Reymond wakes to an unfamiliar sensation. Peace. Immediately, he stands upright, scanning the room. Something isn’t right. It’s not right - what isn’t right?

The sound. There’s no vague hustle and bustle - there is only a song. He feels drowsy, and his mind creeps to thoughts of dreams and peace and the women he once loved. It’s not right. This is no dream. He stumbles out into the hallway, looking around. Kyallan is sitting on a chair, fast asleep. He’d never betray him like that. Kyallan would not fall to sleep - it simply would not happen.

Something has put him to sleep. This song. A Motari Spellsong? Must be. His movements are so very sluggish, he feels as though is treading water in neck-deep mud. He puts a hand on the wall to steady himself, but he’s smacked to the side. He’s too sleepy to see the attacker, his eyelids are half-closed. But when his back smashes into the wall he feels pain, and it jolts him awake.

There’s one man in the hallway, a Lightblade swinging towards him. Reymond Conjures his own, pulling it up to deflect the blow and using his other to Conjure a large weighty hammer above, swinging it from above his head to land a blow on the assassin, resulting in a crunch blasting through the room and the man collapsing on the floor.

Hardlight armour.

He’s not dead.

Something smacks him from the side, pushing him through one of the wooden doors. Splinters scrape through his skin. The thing is large, and it brings down a fist onto Reymond, trying to break his head open on the stone. Reymond Enhances his arm, and pushes it up into the face of the creature, gripping hard and rotating his hips, throwing the weight of the creature into the stone beside him, breaking off a long piece of sharp stone. He scrambles backwards, Conjuring a blade with more Light than necessary, flooding the room.

Another man is standing in the doorway who smiles a sadistic smile and runs away… it takes Reymond a second, but he scrambles up and throws himself out the doorway. The man is holding a spear of light, ready to push it down into Kyallan’s exposed neck.

Gathering light into his diaphragm, he pushes the air out of his throat, creating a thunder-clap of sound that stuns the man for just a second, enough for Reymond to make an Enhanced leap over to him and pull his arm over his shoulder, flipping the man and slamming his back straight into the stone beneath. He lets out a cry of pain before Reymond brings his foot up and smashes the man’s head into the stone below, feeling the crack underneath like the ice on the Oxbow that surrounds his keep.

Good memories fade as the creature from before stands up, staring at him. It snarls, baring deep yellowed fangs, then charges. As the heady footfalls approach, Reymond readies himself, and when the creature is just about to smash itself into him, he Conjures a shield that covers him head-to-toe, then smashes it into the beast as it reaches him, redirecting the hulk of muscle and sending it hurtling through the doorway into the kitchen. There are still others in the domicile, he can feel it.

“Leave the boy!” a shout comes, and then two arrows hurtle towards Reymond. The shield blocks them, then he throws it backwards. It lands on Kyallan, covering him from head to toe. Reymond Conjures a blade with good length and balance, then cuts the blade across the air, sending Strike out towards the archer. A cry of pain is the only reassurance Reymond gets before a fist smashes into his side.

He pulls the sword back, shortening the blade, and stabs it out at his attacker. It scrapes off the hide of the beast, and with the light from the kitchen he sees what it is - a Hrakka. The massive figure smiles and grips Reymond’s skull, ripping him into the kitchen, and sending him tumbling along the floor into a stone work surface. Reymond’s face contorts into a portrait of agony as his head cracks open on the stone. He feels the blood pour onto his shoulders. It has been a long time since he felt the fear of death. The Hrakka towers over him, an arbiter of his demise comes to shepherd him to the Gods.

“You might have won in your prime.” He says, the voice full of gravel — but not malice. He pulls a knife from behind him, a long, bone-white thing, and he brings it down towards his prey. Reymond shunts his hand up, spraying out a blast of pure light then grips the top of the counter, pouring so much light into his bicep that he rips himself up and around with only the strength of his arm, his feet landing on the counter.

As the Hrakka flails around, Reymond grips a nearby cooking pot and brings it to bear on the monster, caving in its face with a hollow thud.

It falls like a great oak onto a stone bench. Over and over, he brings the pot down on the beast, each blow letting out a resounding wet smack that brings him the same joy it has always brought until the creature is beyond dead.

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Pieces of broken skull lay around him, a pool of blood sticking to his feet.

He stands upright, stumbles, and then catches an arrow that would have impaled his skull if he had not lost his footing. A little luck from the Gods.

He turns around to find the three men looking at him in absolute fear. The Hrakka had been taller than any of them, broader than each combined.

Reymond looks at the archer and crushes the shaft of the arrow in his hand, then throws the splinters on the ground.

He doesn’t let the faces so full of fear give him a sense of false victory. Men afraid are no different than beasts when cornered. He kicks the bone-white dagger up into the air then propels it forward with a quick flick of his wrist, lunging forward and grabbing one of the men in the face, driving them into the stone wall, feeling the crack of bones so close to his hands.

A feeling of euphoria drives him; there’s no fear of death here — at least not in him. The other man, now helmet-less, Conjures a dagger, and rushes forward, trying to plant it into Reymond’s side — to which Reymond Conjures plate-mail across the right side of his body.

When the dagger fails to pierce it, Reymond Conjures a thick mace and swings it around in a beautiful arc that smashes into the man’s head, throwing him across the room where he impacts on the stone wall, an orchestra of breaks and snaps.

All that remains of whatever that man once was is a discarded shell, a lifeless body that even a mother wouldn’t be able to tell apart.

Reymond pours more Light into his hand, crushing the skull of the man in his hands, feeling his fingers crack bone as the man screams and pleads. They Conjure daggers that do not pierce the armour, swords that do not have enough movement to harm. They begin to die a futile and slow death. As the man dies, Reymond stares at the last man, who stares back. This is the only one who Reymond has yet to fight.

With a final pulse of strength, Reymond’s hand closes around the archer’s skull, digging his nails into the man's brain. He feels the man slump, dead beyond death, and he turns to give his full attention to the final man.

“You.” The man says. “Are a tough bastard.” He looks out over his crew, strewn across the kitchen. “You don’t hesitate," He Conjures a helmet. “but you ain’t got much light left, noble.”

He lunges forward, aiming a spear right at Reymond’s gut.

A small shield forms in an instant, a large round middle that makes the spear scrape off into the air.

Reymond pivots his foot to send a blow - but the other man is not an inexperienced Lightblade. The spear dissipates at the same moment that Reymond’s shield does, and the man brings his arms back, Conjuring a longsword.

Reymond's own blade meets his, a clash of light that illuminates the room as trapped light spills from broken blades.

The man retreats a step, Reymond puts a boot forward, Conjuring a small dagger and sending it like a falling icicle, punishing his opponent for backing up. When the man pulls a shield up, Reymond uses the sword to Strike out, sending a wave of razor-sharp light cutting through the air before it lands home in the man’s unarmoured thigh.

He cries out and releases his sword, keeping the shield high to protect himself before taking a few steps back, putting the doorway in between him and Reymond, and pulling the door closed.

Reymond releases the sword, and instead pulls his arms back, pooling a large amount of light into a massive rectangular block at the end of a stick, then bringing it down on the door. There’s a massive crack, and the wood breaks into a million splinters, showering like meteors outwards.

The man is standing on the other side of the door, as calm as could be, a small barrier of Hardlight surrounding him like a turtle’s shell, leaving only enough movement for one simple thing. He stabs forward with lightning speed. Reymond puts out his hand, willing the last of his Light to manifest into even the smallest portion of a shield. It does not. The spear pierces right through his hand, through his wrist — past his thick arm and right into his heart.

He looks down at a wound that is certain death. There is not enough Power in his body for him to repair this. He looks over at Kyallan, falling to his knee. The man stands over him, smiling. “You did well, truly. But your line ends here. That boy - they want him alive. Don’t know what they’ll do to him. Parade him through the streets? Torture? I’m going to your home next. I’ll have my way with that wife of yours - the last of a House riding on my cock. A rare opportunity, that.” He sighs, then looks back over at Kyallan. “Maybe they just want the satisfaction of ending this line for good.”

Reymond feels something burst inside him, something long locked away for a day where he could fulfil a desire that could never be sated.

His good hand lunges out, gripping the sharp piece of stone he’d seen earlier, then drives it deep into the assassin’s gut, using all the Light he has left to impale the man through to the spine and then further beyond, driving the spike into the stone behind.

Both of them scream, the assassin’s face changing from utter shock to absolute agony. Reymond looks towards Kyallan, still fast asleep.

There is so much left to teach him.

Fear spreads through Reymond.

He doesn’t fear death - but Kyallan isn’t ready.

Why didn’t he train him more?

He falls over, the blood spilling from his chest. The blood pooled around him.

He’s going to die.

It’s certain.

But he crawls towards Kyallan.

In his final moments, he holds out his hand towards the boy and he realises he has never once told him he loves him.

Then it is far too late to do so.