Lastlight's Revenant #6

Garran's gaze tracked between the woman's tapered ears and the glowing runes snaking across her exposed collarbone. His hand hovered near his sword. "An elf sorceress. In the Duke's library." The words came out flat, sharp as a whetstone. "Explain yourself."

The woman's lips curved—not a smile, but the baring of teeth. "Like you," she purred, "I'm here for an important reason. As for how..." She gestured to the shadows clinging to her like loyal hounds. "I have my ways and means."

His jaw tightened. The library's heavy oak doors had required an hour of waiting, a scribe's pleading, and Edric's borrowed influence to breach.

That she'd slipped past the Duke's guards unnoticed spoke of either powerful magic or powerful friends. Neither option sat well.

"That's not an answer," he growled, fingers flexing on his sword hilt.

"Some questions don't deserve answers, especially boring ones." She tilted her head, moonlight catching the silver threads in her dark dress. "Though if it eases your warrior's heart—yes, I have permission."

Garran studied her. The way she stood—too relaxed, too assured—set his teeth on edge. But attacking a sorceress surrounded by ancient tomes would be suicide.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his hand. "How long have you been watching?"

"Long enough to be... intrigued." Her obsidian eyes flicked to his notes, the ink still glistening. "Sharing such precious secrets like alms to beggars. How unexpected for a man in your position..."

A muscle jumped in his cheek. "What do you know of me?"

"Enough." She stepped closer, the scent of frostbloom curling between them. "Garran Dornblade... the radiant knight who threw everything away for peasants who now spit at his feet." 

Her fingernail—filed to a point—traced the edge of his parchment. "Yet here you are, giving away knowledge that could buy back your honor. Why?"

Garran's knuckles whitened around the chairback. "This knowledge was bought in Repentant blood." The words came out like gravel crushed underfoot. "Every scrap of it carved from demon flesh by men who died screaming. You think I'd put a price on that?"

The library's torchlight caught the elf's sudden stillness - the way her pupils dilated like a cat seeing fire for the first time. Her fingers, which had been tracing idle patterns in the dust, froze mid-motion.

"How... human," she said at last, voice dripping with something between wonder and pity. "To value vague sentiments over victory." She glided forward, runes pulsing like slow-burning embers along her throat. "With this, you could demand your oaths be restored. Walk into battle clad in divine light again.. turn the tides against the demons."

A dry chuckle escaped Garran's lips. "You overestimate me." He gestured to the stacked parchments. "This isn't a war that can be won with one man's sword. It will be won by every farmer's son who knows where to stick his pitchfork when the demons come."

The elf's nostrils flared. For a heartbeat, something ancient and terrible swam behind her eyes. Then - laughter. Rich, melodic, and utterly wrong in the dusty silence.

"How inconveniently noble..." she gasped, wiping imaginary tears. "Still the selfless hero after everything?" Her mirth faded into something dangerously soft. "Tell me - when the demons come pouring through Vaeldrith's gates, when the Duke's gold buys no salvation... will your precious farmers remember your nobility as they die?"

Garran's scarred hand found his sword hilt again. "That will not happen."

"Perhaps... but you'd do well to remember." She leaned, her scent, sharp and cold as moonlit mint. "The world isn't saved by principles. Only by power." A final smirk. "Think on that, knight, until our next meeting."

Then she was gone - not in a swirl of shadows, but simply... absent. As if the library itself had forgotten she'd ever been there at all.

...

Garran set down his quill, the ink still glistening on the parchment. His fingers ached from hours of writing—every battle, every demon’s weakness, every trick the Repentants had learned through blood and sacrifice.

He flexed his hand, then glanced toward the far table where the scribe, Tobin, sat hunched over a mess of parchments, organizing them with meticulous care.

The boy had been nervous at first—understandable, given Garran’s reputation—but after the first day, the tension had eased. Now, he worked with quiet focus, though Garran could still see the way his shoulders stiffened whenever he sensed he was being watched.

Like now.

Garran smirked as Tobin’s quill suddenly sped up, scratching furiously across the page. He turned toward the window, judging the sun’s position. Late afternoon. Time to stop.

"Finish what you’re working on and call it a day," Garran said, rising from the table. "We’ll continue tomorrow."

Tobin nodded, relief flashing across his face. "Y-yes, sir. I’ll have these sorted by morning."

Garran gave a curt nod and strode toward the door.

The moment he stepped into the hallway, he nearly collided with Edric, who was marching toward the library with purpose. The man’s expression was grim, his usual smirk absent.

"There you are," Edric said, stopping short. "Been looking for you."

Garran crossed his arms. "Why?"

Edric cleared his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the stone corridor. "About that elf you mentioned..."

Garran's calloused fingers stilled on his sword belt. "You came personally for just that?" His voice carried the unspoken question - how much power do you really hold here?

After spending some time in Vaeldrith it became abundantly clear that Edirc possesses considerable sway in the city, though in what capacity, Garran had no idea.

The captain shifted his weight, fingers absently tracing the silver piping on his uniform. "Well," Edric said with forced casualness, "I'm also here with an invitation. From the Duke."

A muscle twitched in Garran's jaw. "What kind of invitation?"

"Banquet tonight. For the minor nobility from the border territories." Edric's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Your presence would... reassure them."

"Reassure them?" Garran's bitter laugh scraped like rusted armor. "An Oathbreaker at their table? More likely to make them clutch their silverware tighter."

Edric moved closer, his voice dropping. "These lords are at risk of losing lands to the Maw. They won't care for your status as an Oathbreaker, only your experience in fighting Maw-spawn." 

When Garran remained silent, he added: "You don't have to come. But the Duke would remember it favorably."

The torchlight caught the weary lines around Garran's eyes as he exhaled. "What time?"

Edric's shoulders slumped in relief. "Sundown. If you follow me, I'll take you to the tailor and we can—"

"I'm no noble." Garran's voice carried the finality of a slamming cell door. "Just a warrior in armor. Tradition allows that much."

Edric's gaze traveled over Garran's gambeson - the leather cracked like dry riverbeds, the mail links rusted into orange teeth. Clean, yes. Presentable? The captain's face twisted as if smelling week-old battlefield rot.

"Gods' bleeding—" Edric dragged a hand down his face. "That armor looks like it was chewed by a beast with too many teeth and shat off a cliff." 

He jabbed a finger toward the keep's inner courtyard. "At least let me take you to the armory for a fresh set. The Duke won't care if you show up in last season's fashion, but the court whispers will drown out the minstrels if you arrive looking like a dug-up corpse."

Garran looked down. The Repentants' creed lived in every frayed strap - use it until it fell apart, then stitch it back together. But the coming war wouldn't care about frugality. Demons didn't pause for patched armor.

A long exhale through his nose. "Fine."

Edric blinked. "Just like that? No argument?"

"You want me to argue?" Garran's eyebrow crept upward.

"No! I mean—" The captain caught himself, shaking his head. "Never mind. This way."

As they walked, Garran's fingers brushed the familiar gouges in his breastplate. Old companions, those scars. But perhaps it was time to let the dead rest.

...

The armory smelled of oil and cold iron. Garran ran his fingers along the rows of armor until he found what he needed—light, practical, built for hunters rather than tourneys.

He started with the padded gambeson, dark as dried blood, its quilted layers reinforced at the shoulders and ribs.

Next came the cuirass—blackened steel, unadorned, its surface deliberately dulled to swallow torchlight rather than reflect it.

The pauldrons were slim, layered like raven’s feathers to allow full motion of his arms. The gauntlets, however, were heavier—ridged at the knuckles, the steel darkened to match the rest.

The cloak came last, deep charcoal, its inner lining stitched with pockets for knives. He swung it over his shoulders, watching as it settled over the armor, obscuring any stray gleam of metal.

From the rack, he selected a bastard sword—balanced, unembellished, its crossguard worn smooth from use. He tested its weight, then sheathed it at his hip.

Outside the armory door, Edric cleared his throat. "I need a favor."

Garran didn’t pause as he fastened the last strap. "What kind?"

"I need you to stand as my second. In a duel."

Garran’s hands stilled. "Only nobles are entitled to seconds." He turned, eyeing Edric with fresh scrutiny. "Who are you really?"

Edric exhaled, then straightened—not as the easygoing captain Garran had known, but as a man who had spent his life in the shadow of a throne. "Edric Vaeldrith. Third son of the Duke."

Garran let out a slow breath. "Your father must hate you. Sending you to scout demons, making you wait in line to enter your own city..."

Edric chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "He doesn’t hate me. He hates all his children equally." A wry smile. "Calls it tough love."

The words stirred something in Garran—a memory of his own father, a stern-faced knight who had believed in honor, in duty, in the righteousness of the Radiant Court.

The man had died years before Garran’s fall, spared the shame of seeing his son branded an Oathbreaker.

Garran shook the thought away. "I’m not interested in your family’s squabbles. My blade is for demons."

Edric leaned against the doorway. "Think on it. Vaeldrith never supported the Repentants, but that could change. If we survive this war, having a ducal house’s backing might be the only way to rebuild what was lost."

Garran adjusted the fit of his gauntlet, then pushed past Edric into the hall. "I’ll think about it once the last demon in Lastlight falls."