The transport ship cut through the Vale’s misty skies, its hull gleaming faintly under the twilight glow. As the vessel approached Elderwynd, its passengers peered out through reinforced windows, taking in the wreckage below. Once a jewel of the Vale, the town had been reduced to fractured stone and scattered embers. Smoke curled from distant homes, a stark contrast to the natural serenity that once defined this place.
Leona sat near the back, arms crossed, gaze distant. Across from her, Lyra studied her friend carefully, sensing the shift in her usual fiery demeanor. When Leona did not meet her eyes, Lyra reached across the small cabin, placing a gentle hand over Leona’s.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” Lyra murmured.
Leona exhaled sharply, as if shaking off a weight too heavy to name. “It’s nothing.”
Nyx, perched on Lyra’s shoulder, tilted her head. “Oh, come now, I have never known you to be the brooding type, Leona. It’s positively unnerving.”
Leona shot the tiny creature a glare. “I’m not brooding.”
“You are brooding.” Nyx fluttered her wings, tail flicking playfully. “It’s all very tragic, really. The mighty Leona Leonis, stricken silent by—what? Guilt? Doubt?”
Leona tensed but said nothing. Lyra gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever it is, we’ll be here for you.”
Leona scoffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “You sound like one of those cheap adventure novels.”
“Perhaps.” Lyra leaned back with a knowing smile. “But you listened, didn’t you?”
Leona rolled her eyes, her ears red. She nudged her friend’s hand away. “Shut up.”
The transport ship began its descent. Garrett, meanwhile, had already landed some distance away, veering the Solarion-Lupus into a dense thicket hidden between jagged rock formations. He powered down the craft, ensuring that no stray signals would give away its position, then stepped out into the cool Vale air. He would walk the rest of the way, ensuring his arrival in Elderwynd was as inconspicuous as possible.
----------------------------------------
The scent of herbs and stale sweat clung to the air inside the makeshift infirmary, where cots lined the walls and weary healers flitted between the sick and wounded. Lyra pushed past them, her heart hammering in her chest.
"Where is he?" she demanded, her voice edged with panic.
A middle-aged healer, her face creased with exhaustion, placed a gentle but firm hand on Lyra’s shoulder. “My lady, I must warn you—your father’s condition has worsened. You need to prepare for the worst.”
Lyra’s stomach twisted into a knot.
She barely registered Leona’s presence at her side as she hurried toward the farthest cot. There, beneath layers of blankets, lay Cedric of Elderwynd, his complexion pallid, his breaths shallow. His silvered beard seemed unkempt, his usually strong frame sunken into the mattress.
“Father!” Lyra fell to her knees beside the cot, grasping his frail hand. “I’m here.”
Cedric’s eyelids fluttered open, and his milky eyes fixed on her. “L-Lyra…?” His voice was hoarse, weak. “My sweet girl… you’ve come home at last.”
“I feared I would never see you again…” Cedric wheezed, coughing pitifully into a handkerchief. “I—” His breath hitched. “I don’t have… much time…”
Lyra swallowed back tears. “Don’t say that! You’re strong, you’ll pull through.”
“I only wish… I could have held my daughter one last time…” His eyes grew glassy as he reached for her cheek with a trembling hand. “One last—”
Lyra surged forward, wrapping her arms around him, tears spilling down her face. “I’m here, Father! I’m right here—”
Suddenly, Cedric gasped.
Then coughed again.
Then—
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
With unnatural speed, he sat up straight in the cot, his pallor miraculously vanishing. “By the gods, I feel incredible!”
The entire infirmary fell silent.
Lyra reeled back, blinking in stunned disbelief. “What—”
“I must have been dying from heartbreak!” Cedric declared, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a bad night’s sleep. “But seeing my beloved daughter again has mended my very soul!”
A muscle in Lyra’s jaw twitched. “Are you serious—”
He grasped her hands, eyes twinkling with fatherly affection. “Oh, Lyra, I have missed you so much! I haven’t eaten properly, I haven’t slept well, and do you know what’s worse? The town’s been selling your likeness without official licensing! But don’t worry, I handled it!”
Lyra felt a foreboding sense of dread creep up her spine. “Handled… how?”
Cedric beamed, reaching beneath his cot to pull out a small bundle. “I had a merchant craft official, Elderwynd-sanctioned Lyra merchandise!”
Leona, who had been quietly observing, arched a skeptical brow as Cedric triumphantly held up an array of goods—a carved wooden figurine of Lyra in her battle gear, a hand-stitched plushie with exaggerated, sparkling eyes, and a parchment advertisement proclaiming Lyra of Elderwynd: Heroine of the Realm! in bold, sweeping letters.
Lyra buried her face in her hands. “Oh, gods, no.”
Cedric wasn’t finished. “This one even has a pull-string that says your most inspirational quotes!” He tugged on the string of the plushie.
A tiny, high-pitched version of Lyra’s voice chirped: ‘Never back down, never surrender!’
Leona, who had remained coldly detached up to this point, made a strangled sound—half scoff, half muffled chuckle. She quickly turned away, arms crossed, but Lyra caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.
“Oh, you’ll love this one, warrior lady!” Cedric continued, rummaging through the bundle. “There’s even a limited edition—”
Lyra shot to her feet. “We are leaving.”
“But, my sweet girl, you haven’t even seen the Lyra commemorative plate set—”
“I SAID WE ARE LEAVING.”
As Lyra dragged a very smug Leona out of the infirmary, the last thing she heard was her father’s delighted chuckle and the faint, distant echo of the plushie’s voice:
‘Elderwynd forever!’
----------------------------------------
Wulfric rode alone. He had left his men under the guise of scouting new supply routes, though they would no doubt question his absence before long. It was a risk, but one he was willing to take.
As he entered Elderwynd, the devastation struck him harder than expected. He had known what the Iron Revenants would do—had seen their work before—but standing in the wreckage was something else entirely. He moved past the broken remains of homes, past the market square where shattered stalls lay abandoned. He paused before a makeshift infirmary, watching as wounded civilians were tended to by weary healers.
A boy, no older than ten, sat near the entrance, his arm in a crude sling. Wulfric’s gaze lingered on him, memories threatening to rise. He's the same age when Nefina...
He grimaced, then turned his gaze away. Clenching his jaw, he pressed on, passing through the outskirts until he reached the farmlands. What had once been fields of Hexcorn—golden stalks humming faintly with residual magic—were now trampled and burned, a wasteland of charred husks. The loss was greater than just crops. This was lifeblood, sustenance. A cruel reminder of what this war had cost.
He exhaled, his breath heavy. He had come to see what his alliance with Lyrius had wrought. And now he wondered if he could live with the answer.
The fire crackled between them, its amber glow flickering like a living thing, casting long shadows that danced across their faces. Wulfric sat with his back against a gnarled log, his calloused hands idly rolling the wooden bowl of stew in his lap. The steam rose in lazy curls, carrying the scent of herbs and game, but his mind was elsewhere. Across from him, Garrett—cloaked in the guise of the Helmed Man—ate with a precision that betrayed his disguise. Every movement was measured, every bite deliberate, as though he were dining in a lord’s hall rather than a makeshift camp in the wilderness.
“You eat like a fucking lord,” Wulfric said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Or like a man who’s never had to fight a dog for his dinner.”
Garrett paused, his spoon hovering above the bowl. “Do I?” he replied, his tone light but guarded.
“Aye,” Wulfric said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “All careful and deliberate, like you’re judging the quality of the dish instead of just eating it.”
Garrett chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, and set his spoon down. “Old habits,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken history.
Wulfric leaned forward, his smirk widening. “You’re doing it wrong, you know.”
Garrett raised a brow, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. “Oh?”
“Aye,” Wulfric said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Commoner’s trick—take a bit of bread, dip it in the broth before you take a bite. Lets the flavor sit properly.”
Garrett considered this, his gaze flickering to the crust of bread beside his bowl. After a moment, he tore off a piece, dipped it into the stew, and took a bite. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through his composed facade.
Wulfric grinned, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “Better, isn’t it?”
Garrett swallowed, nodding slowly. “I’ll admit, that’s an improvement.”
For a time, they spoke in easy tones—of the roads they’d traveled, of the crumbling state of the town they’d left behind. But then, as the fire burned lower and the night grew heavier, Wulfric’s voice turned somber. He stared into the fire, his voice dropping to a low growl. “You ever wonder if righteous men are just born to get fucked?”
Garrett hesitated, his fingers tightening around the edge of his bowl. Guilt crept into his voice, subtle but unmistakable. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “Sometimes, we’re just forced into these things. All I can do is overcome my own weakness.”
Wulfric regarded him in silence, his expression unreadable. The fire crackled, and the weight of unspoken truths hung heavy in the air. Then, as if to lighten the mood, Garrett leaned back and said, “You know, there’s a saying in the Vale: ‘A man who walks too carefully will never leave footprints.’”
Wulfric snorted, shaking his head. “Dry as my former wife’s whore cunt itself,” he muttered. But then his expression darkened, and he stared into the fire as though it held the answers to questions he’d long stopped asking. “There was a man and his daughter once,” he began, his voice rough and low, like the grinding of stones. “This man, he thought he could protect her from the world. Thought he could keep her safe, no matter the cost. But the Empire… the Empire doesn’t care about fathers and daughters. It doesn’t care about love or hope or any of the things that make us human. It only cares about conquest.”
Garrett’s gaze sharpened, his attention fully on Wulfric now. The firelight cast deep shadows across the older man’s face, highlighting the lines of grief etched into his features.
“When the Empire came,” Wulfric continued, his voice trembling with suppressed rage, “they burned everything. The fields, the homes, the people. They took her from me. My little girl. And I… I couldn’t save her.” He looked up, his eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to pierce through the night. “That’s the truth of it, Garrett. Righteous men aren’t destined to be victims. They’re just the ones who refuse to look away when the world burns.”
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Garrett opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak, a bloodcurdling screech tore through the night. It was a sound that froze the blood and set the teeth on edge—a sound that could only mean one thing.
The ghouls had come.