Lastlight's Revenant #31

Garran awoke to whispers.

Not the murmurs of men, but something older—a voice like wind through ancient ruins, spectral and echoing. The words slithered just beyond comprehension:

"Ardun's descendant... the Hollow King... curse them all... freedom... so close... death imminent..."

Rage dripped from every syllable, though Garran couldn't grasp their meaning. His eyelids weighed like stone, but he forced them open.

The world swam into focus in fractured pieces.

A pale blue light pulsed in the distance, trapped within some sort of cage—a lattice of blackened bones or twisted metal, he couldn't tell. Its glow cast long shadows across cavern walls slick with moisture.

He tried to move. Agony answered.

A glance downward revealed his body slumped against a rough stone wall, legs splayed uselessly. Blood pooled beneath him, still warm. A trail of crimson smeared the floor, leading away—no, toward him. Someone had dragged him here after his fall.

Why?

He was already dead.

He could feel it—the ruin of his insides, the jagged edges of broken bones pressing against flesh. Every shallow breath brought fresh torment. He couldn't move. Couldn't speak.

All that remained was the slow, inevitable creep of darkness at the edges of his vision and the ringing in his ears...

And yet—

A bitter smile tugged at his cracked lips. Or tried to.

'Of course...'

In his final moments, his mind would torment him with memories from long ago. Torvain's stern face. Rovan's corpse laid out in state. Vorric's mad grin as he spat his last, cryptic words.

Garran’s body betrayed him with a sudden, wet cough—a violent spasm that sent blood spraying from his lips. The movement tore through his ruined flesh, fresh agony searing through his ribs, his organs, his shattered limbs.

Yet he could not scream. Could not even whimper. His body was too broken, his breath too shallow.

The sound, however, had drawn attention.

The blue light—pulsing like a captured star within its cage of blackened bones—suddenly stilled. Then, the whispers returned, sharper now, the voice cutting through the haze of Garran’s dying thoughts:

"Deadman... soul... surrender... body..."

Garran could only stare, his vision swimming. The light thrashed against its prison, its glow flaring like a storm trapped behind glass. The voice grew louder, wrath vibrating through the cavern:

"BODY... GIVE... AT ONCE..."

Still, Garran could not respond.

Then—silence.

The light dimmed, coalescing into a single, piercing point. When it spoke again, the voice was no longer a distant echo. It resonated inside Garran’s skull, clear as a blade drawn from its sheath:

"Do you hear my voice, son of man?"

Garran tried to speak. His lips parted, but only a thin, bloody wheeze escaped.

"There is no need to speak," the voice intoned, ancient and imperious. "Think the words, and I will hear them."

Garran obeyed, his inner voice clumsy, untrained:

[You... who... this... where?]

The light pulsed, and the voice—Tyrrax—answered, each word weighted with the gravity of centuries:

"I am Tyrrax the Stormborn. Last Scion of the Skyfire Dynasty. And this—" A ripple of power shook the cage. "—is my prison."

Garran’s thoughts stumbled: [Dragon... dead...]

A sound like distant thunder rolled through Garran’s mind—Tyrrax’s laughter, bitter and vast.

"In flesh? Yes. Long ago. But death is a chain my kind does not wear lightly." 

The light flared again, and for a fleeting moment, Garran saw it—not just light, but the ghostly outline of vast wings, of a serpentine neck, of eyes that had witnessed empires rise and fall. 

"The descendants of Ardun— your so-called god of war—bound me here. Forced my soul into bargain. Enslaved my flesh to their purposes."

The voice deepened, vibrating with millennia of hatred:

"And now, broken man, you will help me break these chains."

Garran's vision swam, but his gaze remained locked on the pulsating blue light. The dragon's words slithered through his mind like a serpent coiling around his thoughts.

He didn't know if Tyrrax spoke truth or lies, didn't care about ancient grudges between gods and dragons—but if this creature's wrath could be turned against the Hollow King, even in death, he would wield it.

His inner voice formed the question with deliberate clarity:

[What... bargain?]

The light flickered, then expanded—not in size, but in presence, as if the dragon's essence pressed against the confines of its prison just to emphasize its next words:

"I was king here before the first of your wretched kind crawled from whatever dark pit birthed you." 

Tyrrax's voice rolled like distant thunder, each syllable weighted with the arrogance of a being who had once ruled skies and scorched armies to cinders. 

"These lands bowed to my wings. The demons of the deep places knew better than to trespass where my shadow fell. Then your ancestors came."

"Not tribes. Not scattered wretches. A tide of steel and fire, endless as the sea. Hundreds of thousands. Then hundreds of thousands more." 

The light flickered, as if the memory alone could dim it. 

"I burned them to ash. They returned. I shattered their armies. They reforged them. And their magic..."

A pause, thick with something almost like fear. 

"It was not of this world."

Garran’s thoughts stuttered.

The histories spoke of Vaelric the Unbroken uniting humanity’s scattered tribes beneath one banner. But if Tyrrax spoke true, then humanity had not evolved here—they had invaded. And worse... they had won.

"What happened next...?"

The blue light pulsed like a dying star, its glow etching the cavern walls in jagged shadows. Tyrrax’s voice, when it came, was no longer a whisper but a storm forced through clenched teeth:

"What came next? My fall."

Garran’s vision blurred—whether from blood loss or the dragon’s rage pressing against his skull, he couldn’t tell. The words slithered into his mind, each syllable a blade:

"Vaeldrith the Unbroken—Ardun’s favored butcher—stood over my broken wings. His sword was at my throat. His maggots cheered. And he offered me mercy."

The light twisted, flaring violently against its prison of bones. Garran glimpsed the ghost of vast, tattered wings, of golden scales blackened by fire and time.

"‘Bend your neck,’ he said. ‘Swear your will to my bloodline. Protect my city, and we will spare your life..." A pause, thick with millennia of loathing. "I told him to burn with his god."

The cage shuddered. The light dimmed, as if the memory alone drained it.

"So they tore my soul from my flesh and enslaved what remained..."

Garran’s breath hitched. He’d seen the corpse-dragon circling Vaeldrith before its fall—hollowed out, lifeless, yet moving. A puppet.

"Their magic was strong… but not perfect. They could not force my will. Only my husk." Tyrrax’s voice sharpened. "The terms were set: So long as a Vaeldrith lived, my body would guard their walls. My spirit would fester here, in this tomb of bones, until the last with the name Vaeldrith fell. Only then would I be free."

A wet cough wracked Garran. Blood speckled his lips. "The Hollow King knew..."

The light flared blindingly.

"HE KNEW!" The cavern trembled. "He waited. Watched. And when the last Vaeldrith heir—that boy Edric—breathed his final defiance, my chains should have shattered. But the Hollow King is a thief of worse things than lives."

Garran’s thoughts stuttered. The dragon’s fury was a living thing, pressing against his ribs.

"He stole the essence of my flesh before the last breath left Edric’s lungs. Mixed it with his own filth. Now my soul has nowhere to go. And if it perishes…" The voice dropped to a whisper. "Ardun claims what remains of me."

Silence.

Garran's thoughts moved sluggishly, like a blade dragged through mud.

The legends of Vaeldrith the Unbroken were carved into every chapel wall, whispered by priests to wide-eyed children.

 A holy crusade against the demons. A dragon’s companionship earned through virtue. A kingdom born from divine covenant.

He dismissed it as nonsense.

But this—this truth was darker than he could ever imagine. Not conquest. Not glory. A theft. A soul ripped screaming from its flesh and stuffed into a cage of bones while its corpse marched on, rotting, for centuries.

"How do I break your chains...?" He asked, each word deliberate.

The blue light flared, casting jagged shadows across the cavern. Tyrrax’s voice was a knife sliding between ribs:

"You already know."

Garran’s ruined body lay like a discarded puppet beneath the dragon’s gaze. Blood pooled beneath him, warm and sticky. His breath came in shallow, wet hitches.

"You want my body."

A pulse of light. Not agreement. Not denial.

"I want what is due."

Garran’s mind sharpened. "What is ‘due’ to a half-dead dragon?"

Silence. Then—a sound like boulders grinding together. Tyrrax’s growl vibrated through the stone, through Garran’s splintered bones. The light twisted, lashing against its prison.

Garran exhaled inwardly. 'Revenge. Of course...'

The Hollow King had cheated Tyrrax of his freedom. Stolen what was his. Made a mockery of his torment. What else could a creature of fire and pride crave but to scorch the one who’d humiliated him?

But dragons, like men, were careful with their truths.

"If I say yes…" Garran pressed, "what happens to me?"

The light stilled.

"You are already dead, human." A pause. "But your sword arm still remembers its purpose. Your rage still burns. I would salvage your broken flesh… take these things. As for what happens to you... oblivion."