Lastlight's Revenant #18

The coffin lid groaned as Garran shoved it aside.

What lay within was not a demon, nor some eldritch horror—but a corpse, ancient and withered, its skeletal fingers curled around a rusted medallion...and something else.

A man.

Living, but barely.

He spilled forward like a sack of broken bones, his body too weak to catch itself. Garran stepped back, sword raised, every instinct screaming trap—but the figure made no move to attack.

He simply collapsed onto the crypt floor, his ink-stained hands clutching a book to his chest as if it were the last ember of a dying fire.

Recognition struck like a hammerblow.

"Tobin."

The scribe’s name left Garran’s lips like an oath. He’d wondered, in fleeting moments between battles, what had become of the boy who’d transcribed his knowledge with such trembling dedication.

Now he had his answer.

At the sound of his name, Tobin stirred. His face—gaunt, hollow-cheeked, lips cracked with thirst—lifted toward Garran. His eyes, bloodshot and too wide, blinked as though struggling to believe what they saw.

Then—

"Everyone’s dead," Tobin croaked, his voice a ruin of what it once was. "But I lived. I had to. Had to protect it—" His fingers spasmed around the book, its blank cover smeared with grime and old blood.

Garran’s gaze dropped to it. His book. The book. Every strategy, every weakness, every drop of hard-won knowledge he’d poured into Tobin’s waiting quill.

A knot twisted in his chest.

On one hand, he couldn’t deny a grim admiration. The boy had survived—how long?—in this crypt, guarding these pages like a sacred charge.

On the other...

Tobin’s nails were torn. His wrists bore the marks of teeth—his own? His tunic hung in tatters, revealing ribs that pressed against his skin like the bars of a cage. And his eyes—

His eyes—

Wild. Unmoored. The eyes of a man who’d stared into the dark so long, it had stared back.

Was it worth it? The question lodged in Garran’s throat like a blade.

Tobin didn’t seem to notice his silence. "Hehehe...They came through the windows," he rasped, rocking slightly. "The demons. Like spiders. Big spiders! But I ran. Ran here. Knew the old places. Thought they wouldn’t look—but they did!" A wet, shuddering breath. "So I hid. Hid with the dead! Had to keep it safe. Had to."

Garran exhaled slowly. Then, with deliberate care, he sheathed his sword and crouched before the scribe.

"You did," he said, and meant it.

Tomas stood rigid, spear clutched like a child’s talisman, but Garran’s focus never wavered from the scribe.

His outstretched hand hovered between them, palm up, fingers slowly uncurled. "You did well," he said, the words rough but deliberate. "

It’s time to let go."

Tobin’s bloodshot eyes darted from Garran’s hand to the book pressed against his ribs.

The leather cover gleamed dully under torchlight, its edges frayed from days of desperate handling. "Yes…" A wet chuckle escaped him. "I—I did well." 

His smile split his face like a crack in dried clay, too wide, too brittle.

The book shifted between them as Tobin placed it in Garran’s grip—only to cling tighter at the last second, his knuckles bleaching white.

No resistance came from the other side. Just the steady weight of Garran’s patience, his silence louder than any command.

Tremors wracked Tobin’s arms first, then his shoulders, until his entire body shuddered like a bowstring after release.

When his fingers finally unpeeled, they left crescent marks in the leather. "I did well," he whispered again, as if the words were the last tether to his sanity.

Tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, swift and silent.

Tucking the book into the gap beneath his breastplate, Garran rose with a slow exhale. He didn’t glance back at the weeping scribe. "Help him up," he told Tomas instead, already scanning the crypt’s shadows. 

"We need to get him out of here."

For a heartbeat, Tomas hesitated, his throat bobbing as he took in Tobin’s hollow stare. Then, with a stiff nod, he hauled the man upright, bracing him when his knees buckled.

Steel whispered free of its sheath as Garran turned toward the exit. "Follow me."

...

Garran leaned against the weathered stone of the bell tower, arms crossed, his face a mask of dried blood and grit. Below, soldiers moved like shadows among the corpses, dragging demon carcasses into smoldering piles.

The stench of burning chitin clung to the air, thick enough to taste.

Something gnawed at him. Not the attacks themselves—those were expected—but the way they came.

One wave. Then another. Never more than the survivors could handle, never less than enough to keep them gasping.

It stank of theater.

He’d seen the horde from the walls—thousands upon thousands, a living tide of claws and teeth. A hundred could’ve overrun the church in minutes. A single siege beast would’ve crushed its walls to dust from a distance.

Yet here they stood, picking at the survivors like crows pecking at a dying man. Just enough to keep him screaming.

The latest wave had been fiercer, true. More duskhounds, fewer vermin-touched. As if whatever lurked beyond the torchlight was tightening the noose—testing them.

Garran spat over the railing. He had no illusions about their chances. The church was a coffin waiting to be nailed shut. But what else was there? Surrender? Lie down and let the Maw’s filth gnaw on their bones?

His gaze scraped across the darkness beyond the torchlight. Nothing moved. Nothing visible.

Yet his skin prickled.

The night wasn’t empty. It was full—teeming with shapes that held their breath, their lidless eyes fixed on the flickering light of the church.

Waiting.

For what?

Footsteps rasped against the bell tower stairs, slicing through Garran’s thoughts. He turned, hand drifting toward his sword, but relaxed when he saw Kaelvar’s tattooed silhouette emerge from the gloom.

The Varekai warrior leaned against the archway, arms crossed, the bones woven into his hair clacking softly. One eyebrow arched. "You look like a man counting graves."

A sigh hissed between Garran’s teeth. "I might as well be." He rolled the stiffness from his shoulders. "What do you want?"

"Your scribe’s causing a stir." Kaelvar’s lip curled, revealing a flash of filed teeth. "Says he’ll talk to no one but you. Half-mad, but persistent."

Garran’s fingers stilled on his sword hilt. "About what?"

"Seems he’s been digging through his own notes—trying to ‘be useful.’" A dry chuckle. "Heard us talking about the ruins. Claims he knows an entrance. Won’t say where until he sees your face."

For a heartbeat, Garran stared at the distant pyres where demon corpses burned. Then he pushed off the wall. "I’ll see him."

Kaelvar spun on his heel, chain rattling at his belt. "Then keep up."

...

The room smelled of sweat and ink gone sour. Tobin hunched over a splintered table, his quill scratching wildly across parchment like a beetle trapped in a jar.

His bandaged hands trembled, smearing words into illegible streaks, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Garran stepped inside, boots silent on the straw-littered floor. “What are you doing?”

Tobin’s head jerked up. A laugh bubbled out of him—high, reedy.

“Being useful,” he hissed, jabbing the quill at his own temple. “Purpose, Ser Dornblade! First the book… now this.” His fingers left inky fingerprints on his forehead. “Got to earn my place, yes? Can’t just… rot.”

Garran clenched his jaw. He’d seen this before—men who’d stared into the Maw’s gullet too long, their minds fraying like old rope.

The Repentants had Velmara’s priests for such things, but he only had a sword and a voice trained for barking orders, not comfort.

Kaelvar leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I'm starting to think this a waste of time....”

Garran forced himself forward. “You wanted to tell me about the ruins.”

Tobin’s pupils dilated. “Yes!” He lurched upright, sending ink skittering across the table. “The undercity… heheh… the old city. The real city.” His breath came in wet hitches as he thrust the parchment at Garran.

“Read it in the archives before the demons came. Before the windows—” His free hand fluttered toward the boarded-up openings. “—before they crawled in like spiders. Big spiders. But I ran. Ran to the dead places. Smart, yes? The dead don’t judge.”

Garran took the paper. The lines swam—not a map, not words, just frantic spirals and jagged symbols that might’ve been letters once, Tobin's elegant handwriting nowhere in sight.

Gut tightening, Garran studied the scribbles. Madness-fueled ravings, or just a man too broken to hold a quill steady?

“Explain this,” he said, thrusting the parchment back at Tobin.

The scribe’s face twitched—a spasm of something between amusement and despair. His finger jabbed at the ink-blotted mess. “You don’t see it?”

Garran shook his head.

Tobin giggled, a sound like dry leaves crushed underfoot. “Doesn’t matter. I do. Hehehe… I read it all before. The Black Eels—thieves’ guild, wiped out by House Vaeldrith centuries ago. Used the ruins like rats in the walls.”

His nail split the parchment as he dragged it along a wobbly line. “Entrance was in the old courthouse basement. Ironic, yes? Justice built atop smuggling tunnels…”

Garran’s voice was flint. “You’re sure of this?”

“Sure as the screams in the walls!” Tobin’s grin widened, showing too many teeth. “Sure as the taste of my own tongue rotting!”

Kaelvar exhaled through his nose, the bones in his hair clacking softly. “This reeks of lunacy.”

Garran shot him a glance. “His lunacy kept him alive. Kept the book intact.” He turned back to Tobin. “How far to the courthouse?”

“Half an hour north,” the scribe whispered, suddenly lucid. “An hour if you slink like the Eels did. Past the butcher’s alley, where the stones still remember the blood.”

Garran folded the ruined map into his belt. “We search at dawn. Every crumbling pile between here and there. No wasted time or effort.”

Somewhere beyond the church walls, the Maw’s horde murmured in the dark—waiting, always waiting.