Lastlight's Revenant #5

The walls of Vaeldrith rose like the bones of some ancient beast, their weathered stone etched with centuries of wind and war.

Yet where time had gnawed at other cities, leaving them crumbling and weary, Vaeldrith stood defiant—its battlements patched with fresh mortar, its gates reinforced with iron bands that gleamed as if freshly forged.

Even the carvings of long-forgotten kings, their faces worn smooth by the years, had been meticulously re-chiseled, their stern gazes restored to watch over a city that refused to die.

Garran shifted his weight, his boots scuffing the packed earth of the road as the line inched forward. "What’s with the crowd?" he muttered. "Last I saw this place, you could ride through the gates without slowing."

Edric smirked, folding his arms across his chest. "Duke’s gathering an army. Word spreads. People come."

Garran’s gaze swept over the throng.

There were a few hard-eyed sellswords, their armor mismatched and their weapons well-used, but most were merchants—round-bellied men with carts piled high with goods, sharp-faced women haggling over prices before they’d even crossed the threshold.

None carried weapons or war supplies. Barrels of ale, bolts of dyed cloth, crates of spices, even cages of squawking chickens.

"I don’t see many warriors," Garran said.

Edric chuckled. "Merchants sniff coin like demons sniff fear. And right now? There’s plenty of coin to be had."

Garran frowned. "If the Duke’s raising an army, why let in every peddler with a barrel of booze?"

Edric clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "Just wait. You’ll love it."

Garran gave him a long, flat look—the same bemused expression he always wore when the world proved itself even stranger than he expected.

Edric sighed. "...Maybe not."

Garran didn’t say anything else. He crossed his arms and closed his eyes, letting the murmur of the crowd fade into the background. The delay didn’t bother him. The demons weren't going anywhere, and from what he heard, reinforcements won't arrive anytime soon.

If anything, he preferred it this way. Time to think was a rare luxury, and he needed to consider how best to contribute to the coming fight.

The truth gnawed at him, bitter but undeniable: he was no longer the knight he had been ten years ago. The mark of the Oathbreaker had severed his connection to the divines.

No longer could he channel the power of his oaths, could he charge into a horde of enemies and emerge unscathed from a sea of corpses. All he had now was experience—hard-won, blood-soaked knowledge of how the Maw’s spawn fought, bled, and died.

That was his weapon now. And for it to matter, he’d need to share it.

'I’ll need a scribe,' he thought. 'Someone to write it all down—weaknesses, tactics, the things that don’t survive word of mouth.'

Just as the idea took shape in his mind, a voice cut through his thoughts—young, brash, and dripping with the kind of humor that belonged in a tavern, not a war camp.

"Oi, look at that one!" the boy crowed, pointing at a passing merchant’s overloaded mule. "That’s not a pack animal, that’s a wife!"

A few nearby laborers snorted. The boy’s father cuffed him upside the head, hissing, "Shut your damn mouth before someone shuts it for you!"

Garran opened his eyes, watching the teenager rub his ear, still grinning.

The sight pulled a bitter smile from him.

Kael used to make jokes like that.

The memory was a fresh wound. Kael had been a good lad—reckless, loud, too clever for his own good, but good. He hadn’t deserved the Maw.

But then, none of us did.

Such was the life of a Repentant.

Garran exhaled, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders as the line inched forward again. Ahead, the gates of Vaeldrith loomed, their iron hinges groaning like a tired old man.

Soon, he thought. Soon, the real work begins.

...

The gates of Vaeldrith groaned shut behind them, and Garran paused mid-step, his boots rooted to the cobblestones.

The city was just as grand as its exterior promised—a sprawling plaza stretched before them, bustling with life, its center dominated by a towering statue of a man in ancient battle regalia. 

He was Lord Vaelric the Unbroken, the first ruler of Vaeldrith, who had carved this land from the Maw’s grip and forged the Kingdom of Lythanor, the radiant heart of human strength for fifteen centuries.

His stone likeness stood with sword raised, gaze fixed on some distant horizon, as if still guarding the realm from the shadows of history.

But it wasn’t the statue that stole Garran’s breath.

It was the festival.

The plaza teemed with laughter and song.

Drunken revelers clashed tankards in sloppy toasts, their voices slurring through bawdy ballads.

A soldier in half-laced armor careened after a squawking chicken, weaving through a maze of overturned market stalls while onlookers cheered and tossed coins into a growing pile of bets.

Nearby, a group of warriors hurled axes at a practice dummy, their throws growing wilder with each round of ale.

And looming over it all—a wooden effigy of a dragon, its maw gaping in a snarl, its belly stuffed with kindling ready for the torch.

Garran’s eye twitched. "What in the hells is going on here?"

Edric sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess you don’t love it after all?"

Garran fixed him with a look sharp enough to split stone. "The demons roam our lands freely. Lastlight is overrun. And yet—" He bit back the rest, forcing a slow breath through his nose. "What is this?"

"A Festival of War," Edric said, as if that explained anything. "Morale’s half the battle, Garran. Let the people have their fire and song before the real fight begins."

"Festivals of War," Garran growled, "are offered to Ardun after victory. Not before."

Edric shrugged. "This isn’t for Ardun. Not directly, anyway. It’s a tribute to the gift he left us."

Garran blinked. "The gift he left?"

"You know the legends of Vaeldrith’s founding, don’t you?"

Garran paused, then scoffed. "What? That the first king was Ardun’s bastard son, and he wrestled some dragon into submission? That old drunk’s tale?"

"Tyrrax the Stormborn," Edric corrected, grinning. "And yes. This festival honors him—so he might watch over us in battle, if the need arises."

Garran shook his head. "Utter nonsense."

Edric chuckled. "Best not let the peasants hear you say that." He cleared his throat, straightening. "Relax for now. I’ll make my report, then—"

"Take me to the library," Garran interrupted. "And find me a scribe. Someone experienced in recording vital information. I need to write down everything I know about the Maw’s spawn."

Edric’s eyebrows shot up. For a moment, he just stared. Then, slowly, he smiled—a real one, this time. "Damn. Didn’t think you’d ever volunteer to talk." He motioned to one of the scouts. "Take him to the Royal Archives. I’ll send a scribe as soon as I can."

The scout nodded. "This way, sir."

Garran followed, weaving through the crowd. As he passed a flower stall, a small figure darted into his path—a girl no older than eight, her arms wrapped around a basket of white blossoms.

Her blue eyes locked onto his, piercing as winter dawn. For a heartbeat, it felt like she was staring through him, past the scars and the brand and the rot in his bones.

Then she smiled, bright and unburdened, and the moment shattered.

Garran turned away, quickening his steps. Behind him, the girl’s voice carried, sweet and clear:

"Flowers for the Oathbreaker, sir? They’ll keep the ghosts away!"

He didn’t look back.

...

Night had settled over Vaeldrith, its shadows pooling in the corners of the library like ink. Garran loomed over the scribe—a young man with ink-stained fingers and a nervous tremor in his hands—as he dictated in a low, steady voice.  

"Shriekers are small creatures, the size of a child, with skin like charred leather and oversized mouths. Their screams are—"

A sharp *snap* cut him off. The scribe had pressed the quill too hard, its tip splintering, a blot of ink spreading across the parchment like a stain of spilled blood. The ruined passage was the second mistake in five minutes.  

The scribe’s breath hitched. "M-my lord, I—"

Garran exhaled through his nose. The boy was exhausted, his nerves frayed. It wasn’t surprising—knights rarely mingled with commoners, and among them, Garran was an Oathbreaker, an exile. A man whose very presence carried the weight of betrayal.  

"Enough for today," Garran said, his voice softer than he intended. "Go rest. We’ll continue tomorrow."

The scribe nodded vigorously, his relief palpable. "Th-thank you, sir." He scrambled to gather his scattered papers before bowing and hurrying out, his footsteps echoing in the silent library.  

Garran watched him go, then sank into a chair, rubbing his temples.

It would be faster to write everything himself—to pour his knowledge onto parchment without the barrier of a trembling intermediary. Let the scribe organize it later, make it presentable for those who needed it.

It would save him precious time. And the poor scribe a lot of sweat...

A faint smile of amusement tugged at his lips as he dipped a fresh quill into the inkwell and began to write.  

...

Thirty minutes later, a flicker of light through the library’s stained-glass window pulled his attention away.  

Garran stood and crossed to the window, pushing it open slightly. Below, the dragon effigy blazed against the night, its wooden form consumed by roaring flames.

The crowd around it was a sea of swaying bodies—some dancing, some praying, all bathed in the pyre’s hellish glow. The scent of roasted meat and cheap ale rose on the warm air, thick enough to make his nose wrinkle.  

It all feels so…

"It all seems pointless, no?"

The voice came from behind him—smooth as a honed blade, amused as a cat with prey in its jaws, and utterly unexpected.

A whisper of silk. A scent of frostbloom—sharp, cold, unnatural in the library’s dust-choked air. Garran turned, his sword hand moving before thought could catch up, fingers brushing the worn leather of his hilt.

She stood between the bookshelves where no one had been a heartbeat before, the shadows clinging to her like loyal hounds.

Raven hair spilled over bare shoulders, the cut of her dress too deliberate to be mere provocation—it was a weapon, like the runes etched across her collarbones, glinting faintly as if freshly inked.

The woman's eyes were knowing, black as the space between stars, her ears long and pointed.

An elf. Here. Now.