Baronsworth scanned the room cautiously, recovering his dagger from the fallen archer’s corpse, and then began making his way through the remaining chambers of the keep. The ruins here were ancient and worn — broken archways half-swallowed by ivy, shattered tiles slick with grime, tapestries reduced to threadbare husks. Moss had crawled across the stone, drinking from every crack and fissure. Light seeped in only through jagged breaks in the masonry, the pale starlight etching the rooms in a dim, uneven glow.

  One chamber held nothing but collapsed furniture and shattered urns. Another was blackened by old fire, its walls scorched and the floor littered with charred bones. But in the third room, as he stepped inside, Baronsworth stopped in his tracks.

  Prisoners.

  Several of them — men and women — bound with rope and chains to iron loops in the stone. Most were gaunt and hollow-eyed, beaten, bruised, and starved. Some were barely conscious. Their clothes hung in tatters, their skin marred by whip-marks and old sores.

  Baronsworth’s fury, still burning from the battle, evaporated. It was as if someone had poured cold water on a forge. Compassion took its place — raw and immediate. These were innocents, long forgotten by the world, buried in the belly of this dark and desolate place.

  He plunged Lightbringer into a crack in the stone floor, and knelt beside the first man, cutting his bonds with swift efficiency.

  “You’re safe now,” he said softly, his voice steady. “You are now under the protection of Count Varador. Just remain in here until the fighting is done.”

  One by one, he freed them. Several whispered thanks with cracked lips and trembling voices. He guided them gently to a large clay jar in the corner—clean water, blessedly untouched—and helped each to drink. On the far side, he had spotted a pantry, a room overflowing with foodstuffs. He directed the freed prisoners towards that place, and they shuffled towards it slowly, limbs aching, and helped themselves in silence.

  Then, in the darkest corner of the chamber, Baronsworth noticed a figure sitting alone — an old man, shrouded in shadow, utterly still.

  He approached, wary but gentle, and knelt to cut the man’s bindings.

  “Water…” the old man rasped.

  Baronsworth lifted a cup from the jar. Kneeling, he cradled the man’s head with one arm, holding the cup to his lips.

  “Drink slowly,” he murmured.

  The old man drank. After a moment, his gaze rose to Baronsworth’s — and for a breath, disbelief flickered in his eyes.

  “Godfrey?” the old man whispered.

  Baronsworth froze.

  “What did you say?”

  Before the old man could answer, his eyes snapped past Baronsworth — and he pointed.

  “Behind you!”

  Baronsworth spun.

  A shadow loomed — axe raised, eyes wide and wild.

  A flash of lightning split the dark — and for a heartbeat, Baronsworth saw Wulf’s silhouette rising behind him like a specter from the grave.

  The weapon came down.

  Baronsworth raised his arms, catching the blow on his bracers — Divinium steel hidden beneath leather. The axe rang off harmlessly. In the same breath, he drove his dagger up beneath the attacker’s chin.

  The man crumpled at his feet, gurgling — dead.

  Baronsworth stared at the body. It wasn’t Wulf.

  It was the axe-wielder — the one he had already beaten.

  “How?” he questioned. “His wounds were fatal.”

  The old man nodded grimly. “Some of the Varangir are Berserkers — fiercest of their kind. They give themselves to dark rites, in the name of Skorvir, their blood god, in exchange for strength and swift healing. In these lands, he’s known by another name.”

  He began coughing — hard, dry, ragged. Baronsworth handed him another cup of water. The man drank again, slower now, and the coughing eased.

  “Thank you, young master,” he said, sitting straighter. “I feel much improved.”

  Baronsworth, still shaken, leaned forward, gripping the old man’s arms.

  “You called me Godfrey. Where did you hear that name?”

  The man blinked. “Did I?” He shook his head slowly. “Forgive me. I must be delirious. I’ve been chained here, starved and beaten for… gods know how long.”

  He trailed off. Then his eyes drifted across the room — and settled on the sword embedded in the ground.

  “Is that… Artharion, the Lightbringer?”

  Baronsworth went still. He said nothing.

  The old man’s eyes widened. Awe crept into his voice.

  “But how can it be? That blade was lost — as were those that have wielded it through the ages…”

  Baronsworth rose to his feet. His face darkened.

  In a flash, he reclaimed his sword, and pressing the man against the wall, raised the blade to his throat.

  “You speak the name Godfrey,” he said through clenched teeth. “Then Lightbringer. How do you know of these things?”

  The old man didn’t flinch. He gazed into Baronsworth’s eyes — not with fear, but with a strange, searching calm. As though he were peering straight into his soul.

  “Are my senses deceived?” he murmured. “Has madness finally taken me? Or… has Sophia returned her champion from the dead, come to avenge the wickedness of this world?”

  Baronsworth faltered.

  He dropped the blade.

  Then sank to his knees.

  His voice cracked as the truth came spilling out.

  “No,” he whispered. “You are not mad. What you see… is the truth.”

  He drew a breath.

  “Godfrey… is my father.”

  The old man’s eyes lit with wonder.

  “Baronsworth. You survived. Praise the gods—you’re alive, lad!”

  He rushed forth and embraced Baronsworth with surprising strength, his voice breaking as he wept.

  “Then the line is not broken. The Sons of Sophia endure.” His voice trembled with awe. “This is a day of miracles. I knew the blood of the old kingdom ran in you the moment I gazed upon you… but never did I dare dream it truly was you.”

  Tears welled in his eyes—tears not of sorrow, but of joy.

  “Mere moments ago, I was broken. Beaten. Starved. Ready to meet death with no hope left in my soul. I had surrendered myself to the gods… and now—” His voice cracked. “Now I have seen the brightest light imaginable. Bless you, lad. Bless you a thousand times over.”

  They remained there, embraced beneath the shattered archways, weeping quietly amid the ruin of the world. Above them, broken moonlight filtered through a collapsed vault, silvering the gloom. The old man drew back at last, his hands cradling Baronsworth’s face with the reverence of a parent reunited with a long-lost son.

  “You look just like your father,” he whispered. “The spitting image. Though taller, perhaps… and more fearsome. As if some great shadow walks with you—or perhaps within you. But not wholly. There is light as well. I feel it. Nestled deep in your heart. It’s why you freed us. Why you gave us water, and comfort.”

  Baronsworth said nothing. He could barely think, let alone speak.

  Who was this old man? And how did he know so much?

  The elder studied him gently, eyes warm despite the weariness etched deep in his face.

  “I see no companions,” he said at last. “Did you defeat those brutes alone?”

  Baronsworth nodded, his voice quiet but firm.

  “They were strong… but I was stronger.”

  The old man blinked, brows lifting in stunned recognition.

  “Wait… Wulf? You faced him — and survived?”

  Baronsworth’s gaze did not waver.

  “Not only did I survive,” he said. “I struck off his head with a single blow.”

  The old man leaned back slowly, as if the weight of that truth needed room to settle. His eyes widened — not in fear, but in awe.

  “Remarkable,” he whispered. “Truly remarkable.”

  His gaze drifted toward the doorway — as though he could still hear the echoes of battle beyond the stone.

  “I heard the steel clashing, the shouting — the fury of it all. I thought a whole army had fallen upon the keep.”

  He shook his head, his voice hushed now, almost reverent.

  “But no. It was you. One man.”

  Baronsworth’s voice came low, almost a breath.

  “Who are you?”

  The old man blinked, as if remembering himself. He stepped back and drew in a steadying breath, wiping his tears away with the back of a trembling hand.

  “Forgive me—my manners have fled in the wake of such joy.” He straightened, his posture weathered but proud. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Solon, called the Elder. Once the eldest of the Loremasters—keepers of the sacred knowledge of Great Asturia.”

  He inclined his head with age-softened dignity.

  “You knew my father?” Baronsworth asked softly.

  A silence lingered. Then Solon smiled—not in surprise, but with a fondness that seemed to reach back across the years, as though the memory of the man had never left his heart.

  “Knew him?” he echoed. “He was my dear friend. A man of rare spirit—honorable, wise, and kind. In all my long years, I’ve known no one like him. Not even my former lord, Arthus—noble in blood, but never in soul—could match Godfrey’s quiet strength, his rooted courage. He bore his duties with grace, and his grief with silence. Many admired him… but too few understood him.”

  The old man’s chuckle caught in his throat, breaking into a cough. Blood stained his palm. He wiped it away quickly, struggling for breath but unwilling to let weakness dim his words.

  Baronsworth’s chest tightened. He leaned forward, his voice hushed and steady.

  “I have so many questions, Solon.”

  “And I, my boy, have many answers to give,” Solon said, his voice gentling. “But I am weary. Starved. The mind falters before the spirit, and mine must rest if I’m to offer the truths you seek — as they deserve to be spoken.”

  Just then, the soft clink of mail and the murmur of distant voices echoed through the keep — allied soldiers at last, their boots striking stone, the noise of battle fading like a receding tide.

  Baronsworth nodded, composing himself, swallowing the last of the wrath that had swelled within.

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  “Of course,” he said. “The Gryphons will tend to you. You’ll have food, warmth, and a place to rest among us. Stay as long as you wish. I’ll see to it you’re treated as an honored guest — with all the dignity you’re due.”

  Solon’s eyes lit up, touched by the words.

  “Your kindness brings light to these old bones, young lord,” he said. “Go now. Seek your rest. And when the sun returns to this scarred sky, we shall speak at length. I’ll offer what answers I may…” — he paused, a faint smile playing on his lips — “and then, with your leave, I would ask questions of my own.”

  Baronsworth gave a final nod, then turned and crossed the chamber’s broken threshold.

  There, in the ruined throne room, a company of Gryphons had gathered. Their faces were tired but bright with the glow of victory — laughter rising, as they marveled at the riches that lay all around them.

  One of the men stepped forward and saluted crisply.

  “The day is ours,” he said. “And by all accounts, we owe it to you, Magnus. Siegfried sends his congratulations, and his summons. He awaits you by the bonfire, in the courtyard.”

  Baronsworth nodded, preparing to leave, but the soldier continued.

  “The men say you were like a tempest on the hill — a terror clad in steel. I only wish I’d been there to witness it myself.”

  Baronsworth allowed a tired smile.

  “You’d have done well among us, no doubt. But the wagon could only bear so many blades.”

  He glanced back toward the chamber behind him — where shadow still clung to the prisoners like a shroud.

  “These people,” he said quietly, “were captives of the Wolves. They’re guests of the Gryphons now — and they will be treated with care and respect. Nothing less.”

  The soldier’s gaze swept the chamber. He nodded solemnly.

  Some of the freed still trembled where they sat. Others stared hollow-eyed at the floor, limbs curled around themselves as if the air still whispered with screams. But they were safe now. They would heal.

  Solon entered then, leaning against the wall for support, still pale — but upright. There was strength in him, quiet and enduring, like the first breeze after a long winter. The room seemed to calm at his presence.

  Baronsworth stepped forward.

  “This man is important to me,” he said. “See to it he’s given a private tent. Whatever he needs — food, warmth, care — see that he lacks for nothing. He is…” — Baronsworth’s voice softened — “an old friend.”

  Solon offered a quiet smile, touched but steady. The soldier nodded.

  “Yes, Magnus. It shall be done. We’ll make them feel at home.”

  He reached out, meaning to offer Solon his arm — but the old man gently waved him off.

  “Thank you, lad,” Solon said, standing tall despite the strain. “Your kindness will not be forgotten.”

  Baronsworth then made his way through the ruined halls, and stepped out beyond the broken threshold of the keep.

  In the courtyard, Siegfried stood gazing into the bonfire — one leg forward, chest lifted, his golden hair catching the wind. With his sword sheathed at his side and the firelight glowing against his armor, he looked like something from a painting — an ideal of knighthood made flesh.

  Baronsworth approached.

  “Magnus,” Siegfried said, turning with a smile. “The hero of the hour. It gladdens my heart to see you unharmed. How fare you, my friend?”

  “I’m fine,” Baronsworth said. “It’s been… quite a night.”

  His eyes were distant, for his thoughts still lingered with Solon — and the truths the old man had begun to unearth.

  “Yes,” Siegfried nodded, his tone softening. “I heard it was you who faced Wulf himself. The Black Wolf of the Varangir… few names inspire more fear. And yet you brought him low. Tell me—was he as mighty as his legend claims?”

  Baronsworth inclined his head. “He was stronger than most. But it changed little. His blood now stains the halls of this keep.”

  A quiet smile touched Siegfried’s lips, more pride than triumph. “Then it’s true — Magnus stood against Wulf and prevailed. You’ve borne much since fate set you on this path, yet still you rise. Even the fiercest cannot withstand your blade.”

  He leaned in slightly, his voice softer now. “It is a blessing fate made us brothers-in-arms. I would not wish to meet you as an enemy.” He chuckled faintly, then sighed, the weariness of years flickering in his eyes.

  “At last, it’s over. The Wolves are broken, their master slain by your hand. Those who did not fall have scattered or thrown down their arms. Their cruelty ends here. And for the first time in a long while…” He gave a small shake of his head, almost disbelieving. “I think I’ll sleep easier tonight.”

  He lifted his eyes, and caught the shadow in Baronsworth’s gaze.

  “And yet… I see something weighs upon you. Speak to me, friend. What troubles your heart?”

  Baronsworth hesitated, then said quietly, “I found prisoners inside the keep. Among them… was an old man.” He looked into his friend’s eyes. “Siegfried, he knew my father.”

  Siegfried paused, his expression shifting.

  “Your father?” he said, softly. “Then this night is even more blessed than I thought. In one stroke, we’ve destroyed our enemies — and you’ve received your first news of your family in many long years.” He looked skyward. “Auspicious indeed. I smell the hand of fate at work — just as on the day we met.”

  Baronsworth exhaled. “Perhaps you’re right. I place little trust in fate, as you know… but tonight, even I must admit — this feels like more than coincidence.”

  “Hah!” Siegfried laughed. “There may yet be hope for you, my friend — to recover your faith, and walk once more in your family’s footsteps as a servant of the Light. You’ll have time to exchange words with this man. And if he speaks truly, then perhaps at last, the questions that have long troubled your heart will find their answers.”

  He placed a hand on Baronsworth’s shoulder. “But for now — I summoned you here to give you my thanks. Your plan, your courage — without them, we might have seen defeat tonight. Instead, we have won a crushing victory.”

  Baronsworth nodded. “Thank you, Siegfried. If I hold one thing sacred, it’s my love for the Gryphons — and my loyalty to you.”

  His voice quieted, growing solemn.

  “Tell me. How bad were our losses?”

  Siegfried’s expression darkened. He looked down. “Not many. Far fewer than we would’ve lost in a direct assault. But even one man is one too many, for we are brothers-in-arms, and our bonds are not lightly made. Their absence will be felt.”

  Baronsworth exhaled, his gaze settling on the fire.

  “Such is the nature of war. One moment they stand beside us — laughing, breathing, full of life. The next, gone. Their voices silenced, their places forever empty.” He bowed his head. “May they rest in peace.”

  Siegfried inclined his head in solemn agreement. “They’ve gone on to the Halls of the Just — feasting beside their fathers, wrapped in light and song. And we remain, wading through the mire of this world.”

  Silence followed, heavy with memory.

  Then Baronsworth gave a faint, weary smile.

  “Perhaps,” he murmured, “they got the better end of the bargain.”

  A low chuckle passed between them — brief, dark, but genuine. For that moment, the weight of loss eased.

  Then silence returned. The fire crackled between them, casting flickering gold across their faces, and long, wavering shadows behind.

  After a pause, Siegfried spoke again.

  “May I confess something to you, Baronsworth?”

  “Anything, my friend.”

  Siegfried’s voice lowered, quiet as a prayer.

  “Do not mistake me — I’m proud of what we achieved tonight. These were wicked men. Their end was just, and we’ll be well rewarded for our efforts. But…”

  He turned away, gazing into the flames.

  “…I tire of this life.”

  Baronsworth said nothing, listening.

  “My heart longs for something greater,” Siegfried continued. “For decades I’ve wandered the land with my Gryphons, fighting battle after battle. So many foes have fallen by my blade, I’ve long since lost count. And yet… I still remember their faces. Every one.”

  He swallowed, jaw tightening.

  “They visit me in dreams sometimes. Not always as enemies. Just… as ghosts.”

  Baronsworth nodded. His voice was low. “I know the feeling. Peace rarely finds me in the dark. My sleep, too, is a haunted landscape.”

  Siegfried looked at him — and nodded, slowly.

  “I know you understand me, Magnus. Better perhaps than any here present. Which is why I share this confession with you. The life of a mercenary… it feels hollow. We survive, yes. We earn coin. We carve out our little glories. But it’s not enough. Not for me.”

  He drew a slow breath.

  “I miss the Kingdom. I miss fighting for something greater than myself. We had honor, purpose, duty. There was structure — meaning. Now all we have is the next job, the next blade, the next grave.”

  Baronsworth met his gaze. “The Black Wolves were a plague upon the land. Many will breathe freely tonight, knowing they’ve been wiped away.”

  Siegfried nodded, but his eyes were heavy.

  “Yes. We’ve slain monsters. That much is true. But still… I fear I will never find true peace in this life.”

  He glanced upward, watching smoke drift into the stars.

  “I long for a banner. A cause. A calling worthy of blood and steel. To ride in service of justice — on a true quest to vanquish evil, and bring justice and order to this fallen earth.”

  Then his voice dimmed, and his expression turned grim.

  “But the old ways are dying. The great houses fall like crumbling towers. The Noble Accord—that ancient covenant between protector and protected, leader and led—lies in tatters. And what rises in their place…” he shook his head. “Not heroes. But parasites. Usurpers. Twisted men driven by cruelty and greed.”

  He hesitated — then added softly:

  “There are whispers that even Emperor Uther is no more — that he’s become a puppet, a hollow name. His seal, his signature… used by unseen hands to pass decrees of corruption and ruin.”

  Baronsworth’s eyes narrowed. “Uther the Seventh was never the paragon so many believe him to be. It was he who sanctioned the Great Purge. And as if the slaughter weren’t enough, he made it a crime to even speak of it.”

  “Yes,” Siegfried said. “And now you have laid one of those ghosts to rest. Wulf, slayer of the innocent — you sent him to his reckoning, to answer for his crimes, standing before Helm, and the court of Celestials.”

  He met Baronsworth’s eyes.

  “I well know your grievances with the Emperor, and they are not misplaced. No man is without flaws. But what now rises in his absence… is far worse.”

  He lifted his gaze to the starry heavens, his voice no more than a whisper.

  “I fear for this world, Baronsworth. I see dark clouds gathering beyond the horizon — a great shadow mustering its strength, poised to fall upon the sundered realms of men. The old prophecies speak of such times: of ruin sweeping across the earth, of desolation without end, and horrors long buried rising once more. Ancient terrors awakened, bearing with them the final twilight of mortal kingdoms.

  Already, we have seen the West fall into ruin, devoured by the Orcish hordes that descended in fury from the frozen peaks of the North, and with them came even darker things—nightmarish creatures, foul beyond imagining. Many believe the eldest words are now being fulfilled—that the age-old omens are no longer warnings, but truths, written in fire and blood upon our time.”

  He turned back, and in his eyes burned the deep sorrow of one who has gazed too long into the abyss of uncertainty and despair.

  “I feel as I did on that black day when my king drew his last breath—powerless as a child before the cataclysm. I could do nothing then, though my sword thirsted for vengeance and my heart raged against the cruel hand of fate. And now, after all these long years of wandering and war... it feels as though nothing beneath the sun has truly changed.”

  His voice grew heavy with the weight of hard-won wisdom. “We sever one head, but three more rise to take its place. The Black Wolves lie dead in their ruined den, but they were but mere pawns in this vast game whose players move in shadow. There will always be more of their kind—always.”

  He paused, and the silence stretched between them like a chasm filled with the quiet loss of hope.

  “For all our blood spilled upon a hundred fields, for all the gold earned and the songs sung of our deeds... the world grows no brighter. The tide of darkness rises still.”

  Baronsworth stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Siegfried,” he said quietly. “You’ve done more for the people of Valantis than you allow yourself to believe.”

  He gestured toward the ruined keep.

  “Tonight, over a dozen innocents were freed — men and women who would have died in chains if not for you. And hundreds more will never suffer the same fate. The Black Wolves were a blight upon this world — a scourge of cruelty and steel. Because of you, they are gone. They will never harm another soul.”

  He offered a faint smile, though his voice remained solemn.

  “And you saved my life. All those years ago, when I wandered the wilds — lost, hunted, stripped of name and hope — you took me in. You gave me purpose. Order. Meaning. That debt can never be repaid. Without you, who knows what would’ve become of me? Or Karl, or Isabella… or the many others who found shelter beneath your banner?”

  Baronsworth’s gaze steadied, his voice deepening with conviction.

  “You speak of old ways. Of kings and lords, and the glory of gilded orders. But those days are gone. You said it yourself — the old world is dying. What remains… is us.”

  He stepped closer.

  “My father. Your king. Great men, both. But they have passed into history. Their time is done. Ours has come. If we wait for a savior — some golden messiah to descend from the heavens and lead us to justice — we’ll wait forever. No Sun King is coming. No divine hand will strike down the darkness for us.”

  His hand tightened on Siegfried’s shoulder.

  “This is our battle — and we must fight it ourselves. No gods, no emperors, no promised champions will come to win it for us. We are the saviors we have been waiting for.”

  He turned suddenly, sweeping his arm wide as if in defiance of the heavens.

  “Gods, destiny, to hell with it all!” he cried. “We are the masters of our fate. With steel in hand, we cut our own path — and forge our own future.”

  He turned back to the fire — its light playing across the sharp planes of his face.

  “You say we fight only to survive. But survival is no end — it is the beginning. Through our struggle we shield the weak, we guard the innocent, we bring judgment to the wicked. That is a cause. That is noble.”

  He looked back, voice steady and unshaken.

  “For every vile soul laid in the ground, that is one less sword raised against the helpless. One more child who will live free. That is justice. And that, Siegfried — that is purpose.”

  He stepped closer still, eyes kindled with fire.

  “Make no mistake: you are as great a man as any I’ve ever known. I would never have followed you otherwise. Your men don’t serve for coin alone — they follow you because of who you are. Because they trust in your honor. And they are right to.”

  His voice softened, but its strength did not waver.

  “But if your heart yearns for something greater still — if you wish to shape the world itself — then seize that calling. You command a force of seasoned riders, a brotherhood forged in fire. Strength like that, wielded with purpose… can move the earth itself.”

  Siegfried stood silent.

  For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he drew in a long breath, as if Baronsworth’s words had lifted a weight from his soul.

  “You’re right,” he said at last, a faint smile forming. “All of it — you’re right. Besides… tonight is a night of celebration. We’ll leave darker thoughts for another time.”

  His smile widened.

  “Thank you, my friend. You truly have a way of inspiring those around you. I do not know what fate has in store for you — though I am sure your destiny will be a grand one. But whatever may come, I thank the gods our paths crossed when they did.”

  Baronsworth nodded, his voice low and full of warmth.

  “It is I who am grateful. You gave me a place to call home, Siegfried. That’s more real to me than the imagined favors of any god.”

  The two men clasped hands, and then Baronsworth embraced him firmly.

  “Stay strong,” he said. “The Golden Gryphons — and the world — need you.”

  Siegfried returned the embrace, smiling with quiet pride.

  “Yes, my friend. And now, I believe I’ve kept you long enough. Head back to camp— I’ll remain with a few men, clean this place up, and see what’s left to salvage.”

  “Be sure to pay a visit to the grand hall of the ruined keep” Baronsworth said. “That’s where they kept their hoard — and I must say, it is a sight to behold.”

  “I certainly will,” Siegfried replied, chuckling. “Go now. You’ve earned your rest. Sleep easy, and let no shadows trouble your mind tonight.”

  Baronsworth inclined his head and turned away. He passed through the wreckage — burned tents sagging in smoke, fallen men laid out in rows, weary soldiers saluting their champion as they toiled in the ruin. At the camp’s edge, movement caught his eye.

  A lone horse, snorting and pawing at the earth, galloped nervously near the perimeter. Its eyes were wide with fear, wild with the chaos of battle. On its flank was the mark of the Black Wolves, burned cruelly into its flesh.

  Baronsworth stepped toward it, slowly. One hand extended. His voice was soft — calm, soothing, the way one might speak to a frightened child.

  As he drew near, he began to hum an old tune — a lullaby once sung to him by his mother, in the Old Tongue of Asturia. A melody of peace, and sunlight, and home.

  The horse’s panic ebbed. Its ears twitched to the sound, breath steadying. Within moments it stilled, and let him close. Baronsworth stroked its neck gently, murmuring low words in the same ancient tongue. The beast leaned into his touch.

  He mounted.

  The saddle was cinched, the bridle intact. The animal accepted him without resistance — as though it had been waiting for him all along.

  Baronsworth lit his pipe. The ember glowed soft against the dark as he drew a long breath and let the smoke drift behind him. The wind brushed past like a familiar hand. Stars gleamed above — distant, eternal — and he found comfort in the thought that no matter how much ruin or blood was spilled upon the earth, their light would remain: immaculate, pure, untouched.

  The firelight of the camp dwindled behind him. Ahead lay only the promise of rest, of dreams, and the dawn of a new day.