Embers of the Past

  Night has swallowed the glass fortress.

  What remains of it gleams faintly across the plain — a thousand broken shards catching the moonlight, no longer reflecting horror, only stars.

  The party makes camp a short distance away, the first real warmth since the battle.

  The fire crackles low, painting the group in soft gold and shadow.

  Kaer sharpens his blade by habit, eyes on the flames; Vex and Laz sit shoulder-to-shoulder, half asleep, trading lazy barbs about who looks worse after the fight (it’s Laz, by unanimous decision).

  Borin pours the last of his flask into Garruk’s cup.

  Borin: “For your kin. For ours. For what’s gone, but not forgotten.”

  Garruk lifts the journal instead of the cup.

  Garruk: “For what’s forgiven.”

  He takes a quiet drink after, eyes shining faintly in the firelight.

  Sereth and Elaris sit opposite each other near the edge of camp — her bow resting beside her, his codex open on his lap, neither saying much.

  The bond between them hums gently — peaceful this time, not heavy.

  When she speaks, it’s barely above the crackle of the fire.

  Sereth: “You helped him find peace without raising the dead.

  Maybe you should tell Arden that.”

  Elaris gives a faint smile, shaking his head.

  Elaris: “She already knows. Faith rarely needs words… just proof.”

  Sereth nudges him with her boot.

  Sereth: “You’re learning.”

  Elaris (smirking): “Careful, ranger. Compliments might make me blush again.”

  She rolls her eyes, but the sound of her laugh settles something deep inside him.

  Across the fire, Arden sits a little apart, hands clasped around her holy symbol.

  She’s watching the scene in silence — the laughter, the strange little family she’s found herself part of.

  Her prayer is quiet, private:

  Arden (whisper): “If mercy is sin, then let me fall gently.”

  The pendant glows faintly once more — not in judgment, but in acceptance.

  Later, when the conversation drifts to soft snores and the rhythm of the plain’s wind, Garruk stays awake, journal on his knee, staring at the stars.

  Elaris joins him without a word, handing over a small strip of parchment — a copy he made of the journal’s final line, written in faint silver ink.

  “We forgive you. We love you.”

  Garruk reads it once, then folds it into a small pouch tied at his belt.

  Garruk: “Next time I see her flame sorceress, I’ll end it — not for revenge… for them.”

  Elaris: “Then you’ve already won half the battle.”

  They share a quiet nod — two men who understand loss in different languages.

  As the last coals dim, Sereth shifts in her sleep beside Elaris, murmuring something incoherent and curling closer.

  The mark on their hands pulses once in perfect unison — a heartbeat shared across silence.

  For the first time in what feels like lifetimes, no one dreams of fire.

  Quiet Faith

  The camp sleeps.

  The fire has burned low, little more than embers now — the soft orange pulse of a heartbeat in the dark.

  Elaris lies awake, watching the faint rhythm of light reflect across Sereth’s face.

  Her hand rests near his; he stares at that bond-mark a moment longer before slipping away silently, careful not to disturb her.

  His boots barely whisper against the grass as he crosses toward the edge of camp.

  Arden is there — sitting on a rock beneath the half moon, her cloak drawn close, pendant of the Dawn Mother held loosely in one hand.

  She doesn’t look at him immediately, but her eyes flick his way in acknowledgment.

  Arden: “You walk softly for someone who commands the dead.”

  Elaris (quietly amused): “You pray loudly for someone trying not to be heard.”

  She smirks despite herself, shaking her head.

  Then silence — the kind that feels full, not empty.

  For a long moment, only the wind answers between them.

  Elaris: “You wanted to speak to me before we left Thornmere.”

  Arden: “I did. I wasn’t sure how.”

  He sits beside her, not too close. The grass sighs under the weight.

  Elaris: “Then don’t force it. Faith’s heavy enough without words.”

  She laughs softly — a tired sound, not mocking.

  Arden: “Faith used to be simple. Light good. Darkness bad. Then you came along with your lattice and your… ghosts.”

  She glances sideways.

  “And I saw you use the same darkness to bring peace. I don’t know what that makes you.”

  Elaris: “A contradiction, probably. But that’s never stopped the gods before.”

  That earns him another faint smile. The moonlight glints off her holy symbol as she turns it over in her fingers.

  Arden: “You don’t think what you did tonight… offends her? The Mother?”

  Elaris: “Maybe. Or maybe she understands mercy better than her followers do.”

  A long pause. Then she speaks, low — more to herself than to him.

  Arden: “When I looked at Garruk, I felt her light. When I looked at you… I felt something else.

  Something that isn’t holy — but it isn’t wrong either.”

  Elaris looks at her fully now, expression unreadable, but his voice is soft.

  Elaris: “Then maybe the light isn’t as narrow as you were taught.”

  She exhales shakily, the confession burning in her throat.

  Arden: “I’m afraid that one day, I’ll have to choose. Between faith… and what feels right.”

  He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the dying embers.

  Elaris: “Faith worth keeping never asks you to stop feeling. If it does, it’s not faith — it’s obedience.”

  The words hang between them like smoke.

  Finally, she nods.

  Arden: “You know, for someone branded by death, you speak a lot like a priest.”

  Elaris (half-smile): “Occupational hazard. Too much time among ghosts.”

  The quiet settles again — comfortable this time.

  Arden rises, brushing dust from her robes.

  Arden: “Thank you, Elaris. For… not judging me.”

  Elaris: “I stopped judging the living a long time ago.”

  She lingers, studying him — then, with a small smile, touches his arm.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Arden: “Get some rest, Necromancer.”

  He watches her return to her bedroll before turning back toward Sereth, still asleep under the faint glow of starlight.

  For a heartbeat, he looks between the two women — faith and feeling — and the fire catches the faintest glint of conflict in his eyes before it dies to smoke.

  The Confession at Dawn

  The camp is quiet—only the whisper of wind over the plains and the slow, patient breath of sleeping companions.

  The embers have cooled to a faint red pulse, casting the faintest glow across faces and steel.

  Elaris feels it before he sees it—Arden’s aura, the soft shimmer of her pendant under the moon.

  She had started to walk back, then stopped halfway and sat again, still as a statue.

  He sighs, knowing what’s coming, and rises carefully from Sereth’s side.

  She shifts in her sleep as his warmth leaves, murmuring something unintelligible.

  He glances back once, then follows the pull of quiet faith toward Arden.

  She doesn’t speak until he sits beside her again.

  Arden: “Elaris?”

  Elaris: “Yes.”

  Arden: “When we fought the Fey… I saw something. You, holding a young girl.

  Then again, when Valthrix forced your truth—the lady in red, the Crimson Queen—and the same girl…”

  He closes his eyes briefly.

  He’d expected this conversation. Dreaded it.

  Elaris: “My daughter. Not a sacrifice, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Her reaction is immediate—eyes wide, then soft with guilt.

  Arden: “No—no, I didn’t think that.”

  Her voice drops, glancing at the sleepers. “I just… had to understand.”

  Elaris: “Then ask.”

  The question pours out of her in a rush—faith and fear wrestling inside the same breath.

  Arden: “Why did you bring her back? How did you bring her back?

  That kind of power—it’s divine and forbidden both. Is she… still alive?”

  Elaris draws a slow breath, looking toward the faint light of dawn.

  Elaris: “The Lattice. My creation. Grayhollow’s secret.

  It was never meant for evil—it was meant to connect, to remember, to keep loved ones close beyond death.”

  Arden clutches her pendant. The divine whisper in her mind—the Mother’s warning voice—sharpens in disapproval, but she listens.

  Elaris: “The Crimson Queen came to me then. I was young, naive, too eager to believe anyone who called my work a miracle.

  She asked questions, understood too quickly. I told her everything.”

  His jaw tightens. The firelight flickers over his expression.

  Elaris: “The next day, Grayhollow burned.

  I saw her walk through the flames with the lattice in her hands, and the fire bent around her like she’d become it.

  I tried to save them, Arden. I failed. All I could do was… put her body beneath the chapel and pray.”

  He looks down—tears, unbidden, tracing lines through ash and dust.

  Elaris: “You needed to hear this. Because I know what you think of me. I can feel it in your faith.”

  Arden (softly): “Elaris…”

  Elaris: “I came back years later, after I’d learned more.

  There was a cleric there, sent to sanctify the ruins.

  She helped me purify the catacombs—or so she thought.

  Beneath the chapel we found it—the Sleeper.

  A construct of pure necrotic consciousness. It knew the lattice.”

  Arden pales. The divine voice hisses its warning again—blasphemy—but she can’t look away.

  Elaris: “We combined our magic—faith and death—just enough to trick it into revealing what it knew.

  I told her it was to calm it, not to steal its power. But I lied to myself, not to her. I was desperate.”

  He glances toward Sereth’s sleeping form as if drawing strength from her even now.

  Elaris: “The Sleeper taught me that resurrection isn’t about magic—it’s about will.

  The soul must want to return.”

  Arden’s whisper trembles.

  Arden: “Did she?”

  The silence that follows stretches and bends. Then, softly—

  Elaris: “…Yes. But I never knew why. Maybe not for me.”

  The pain in his voice says enough.

  The holy glow around Arden flickers—the divine voice fading, leaving her alone with her doubt.

  Arden: “She’s still with us?”

  He nods.

  Elaris: “She was sixteen when she died. Twenty-one now.

  Her body never aged. Her mind did. She remembers everything, even the day I failed her.”

  Arden (quiet): “Elaris…”

  He forces a small, broken smile.

  Elaris: “I see her every day, through the lattice. I talk to her.

  I just don’t know if she knows I’m the reason she died.”

  Arden’s throat tightens. She steps closer, hands trembling slightly.

  Arden: “I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t look up, but nods once in gratitude.

  Arden: “And… the cleric? What became of her?”

  Elaris: “She stayed awhile. Helped rebuild Grayhollow. Checked on my daughter each year.

  Then, on her twentieth birthday, she vanished. I never learned why.”

  The quiet stretches again.

  From behind them, Sereth stirs.

  Sereth (sleepy): “Bones? What are you doing? Come back…”

  Her voice—soft, half-asleep—carries something that feels like home.

  He looks to Arden.

  Elaris: “I hope that helps you understand.”

  She nods slowly, eyes glistening.

  Arden: “She loves you, you know.”

  He can’t help but smile—a genuine, weary smile.

  Elaris: “I know.”

  Arden: “No, Elaris… she loves you.

  And you love her.

  You heal each other.

  The Mother’s light shines through her—and maybe, through you. Whether you like it or not.”

  He’s silent. Then, softly, she reaches out and touches the rune on his hand.

  It glows immediately, silver warmth pulsing between them.

  Arden: “You’re a good man.”

  The words hit harder than any spell.

  He exhales, emotion catching in his throat, then pulls her into a brief, wordless hug.

  Elaris (quiet): “Thank you.”

  He returns to Sereth’s bedroll. She’s sprawled across it like a starfish, dead to the world.

  He gently moves her just enough to lie beside her, wraps an arm around her shoulders.

  Elaris (whispering): “I love you, Sereth.”

  Her bond-mark pulses faintly in response, even in sleep.

  Arden sits where he left her, pendant still in hand, staring toward the last embers of the fire.

  The night feels vast, the stars strangely silent.

  Arden (whisper): “Mother, guide me… or forgive me. I don’t know which I need more.”

  The holy glow flickers once, but no voice answers.

  So she folds her hands, breathes, and lets the silence cradle her until sleep finds her too

  Morning After — “Breakfast of Legends”

  The dawn breaks soft over the plains — the kind of light that spills gently, not harsh, as if the world itself is trying to be kind for once.

  The camp is already half-awake.

  Somewhere in the tall grass, a voice swears loudly.

  Garruk: “Borin, that is not how you cook eggs!”

  Borin (grinning): “Aye, well, when ye’ve no eggs, creativity’s the key ingredient!”

  He gestures proudly to a flat stone sizzling over the fire, where something vaguely round and utterly unidentifiable bubbles ominously.

  Kaer (deadpan): “You’ve invented regret.”

  Vex stumbles out of her tent, hair sticking up in every direction, still wearing one of Kaer’s spare tunics from the night before.

  Vex: “Who moved my boots?”

  Laz (cheerfully, mouth full): “I may have borrowed them to collect ingredients for breakfast!”

  Vex: “You mean you used them as a bucket!”

  Laz: “Buckets are hard to find on the plains!”

  Kaer doesn’t look up from sharpening his sword.

  Kaer: “So are brains, apparently.”

  The twins bicker all the way to the fire until Garruk, beaming proudly, offers them both a steaming plate of “egg substitutes.”

  Laz (sniffing cautiously): “Garruk, what… is this?”

  Garruk: “Protein! Found it by the river. Probably edible.”

  Vex: “Probably?!”

  Borin: “Aye! Smells like ambition and danger.”

  Elaris walks past with his book under one arm, looking far too composed for someone who didn’t sleep.

  Sereth’s just behind him, hair loose, her bow slung lazily across her back — she looks impossibly content, like someone whose nightmares have finally gone quiet.

  She plucks a plate out of Garruk’s hand before he can offer it to Vex again.

  Sereth: “You’re feeding them? Do you want more infernal contracts?”

  Garruk (grinning): “Ain’t food that bad!”

  Kaer: “Debatable.”

  Sereth smirks and takes a seat beside Elaris on a fallen log.

  They share that quiet glance again — the kind that says I’m glad you’re here without needing the words.

  Elaris looks like he’s building courage for something.

  He clears his throat.

  Elaris: “Sereth… about last night—”

  She turns, curious.

  Sereth: “Hm?”

  He opens his mouth, then—

  Laz (shouting): “EVERYONE! BORIN ATE IT!”

  All heads turn.

  Borin, mid-chew, looks up, eyes wide.

  Borin: “What?”

  Garruk’s already half-panicking.

  Garruk: “You weren’t supposed to eat it, it was supposed to ward off flies!”

  Borin blinks once.

  Borin: “…Tastes fine t’me.”

  Then promptly keels over backward with a loud thud.

  Kaer doesn’t even stand.

  Kaer: “And thus ends the shortest breakfast in history.”

  Arden, already moving over, kneels beside Borin, checking his pulse.

  Arden: “He’s fine. Just unconscious. Possibly dreaming of better cuisine.”

  Vex: “Good, because I’m not dragging him again.”

  Sereth hides a laugh behind her hand.

  Elaris sighs, shaking his head — whatever serious moment he was building dies under the sound of Laz insisting it was technically edible.

  Elaris (dryly): “Remind me why I bring all of you?”

  Kaer: “You like pain.”

  Sereth (grinning): “Or maybe he just likes us.”

  Elaris glances her way. For a second, there’s that warmth again — quiet, golden, real.

  Elaris: “Maybe a little of both.”

  The moment lingers long enough for Kaer to groan loudly.

  Kaer: “If you two start making heart eyes again, I’m going to throw myself into the nearest ravine.”

  Laz (snapping fingers): “Dibs on his boots.”

  Arden actually laughs — a real laugh — and it breaks the last of the heaviness from the night before.

  She looks around at this band of broken, brilliant people and feels, for the first time since her doubts began, that perhaps divinity does live in strange places — like this one.

  The wind catches her hair as she murmurs to herself:

  Arden: “Thank you for showing me, Mother.”

  Garruk hauls the still-snoozing Borin onto a horse; the twins mount up, still arguing; Kaer rides ahead, stoic as ever; Sereth and Elaris bring up the rear, their marks glowing faintly in the sunlight.

  Sereth (softly): “So… about last night?”

  Elaris smiles sidelong.

  Elaris: “Another time.”

  Sereth (smirking): “You’re impossible.”

  Elaris: “And yet, you keep me around.”

  The group moves on — laughter echoing across the open plains, the shadow of their pasts fading for now under a bright, forgiving sky