Lastlight's Revenant #25

Garran exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air as he faced the Hollow King.

His gaze drifted beyond the skeletal monarch, beyond the shattered walls of Vaeldrith, beyond the ruined wilderness stretching toward the horizon—to that distant pillar of sickly green light where Lastlight's beacon had once burned.

It seemed impossibly far now.

A bitter smile touched his lips. Today, the last Repentant would fall. A thousand years of tradition, of oaths sworn in blood, would end with him. But that was the way of things. Kingdoms rose and fell. Tribes prevailed, then perished. The world changed, as it always had.

His only duty was to stand for this moment—to defend what could still be saved in his time.

He took a step forward.

A calloused hand clamped down on his shoulder, the grip tight enough to bruise. Garran turned to find Kaelvar looming behind him, the Varekai warrior's tattoos writhing like living shadows beneath his skin.

His expression was thunderous—a storm of anger and something else, something raw that Garran couldn't name.

"You don't have to do this," Kaelvar growled.

Garran smiled. It was a tired thing, worn at the edges. "No. This is what I must do." He met the warrior's glare without flinching. "I ask that you don't interfere."

Kaelvar's jaw clenched. "You don't understand," he hissed, stepping closer. "You're not someone who should fall here. The ancestors—they spoke of you. They—"

"Enough." Garran's voice cut through the cold air, sharp as his blade. "I've already decided."

For a heartbeat, Kaelvar looked as though he might strike him. Then his shoulders slumped, his grip loosening. "Stubborn fool," he muttered, turning away. "You'll die for nought. Those people won't last long without you anyway."

Garran turned from the Hollow King to face the survivors. His gaze swept over them—women clutching children to their chests, elders leaning on makeshift staffs, wounded soldiers gripping rusted blades with trembling hands.

Their faces were gaunt, streaked with soot and tears, their eyes reflecting the same hollow despair that had once nearly consumed him.

He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, his voice carried across the ruins like steel scraping stone:

"Sons and daughters of Vaeldrith... hear my words and take heed."

A hush fell over them. Even the whimpering children stilled, their wide eyes fixed on him.

"I'm an oathbreaker," Garran said, the admission bitter on his tongue. "I can't speak of honor. I no longer know what that means."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Then his voice hardened.

"But I know courage. I know the will to survive. And I see that in you—buried under the grime, beneath the fear. It's still there."

His grip on his sword tightened, the knuckles whitening. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, seething growl.

"Those things behind me—those demons—they want to strip that from you. They revel in our suffering, more so our despair."

Then his voice erupted into a roar that shook the very air:

"DO NOT GIVE THEM THE SATISFACTION!"

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then—

A ragged cheer rose from the survivors, their voices raw but defiant. Mothers straightened, clutching their children tighter. Soldiers raised their blades, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

Even the wounded struggled to their feet, their eyes alight with something that had been absent for too long.

Fire.

Garran turned back to the Hollow King, his sword gleaming in the dim light.

The ancient monarch chuckled, his skeletal fingers steepling in mock applause.

"How inspiring," he crooned. "Let us see how long that fire lasts."

Garran ignored the Hollow King's taunt. His sword rose in silent salute—not to his enemy, but to the survivors behind him.

"Now go," he commanded, his voice carrying across the ruined square. "And never stop fighting—not until your last breath leaves your body!"

The response came in thunderous footsteps and ragged cheers. A child's voice—high-pitched, trembling with desperate hope—shouted above the rest: "Kill all the demons!" Garran didn't need to turn to know it was the boy who'd watched his father die on the walls.

Then came Sylrithiel's presence, sudden and close at his back. Her breath ghosted against his neck as she spoke, low and urgent:

"Let me enchant your blade, at least."

Garran didn't turn. "Save your magic," he murmured. Then, softer—words meant for her ears alone: "This isn't a battle I can win. Not even with your magic."

He felt her stiffen behind him. When she spoke again, her voice was raw with something deeper than regret.

"I'm sorry. You're not someone who should fall here... but I failed to see through the Hollow King's designs."

Garran's brow furrowed. Again, this strange insistence—first from Kaelvar, now from her—that his death here was somehow wrong. That there was some unseen fate he was meant to fulfill.

It didn't matter.

He took a step forward, his boots crunching on scorched earth. Behind him, Sylrithiel exhaled—a sound like a prayer dying on the wind—before walking away, leaving the scent of frostbloom in her wake.

The Hollow King spread his skeletal arms in mocking welcome, his tattered cloak billowing like the wings of some great carrion bird.

"At last," he crooned, his voice slithering through the ruins. "The final dance begins." A wet chuckle escaped his lipless mouth. "Or is there someone else you'd like to bid farewell? A last confession, perhaps?"

Garran didn't flinch. His sword remained steady, the steel catching the sickly green light of the distant pillar. "Tell me, creature," he demanded, his voice rough as gravel. "What is your purpose? Why the dragon?"

The Hollow King tilted his head, the movement too fluid, too wrong for something wearing the shape of a man. "Still trying to buy time for those wretches?" His grin widened, splitting his face like a rotten fruit. "There's no need. I've already decided to savor their despair in my own time..."

He took a step forward, the ground blackening beneath his feet. "And speaking of time, I have very little more to—"

Garran moved.

No battle cry. No warning. Just the sudden lunge of a man who'd long since abandoned the pretense of fair combat.

The Hollow King's laughter rang out—a sound like shattering glass. "You weren't lying when you said you didn't know honor!"

"There's no need to consider honor," Garran snarled, closing the distance between them, "when fighting filth!"

He was halfway there when the Hollow King moved.

Not to dodge. Not to defend.

Simply to raise one skeletal hand, fingers curling as if crushing an invisible fruit.

The air itself screamed.

Garran's body locked mid-stride. For a heartbeat, he hung suspended—then the pressure came.

It hit him like a mountain collapsing onto his chest. His ribs cracked, one after another, the sound muffled beneath the roar of his own pulse. Blood filled his mouth, hot and metallic.

The ground beneath him splintered, cobblestones shattering as an unseen force drove him downward.

Then—

He was falling.

The chasm yawned beneath him, swallowing him whole. Darkness rushed up to meet him, but not before he saw the Hollow King leaning over the edge, his eyeless gaze following Garran's descent.

"Farewell, last of the Repentents," the ancient monarch whispered, his voice carrying through the crumbling earth. "Your order always did make for such... boring toys."

Garran's vision darkened. The last thing he heard was laughter—echoing, triumphant—as the world above disappeared.

...

The survivors reached the courthouse steps just as the Hollow King’s laughter rolled over the ruins—a sound like bones grinding together in triumph. The ground still trembled beneath their feet, a final echo of whatever horror had befallen Garran.

For a moment, they froze. Despair clawed at their throats, thick and suffocating.

Then—

"Do not give them the satisfaction!"

Garran’s last command cut through the silence like a blade.

Tomas was the first to move. The boy—no, the man now, though he barely felt like one—tightened his grip on his sword and stepped forward. He had no illusions of being a hero. He was just a guardsman’s son who’d survived too long to quit.

But someone had to lead, and with the way Sylrithiel’s silver eyes had gone dull, with the way Kaelvar’s tattoos writhed like caged beasts under his skin, it was clear neither of them would.

Tomas didn’t blame them. These weren’t their people. Whatever reason or notion drove them to help, it was gone now, as was Garran.

At the entrance, Tobin crouched like a gargoyle, his fingers digging into his scalp. His mutters slithered through the air—"No purpose, no reason, just death and despair… oathbreaker lied to me, died too soon, left me with nothing…"

Then—

A whisper.

Faint. Feminine. A child’s voice curling through the cracks of his shattered mind:

"Is purpose that which you seek?"

Tobin went rigid.

Slowly, his hands fell away from his face. A grin split his lips—too wide, too sharp, the expression of a man who’d just found salvation at the bottom of an abyss.

He stood.

And without a word, he shuffled past the others, descending into the courthouse’s depths like a man following a siren’s call.