was largely empty, though he saw a covered well to one side and a stable on the other. He checked and found the stable empty. The sound of the rain striking the stone in a relentless torrent was nearly deafening. The oppressive glow and hum of the runes etched along the inner walls barely pierced the storm. John’s boots splashed softly as he crossed the courtyard, his movements automatic. The spark inside him flared and dimmed in erratic waves, each flare gifting him strength, each dimming leaving him hollow, as though something were scraping pieces of his soul away one by one.
A trio of guards intercepted him near the inner doors, steel drawn and eyes hard with purpose. The fight that followed was brief, brutal, and without grace. His blade moved faster than thought, honed by desperation, striking into the gaps of their armor. Blood sprayed across the stone as one fell, then another, but not without cost. A blade found its mark, slashing deep across his ribs. The pain was immediate, hot, jarring, and bright. He roared through clenched teeth and drove his sword through the last man’s throat, but the effort sent a violent tremor through his limbs, nearly buckling his knees. The dark network that marred his skin pulsed, then spread like branching roots across his chest, blooming wider with each ragged breath. Something inside him was changing, and he didn’t have time to understand it.
He stumbled against a nearby wall, the cold bite of the rain indistinguishable from the blood trailing down his ribs. For mere seconds, the fortress vanished, replaced by the soft clatter of dishes and the sizzle and scent of bacon and eggs on the stove. Gwen stood there, humming a tune, her hair falling over one shoulder as she turned with a smile. Lily’s laughter wafted in from somewhere just out of sight. John blinked. The vision flickered, warped, and tore itself apart. Pain returned in a crashing wave as his knees struck stone. He stared at his hand, veins black as obsidian, and forced a breath into his lungs.
“Not yet,” he rasped, eyes burning. “Not… yet.” And with that, he pushed off the wall and forced his broken body forward, one step at a time.
The inner keep’s corridors were narrow and close, the air thick with the stink of mildew as he entered the dungeon. Flickering torches cast long, twitching shadows across the stone walls. Most of the cells were empty, chains clinking as winds stirred through. At the far end, he found them, Delivesh and Damascus, shackled by wrists and ankles, filthy rags forced into their mouths. Delivesh’s white hair was matted with blood, her dark eyes dim but watchful. Damascus, battered but upright, fixed him with a sharp, wary gaze.
John gripped her chains first. His hands trembled violently as he braced himself. The spark surged like a storm inside his chest as he pulled. The metal bent and then broke as if it couldn’t resist him. He pulled the rag from her mouth. He did the same for her brother but the effort drove him to his knees. His stomach clenched, and he coughed violently, dark blood striking the floor. The veins along his neck pulsed with each spasm, creeping higher, nearly reaching his jawline.
Delivesh sagged against the wall when her chains fell away, blinking through blood and grime. But when she truly saw John, and the familiar lines of his face, her eyes widened, then welled with tears.
“John… gods above, it’s really you.” Damascus let out a short, breathless laugh, disbelief breaking into something close to joy. “I thought you were a ghost. Or worse.”
John gave a chuckle, coughing again as more blood painted the floor, but he waved off their concern. “I’ve seen worse,” he rasped, forcing a smile.
“You shouldn’t be here. You look like absolute hell!” Delivesh exclaimed.
“And I wasn't about to let you rot in some bastard's dungeon.”
Damascus gripped John's arm with a sudden, fierce warmth. “You stupid, stubborn man,” he muttered, voice thick. “We’ve missed you.”
John’s gaze flicked between them, eyes burning with something beyond pain. “It’s good to see your faces. Come on then, on your feet. We’re not out of this yet.”
Without a word, Damascus moved to his sister’s side, pulling her arm around his shoulders and tightening his hold like he’d done a hundred times before, a quiet promise that she wasn’t walking out of here alone. John stood and led them out of the dungeon. The corridors gave way to the open courtyard once again. The storm raged on, the gate visible through the driving rain. No guards crossed their path, no alarms sounded. Only one large figure awaited them. Malkor stood in the open space, framed by the storm. His armor looked less forged than grown, black steel veined with a steady crimson glow. For a moment, John felt another presence banging around in his head, causing mayhem, as if flipping through the books of his mental library and throwing them all over the floor. Then it faded. The leering skull of Malkor’s helm caught the lightning briefly, and his deep voice echoed over the courtyard.
“Leave her, and take the silver-tongued fool,” he said with utter disdain. ”And you can leave with your lives. The sorcerer's soul is all I need. You can’t stop this, John. You can scarcely remain on your feet.”
John planted his sword on a stone, leaning on it as his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths.
He glanced back at the drow, his voice low but certain. “Take her. Get beyond the gate. Run.”
Delivesh shook her head weakly. “We won’t leave you.”
John’s eyes, bright even through the storm, fixed on her. “You must. This isn’t your fight anymore. Go.” His tone softened by a hair. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Damascus met his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. With a grunt, he pulled Delivesh toward the gate. Malkor made no move to stop them. His helm tilted slightly as his focus remained on John.
“Even gods falter before me,” Malkor rumbled. “You are a relic. A dying animal clinging to borrowed fire. Besides boy, you couldn’t even manage to save your own family, what makes you think you can save these two?” John straightened, raising his sword once more. His arm trembled, but his stance held. The fire beneath his skin burned, searing lines of pain with every beat of his heart. His voice was rough, but it cut through the storm.
“You’re right. I failed them that day. I won’t fail this time. Gods may cower. But men fight!”
He charged at Malkor. Malkor surged forward with monstrous speed, his greatsword screaming through the rain, and John met him sword to sword. The first clash of their blades rang out like a bell. The force of it nearly dropped him, his knees buckled, vision flared, but the essence inside surged, lighting his veins with agony and strength in equal measure. Malkor’s laughter bellowed with a sinister cruelty.
“Still clinging to the fantasy of redemption? Tell me, How did it feel when you learned that she screamed for you? That your little girl waited for you by the door and you never came?”
The words hit much harder than steel. John faltered, his eyes unfocused, and there she was again. Gwen, covered in blood, curled on the floor in a room lit only by firelight, Lily screaming and crying somewhere in the dark beyond. Malkor’s face blurred, became another? No. Himself, once. Younger, afraid.
The illusion shattered as the warlord’s blade grazed his shoulder, carving through flesh and armor alike. John roared, more from rage than pain, and twisted, driving his sword upward beneath Malkor’s pauldron. Blood spilled. The spark surged, uncontrolled, and his heart threatened to tear itself apart with each beat. John staggered back, his body slick with rain and his own blood.
“You don’t know what it costs to lose everything you love!”
Malkor advanced, his eyes glowing with crimson hate.
“I know exactly what it costs,” he sneered. “And I paid that debt gladly.”
Their swords met again and again, each strike more desperate and ragged, as the storm raged on. The courtyard became a mire of blood, muck, and stone. John’s grip faltered more than once, his sword heavy, his veins black as pitch, crawling along his jaw and cheekbones until they framed his face like a macabre mask.
In the end, Malkor feinted low and drove forward. John should have moved to the side with speed. He hesitated. Malkor capitalized on his error. His greatsword plunged through John’s abdomen, armor and all, the force driving them both to the ground. The madman's weapon had pinned him to the earth. His sword clattered against the stone and landed a few feet away. The impact wrenched the breath from his lungs, his vision flooding white. Malkor's helm tilted back just enough to reveal a nasty smile.
“All that fire,” he murmured, voice almost soft, “all that grit… for nothing.” His laughter, echoing through the courtyard, filled the storm.
John did not move. Rain poured over his still form, the sword driven through his abdomen pinning him like a broken toy in the mud. His chest did not rise. His fingers lay slack in the dirt. His heart had stopped. Then, like a dam cracking under divine pressure, his spark ignited one final time, wild and unrestrained. A thunderclap split the sky as his body convulsed, veins along his arms and neck blazing with a radiant light, silver streaked with gold coursing beneath his skin. The glow forced its way through the seams of his flesh, spilling from his eyes, mouth, and the wounds that tore through him, as if his body could no longer contain the fire within.
His back arched violently, limbs splayed, a hoarse, inhuman cry ripping from his throat. Steam erupted where the rain struck his blazing skin. The mud beneath him boiled. His fingers clenched around the dagger at his belt with renewed strength, trembling with fury and purpose. Then his eyes snapped open, twin crucibles of molten glass, unblinking, locked on the warlord still lying atop him. He was no longer just a man. For one last breath of defiance, he was vengeance incarnate.
“I couldn’t save them… But I can damn well end you!”
John screamed with a roar, as he wrenched the dagger from his belt and drove it into the side of Malkor’s neck. The blade punched through armor and flesh, silencing the warlord mid-laugh. The crimson glow in Malkor’s armor sputtered and died as a wet groan was the last sound to escape his lungs. John shoved his body aside, his breaths shallow and broken. He looked down at the sword still impaling him, a grim, incredulous chuckle escaping.
“Doesn’t… look too bad,” he murmured, and let himself fall back.
The light within him flared and then died with him, leaving only silence.
The storm broke. Rain softened to a drizzle as the black clouds unraveled, revealing the first pale streaks of dawn. Malkor’s remaining forces, seeing their master’s fall, fled into the hills. By morning, Damascus and Delivesh returned. They found John where he had fallen, his expression calm despite his wounds. Together, they carried him back to his farm, the road quiet save for the soft caws of distant crows. Beneath an old oak tree on his lands, a fresh mound of earth stood quiet next to two much older graves, Gwen and Lily, now joined by the man who had never stopped carrying them. Delivesh stood with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable, though her eyes glistened. Damascus knelt beside the grave, running a hand over the freshly carved name etched into the simple wooden marker.
Finally, Delivesh exhaled.
“He always showed up,” she murmured. “Every damn time. When no one else would.” She glanced toward her brother. “I’ve lost count.”
Damascus nodded, still crouched, his voice rough. “He reminded us that we were more than the weapons the world turned us into. He was a raging storm when he had to be. But gods… he was steady. He never stopped being who he was, even when it killed him.”
She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper, “He didn’t just fight for people. He believed in them.” Delivesh looked out over the fields beyond.
Damascus stepped back and gave the grave one last nod. “Rest, John. You earned it a hundred times over.”
At the edge of the field, just beyond where memory turns to myth, John stood whole once more beside Breya. The scars were gone. The blackened veins that once crawled beneath his skin had vanished, leaving only the form and stillness of the man he had been long ago, before the grief. The wind stirred the wildflowers in slow, reverent sways, and the waterfall sang in the distance. He watched as Delivesh and Damascus walked the winding road away from the farmhouse, their silhouettes framed by the soft blush of dawn. For the first time in years, the world no longer felt heavy. He exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“Is that it?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost afraid to hope. “After everything that's happened… what’s next?”
Breya’s eyes met his, her expression elated and happy. She extended a hand toward the light at the far horizon, streaked with the shimmer of something not yet born.
“Now,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips, “your next great adventure begins.”
John turned once more to the home he had built, the graves he had filled, and the legacy he had carved into the bones of the world. He bowed his head, not in grief, but in gratitude. Then he took Breya’s hand. Together, their figures faded to nothingness as they walked into the distance.