Archive of Our Own

The stars are beautiful tonight.

To Therion, they’re constant lights in a life of wandering in the dark. Once a lone wolf, worn and wary, he wanders with others who have lost their way. It’s the middle of the watch, and he’s already sentimental. Even so, he embraces the feeling without judgment, knowing how the others also acquaint themselves with the night sky.

The familiar dagger rests in his hand, the once-burning sensation a dull ache against his skin. Ornate carvings adorn the hilt, excessive and pretentious. Just like him. Light reflects off the blade, and Therion loses himself in the shine. It’s fancy as hell, and he almost wants to laugh. Of all times, Darius saved the best for last, for that fateful day in Northreach.

Rough hands appeared in this evening’s dream. The dreams rarely stop. Visions change, but never end.

Therion prides himself in moving forward, quick and efficient. Healing doesn’t work like that. Sometimes, he loses his footing, or his hand slips, or his arms tremble from the strain of the climb. On those days, it’s too much. But now, his friends - the greatest treasures in his life - support him when he needs rest. When he regains the strength, they help him up, nudge him forward, and support him should he slip again.

A shiver runs through his body, and Therion pulls the scarf closer to himself, forgetting how cold the desert becomes at night. They’re midway between Wellspring and the supposed “jewel of the desert”, and if there’s anything to steal, he’s yet to find out. The sands are still, and he takes in a breath of cool air. Though the sun rests, he is awake with the stars and moon as his company.

He moves a hand from the scarf to his face, running a finger against his cheek. When they passed the oasis in Wellspring, he stared at his reflection against the water. The scars against his body and the line across his eye would remain until the end. It’s not the case with this one, faded over time with strong salves and safe hands.

Physically, it would no longer haunt him.

Heavy footsteps approach, breaking his reveries. Stiff shoulders quickly relax, for he recognizes the steps.

“I expected to take H’aanit’s place for the watch,” Olberic greets softly. “Unable to sleep, my friend?”

“Took over so she could rest,” Therion shares without breaking his gaze from the sky. “Don’t mind it, really.”

Olberic nods in understanding and seats himself beside Therion. He glances toward their makeshift camp, where H’aanit rests among the others. Linde curls against her, the steady rise and fall of her body evident of deep sleep.

“She behaved oddly once we left town,” Olberic shares.

“H’aanit’s always odd, but, yeah,” Therion wraps his arms around himself beneath the shawl. “I know when she’s trying to act tough, but… she’s nervous.”

“That seems to be the case,” Olberic sighs. “Her responses were brief, and her eyes downcast. Normally, Linde greets each of us in the morning, but not today.”

"Even as I pet her, she went straight back," Therion adds.

“Are you worried?”

Therion remembers the things she has given him - her time, her strength, the company of Linde. There were no tricks beneath her kindness, no calms before the storm. Such acts were fragments of care that helped him piece together a once-fractured heart.

“Yeah.”

Olberic rests a hand upon his shoulder, and Therion doesn’t flinch. It’s a testament to his growth over the course of their travels, another step along his path of healing.

“She has nothing to fear, with all of us by her side,” Olberic reassures. His tone instills the confidence Therion respects. Perhaps it’s the kind he may give to others, one day.

Therion silently runs his thumb against the hilt of the dagger. A flick, and the glint of moonlight piques Olberic’s interest.

“Did you find that in town?”

Several moons have passed since that fateful day, yet here he is, still pondering the times that could have been.

He shakes his head. “It was… it belonged to him.”

Those words linger, and Olberic pieces the unfortunate tale together.

“For what reason have you kept it?”

It's a fair question to ask. They traveled this far to reach the Sunlands - plenty of time to pawn the dagger off to some wandering merchant. Hell, the black market was a walk away.

All the treasures in Orsterra wouldn't convince him to relive that day, where a knife stabbed his pride, where he stabbed a fellow victim of Darius' hold. They were shadows in the night, puppets led by strings. Cutting the strings doesn't cut the heartbreak.

"Don't know," Therion murmurs as he traces the carvings in the hilt. "Maybe it's a reminder that he couldn't do it, that he couldn't…"

Silence completes his statement. From laughter to lies, from sweet nothings to nothing, he almost broke under his hold.

But he didn't.

And he wouldn’t. At least in reality, he would never put his hands on him again.

“In any case... weapon’s a weapon," Therion shrugs off the thoughts. "Never know when you’ll need it.”

The dagger disappears beneath the shawl, and Olberic understands, retreating from the subject. It’s only the two of them awake, pondering their purpose as they always do. The stars always listen.

“So, did he say anything while we were in town? Your friend, I mean - if he’s even your friend.”

An amused chuckle.

“It is… complicated, but rest assured, we are putting the pieces together,” Olberic responds. “I look forward to hearing his thoughts, the next time we meet.”

More than friends, got it. Differences aside, he sensed they played in the same field regarding matters of love. The details aren’t Therion’s business, though. (Not yet, at least.)

“How’d you do it?” Therion asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Forgive him.”

There's the silence he expects, the kind he understands well.

"After Hornburg fell, I wandered aimlessly as a ghost of my past. Fighting together again brought back memories, yet when he admitted his true motives, it felt as if our time together meant nothing.”

Ghost of the past, shadow in the night. Therion wants to sympathize, yet can their experiences even compare? Knowing Olberic, he'd chide him for such a question. 'Grief is not a competition', or something along those lines.

To think, he ends up befriending someone like him, a knight who protects the people (protects them from people like him). Olberic never mentions it aloud, but Therion knows his fair share of thieves caught by sellswords or mercenaries. It’s a part of his trade, and Olberic needed food on the table. Fighting to live, stealing to live - the end goal’s the same. Still, he never thought they’d share this vulnerable moment together, the stars as their witnesses.

“You give them your all, and then they throw it away, right in front of you.”

Olberics hums in acknowledgment. "When we crossed blades, I poured all my anger, my anguish, into every strike. Even after he shared the reasons behind his betrayal - his grief, his regrets - I settled matters with my sword. It is what I know best."

“...There’s the difference,” Therion says with a clear head, able to bear the burdens of his past. “Erhardt wanted to change, and Darius refused. Up until the end, he thought he was right, others be damned.”

He may speak with a clear head, but his tongue remains bitter, words tinged with regrets. He’s learning to embrace the feeling, to allow the anger of knowing he deserved better, and work through it. A difficult process (harder than anything he’s done), yet an invaluable one. He wants to be better.

“A fool who denied his foolishness,” Olberic shakes his head. “Though we may grow from pain, I wish you did not have to learn from such an ordeal.”

“Hm?”

Therion hears the shift of sand. In the darkness, he can see Olberic look him straight in the eyes.

“You must know this already, but you are not at fault for his actions. Never, will you be.”

He’s learning to internalize this message, day by day. The others tell him in their own ways - how he deserves the best, how he’s worthy, how he’s everything. Therion hopes to reach the point where he no longer questions such words.

“I… yeah. I know.” A small smile. “It helps to hear it, though.”

“I will remember that, for the future. For now, know that I am glad you are here with us. We all are.”

The words strike Therion all the same - painless and precious in his heart.

"Now that I recall, from the moment I saw you in battle, I knew you were gentle of heart."

Olberic is more perceptive than he lets on. Maybe he’s aware of this, already.

“What made you think that?”

“By the way you swing your blade. To kill is not part of your nature.”

Quick and efficient, never striking one’s vital points, even giving the chance to leave him alone. He shows mercy while claiming he's merciless - something Darius would never understand.

“You make it sound like it’s part of yours.”

Olberic sighs and leans back, propping himself up with his arms.

“For many years, I believed so. Countless lives have fallen by my hand, so many that I cannot recall names or faces. When I think about those they left behind, I found it… difficult to live with myself.”

“You told me you lived under a fake name for a while,” Therion says softly. “It must’ve been hard.”

“Aye, a quiet life in a quiet village. It was not glamorous, but it sustained me. Still, I wanted more, something to stoke the dying flame within me.” He rubs one of many muscle aches from his shoulder and continues. “A poor attempt at leaving the past behind, but an attempt, nonetheless.”

“Dying flame, huh?” Therion rubs his arms beneath the shawl as Olberic’s memories resonate with him. “We’re not so different, in the end.”

“It is the beauty of such a journey. No matter our pasts, we are able to come together, to learn how to live, how to love. It is comforting to know others will stand by your side.”

Therion huffs. “You got that right. And…”

“Hm?”

“Just... know that I got your back,” Therion turns toward Olberic with a smirk. “Well, half of it.”

Olberic masks the laugh that nearly escapes him.

“That is good to know. I, too, shall watch over you - and what better time than now?”

Olberic gestures toward their bedrolls.

“Tomorrow will be a long day. Rest, my friend.”

"I'll try," Therion answers, the familiar warmth filling his chest. It's always the same, whenever they look out for him. "And, thanks for listening."

"The thanks is mine, truly."

A soft smile in the night, and Therion thinks of starlight as he drifts off to a better sleep.

When the stars sleep, the sun rises, and dawn greets him when he awakes.

Poetic as he thinks he is (and he’s always so thoughtful), this only means one thing in his bleary eyes.

It’s too damn early.

Annoyed grumbles aside, he accepts a trek at dawn over the roasting fire pit of midday. Packing away his scarf, he wears the shawl and carries on.

Sand, sand, and more sand. Maybe a rock, here and there. He entertains himself with the sizes of their steps, how two feet could fit into one of Olberic’s deep-set footprints. The sun rises as they press forward, hoping to avoid the brunt of the desert heat.

Hopes become reality, as a clear river signals the end of the trek.

“Pardon me,” a young man donning a crest of the Knights Ardante greets them upon arrival. The strange snow leopard in the middle of the desert alerts him of his company. “You are Lady H’aanit of the Darkwood, yes?”

“Correct, though ‘H’aanit’ shall suffice.” The title flusters her somewhat, but she composes herself. “We hath comen at the request of Lady Eliza to slayeth the beast.”

As she speaks, a splash alerts the pair of guards at the gates. They ready their spears, and H’aanit intervenes when she identifies the culprit.

“Ah! That is mine friend, Linde. She doth not fareth well in the heat, but will not harmeth thee, so long as thou leaven her alone.”

Confused and hesitant, the guards turn their attention toward the river. Linde flails her paws as she swims back and forth in her section of the water.

“Do not worry. I was informed of your companion,” the knight assures. With this information, the city guards lower their spears, though they watch Linde with suspicion.

“Apologies, m’lady. We are only wary due to the beasts that roam beyond the city walls. Lady Eliza is currently in a private meeting - otherwise, I would escort you to her. Until then, do take the time to explore our fair city.”

“I see. Thanken thee.”

The guards allow the group to pass the gates and silently hope they aren’t Linde’s next meal.

The ambience is overwhelming. Though H’aanit has seen her share of impressive cities, they pale in comparison to this kingdom awashed in golden light. Townsfolk mingle and dance in the town square, surrounded by clay abodes and streams connecting to the river outside. Merchants set their wares upon vivid carpets, while others manage their stalls lining the main roads. A rich aroma of spices fills the air as tourists and locals fill the streets, browsing for the finest goods. It’s still early, yet so lively.

“Cyrus? Thou wisheth to sayest something.”

“He always does,” Tressa adds, turning to H’aanit’s target. “C’mon, spill it!”

“Patience, Tressa,” Cyrus sighs as she tries to fan him with her hands. “Even in such heat, the people radiate such vigor. It comes to no surprise, however.”

“Thou knowest this town?”

“Moreso the Marsalim of old than the new, but its history is most fascinating.” These words brighten his spirits. As for others, they choose bustling crowds over a lecture in sweltering heat. He’s aware, yet takes no offense. At least H’aanit is a good listener.

“Prior to the reign of Marsalim’s current king, war had plagued the Sunlands. As in most wars, people could have solved many issues through conversation. The current king knew of this, and his influence eventually led to peace. With gratitude, the people built the Jade Palace in his honor.”

H’aanit notes the imposing silhouette amongst the crowds. “A grand abode, indeed. Perhaps thou art accustomed, but in mine eyes, ‘tis a formidable beast, of its own.”

“Ah, rest assured! The name holds humble origins, as befits a humble king. You see, the people themselves chose the name, with the jade promoting harmony and good fortune, among other values.”

A stall of rare jewels captures Cyrus’ attention and ends his impromptu lecture. H’aanit follows his lead, mainly to pull him away from the crowds, should he overstay his visit. She has done so in binderies; she can do it, again.

They aren’t the only ones occupied with jewels, as Therion leaves a different merchant’s stall. Without a word, he casually walks alongside a wandering Alfyn and presses something into his palm.

“Hm?”

Fingers brush, and the touch lingers for a moment. When Therion pulls away, Alfyn instinctively clutches the object left behind.

He’s about to ask when he looks at the gift in his hand. The neatly-wrapped package, tied with a gold ribbon, answers the unspoken question. Touched by the gesture, he carefully unties the ribbon and tucks the cloth in his pocket, thinking he can save it for another time.

A sparkling bracelet of ice blue stones rests in his palm, and from inspection alone, he recognizes the handiwork of a skillful artisan. He feels arcane energy radiate in his hand, reacting to the magic within him.

Alfyn draws in a breath. “Shucks, I...”

Therion tries to pull his scarf up through instinct, yet there’s no scarf to pull. Eyes widen in surprise, and he quickly covers his mouth with his hand, the other arm wrapped around his waist. Clearly, it’s the weather that’s causing the heat to rise in his face.

“If… If you don’t like it, I can return it,” Therion deflects, avoiding his gaze.

But Alfyn is Alfyn, and his words rarely disappoint.

“No no, I… it’s beautiful. Ya really got this for me?” Alfyn’s eyes admire the light reflecting off the stones.

Therion fixates on a brick wall as if it’s the most interesting sight. “Figured it’d help while we’re here,” he gestures vaguely in the air. “Ice, heat, you know.”

“Heh, fair point,” Alfyn says softly, turning the bracelet over in his hands. “Still, this is real kind of ya. I mean that.”

Alfyn means every word he says, and it's no different with the bashful "thanks, bud" that leaves his mouth. Slowly but surely, Therion’s starting to believe it, to embrace the kindness. Doubt prods at his mind, however, as he notices the glimmers from the corner of his eye.

“Ah, could ya help me out?” Alfyn fumbles with the metal clasp as one end of the bracelet hangs off his wrist. “Always have trouble with these.”

His thoughts linger upon the bangle that once weighed upon his wrist, mocking him. Back then, he had no say in the matter: fetch the stones or endure the shame. Now he has a choice, and Alfyn wants to be part of it. It’s strange, but feelings are always strange to him.

“Therion?”

Alfyn’s gentle voice parts through the haze of his mind.

“What?”

“Ya have that look in your eyes,” Alfyn says, a knowing look in his own.

His gaze flickers briefly toward Alfyn’s. There’s concern in his tone, and Therion guesses what he might see. A distant stare, one of longing, one of a sentimental fool. He knows he no longer champions the title, for these other fools knocked down his walls and stayed by his side. Therion even considered Alfyn the bigger fool among the group, naive in his sentiments and desires. He pitied him, knowing that reality would teach him a harsh lesson, just as it taught him.

But that was the old Therion, bitter and resentful, trying to protect himself from a world that beat him down. In truth, he never wished to impose cruelty onto others. One doesn’t have to suffer to learn their lesson.

Where others bring pain, he wants to bring kindness, or at least understanding.

“Don’t worry. It’s in the past,” Therion tries to reassure, voice wavering as he focuses on the bracelet. There's no sarcasm, no snark - simply a fact.

“…If ya say so,” Alfyn takes the hint. “Always here if ya wanna talk, though.”

Therion nods without another word. Grasping both ends between his fingers, he clasps the bracelet around Alfyn’s wrist. The blue stones glimmer beneath the light, and Alfyn makes his gratitude known, loud and clear.

“Aha, never got somethin’ like this before! Suits me well!” he grins, turning his wrist to admire the shine.

With Alfyn satisfied, they continue through the bustling crowds. Coin pouches rest within arm’s reach as merchants beckon visitors old and new. It’s almost too easy, Therion thinks. Yet here he is, feeling no need to steal. He’s amused that a merchant loathes his haggling skills in place of theft.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely catches Alfyn rushing off to flaunt his gift to the nearest friend. Primrose praises the design with a wink, and Tressa demands a closer look. When they finally raise their heads, Therion’s out of sight, out of mind, out of there.

In his haste and embarrassment, Therion bumps shoulders with a bystander. He flinches and reaches for a hidden dagger, but realizes his error. The hand leaves, and H’aanit’s lips turn upward in a smile.

“Thy face looketh redder than-"

“Shut up,” Therion darts his eyes away.

Of course, she laughs. Not at him, though. She's not the type - usually.

“I hath noticed from the corner of mine eye. The smile thou hast given him warmeth mine heart.”

“Hmph,” Therion ignores H’aanit’s knowing wink. Now, it's really hot for too many reasons. He regrets packing his scarf away, wishing to sink into the ground, or become one with the clay walls.

They find proper shade in a nearby alley, where clothes attached to ropes flutter above their heads. The ground is well-traveled yet clean, and townsfolk exit their homes with content faces and company - even laughter. A cat sniffs at Therion’s ankle until their young owner calls them for a meal.

“I wonderen how Linde fareth,” H’aanit ponders aloud. “I hopen none causen her trouble.”

“You really think someone’s gonna fight her?”

“Nay.”

“There you go.”

Recovered, they leave the shade and peruse the stalls once more. Therion notices Olberic and Ophilia in the midst of price negotiations and silently wishes them good luck. These merchants are tougher than most warriors he’s met.

“So, Marsalim,” he addresses H’aanit. “What’s your take?”

“ ‘Tis a city worthy of its fame… I findest mineself overwhelmed. And what of thee?”

“Kind of used to it - for different reasons,” he shrugs for emphasis. “But I’m also not. It’s a lot.”

“So we sharen such thoughts,” she says. “Cyrus hath shared a story of the palace we hath passed. The people hath built it for their humble king, a bringer of peace. I am most curious if this fact holdest true.”

“Hm,” he pauses as they reach the town square, catching a glimpse of its grand form.

“That makes two of us.”

“Hast thou certain ideas?” H’aanit raises a brow.

“Relax, I won’t try anything,” Therion waves her off. “Don’t think you’d be happy if I was thrown into the gaols right now.”

“Correct.”

A huff of a laugh. “Really, though. We’re here now, so I’ll do my best to help you out. I owe you that much.” And more, he thinks to himself. He’s already embarrassed himself once. Maybe he’ll save it for later.

“Such candid words, on this day,” H’aanit smiles. “ ‘Tis nice to hearen them from thee. If thou couldst sayest more, I-”

“Aaand we’re done,” Therion strides off, and there’s the laugh again. Why is he like this? Then again, he’d rather brood over these feelings than others.

As he sulks in sappiness, Primrose appears at his side. He wants to comment about what she saw when she cuts in.

“Chin up. We got company,” she says, waving forward a nearby H’aanit.

Therion braces for the bad kind. His shoulders ease when he sees his companions gathered beside a familiar red-haired woman.

“It seems almost everyone is present,” Eliza counts the travelers in her head.

On cue, the knight who greeted them arrives, escorting a calm Linde through the city. Townsfolk back away in fear, relaxing somewhat when Linde nuzzles her face against the knight’s leg. She receives head pats, in return.

“I was once stationed in the Frostlands,” he looks toward the travelers. “It is nothing strange.”

Linde swishes her tail, satisfied by the knight’s answer. She then rises on her hind legs and happily licks Eliza’s cheek. Titles mean nothing. Head pats mean everything.

“Oho, dear Linde!” She offers a rare chuckle in front of her men while petting Linde’s fur. As if nothing happened, she adopts her air of professionalism.

“Thank you for coming, friends, and apologies for the delay. I had been discussing matters pertaining to the city guard, but I was just informed of their return. Let us wait for their arrival, for they may have news of the very beast you seek.”

The group spreads out atop the wall overlooking Marsalim’s main gates. Therion follows Linde’s lead and finds H’aanit gazing forward with stern eyes.

“What is this air I feelest?” she says without looking at him.

It’s a question that needs no answer. Therion merely watches.

“Back so soon?” a man remarks nearby. “But there are still monsters outside the city!”

Spectators grow, and the returning number of soldiers pales, in comparison. The somber silence that descends upon the crowds says enough.

“Elio! Where is he!?” The woman cries out, clutching a soldier’s arm. A shake of his head, and she collapses onto her knees, hands trembling.

A young boy calls out for his father, only to receive the same despondent looks. One soldier drops to a knee, and the two exchange glances as if they know each other. The boy acts first, hiding his face against the man’s chest. They’re unable to console him, but they try their best.

As Linde comforts a worried H’aanit, Therion spots Eliza walking toward a soldier, his armor different from the rest. Amidst the town’s chatter, he observes the pair’s crossed arms and serious expressions. He looks important, and his suspicions are confirmed as they gather once more.

“My friends, this is Captain Raaf of the city guard. He helped lead a hunting regiment toward the local ruins. You can see that the outcome is… different than what we expected.”

The captain regards them with brief nods and few words. Therion can read between the lines.

“Come, m’lady. We must report to his Majesty at once,” Captain Raaf addresses Eliza. She, in turn, informs the travelers.

“His Majesty has been expecting your arrival, as well. Do join us.”

Lingering townsfolk part from the entourage, watching as they approach the palace. They pass the main courtyard, simple and spacious, and Therion notes the lack of security. They’re still there, really, yet it’s unlike the sprawling presence he encountered outside the Ravus manor. Still, he tenses up as guards accompany the group on both sides.

The palace interior is as fancy as Therion expects, yet it holds none of the pretentious air that filled most manses. Townsfolk mingle near the colorful murals decorating the walls, and two women point at a particular section.

“Ah, my daughter painted this tree!” one gestures with pride.

The other woman playfully boasts about the blues of the river that her youngest painted, and Therion doesn’t hear the rest. Instead, he observes his friends’ various reactions: the awe in Tressa and Ophilia’s eyes, the overwhelmed faces of Alfyn and H’aanit, and casual familiarity in the rest. Linde is just Linde.

“Your Majesty. We return with news, as well as the friends I have mentioned afore.”

With Eliza’s cue, the guards motion them forward. Olberic is the first to drop to one knee and bow, and the others follow his lead without question. Therion thinks of their previous conversation as he lowers his head.

“Please, there is no need for such formalities,” the king speaks. “You may rise.”

Heads turn to confirm the king’s statement, and they eventually stand before his presence.

“Welcome, travelers, to our beloved kingdom. I am King Khalim, and it is an honor to make your acquaintance. Lady Eliza has spoken highly of you all.”

Introductions happen quickly in Therion’s mind, and he vaguely remembers saying his name when more pressing conversation unfolds.

“I am happy to see you return safely to us, Captain,” he addresses, expression turning serious. “Please, allow us to hear your report.”

“Your Majesty.” Captain Raaf bows his head and steps forward.

“Our regiment was tasked with culling the beast’s numbers outside of Grimsand, and cull them, we did. With morale high, we ventured into the ruins themselves... ‘twas there that the beast descended upon us, turning our men to stone, one by one. It was through the General’s orders that I came bearing this news. As for his fate... I fear the worst.”

Captain Raaf takes a shaky breath, fists clenched as he recounts the ordeal.

“It was my lapse of judgment that led to this outcome,” Captain Raaf laments. “When the General asked me to lead the troops into battle, I wished to make him proud. ‘Twas my first time, after all. And now…”

He shakes his head, voice thick with guilt. “In any case, Redeye continues to roam the ruins, and the beasts outside of them. Pray, forgive my incompetence.”

Therion watches as King Khalim steps forward, resting a gentle hand upon the captain’s shoulder. He’s a better judge of character, and what he sees is a genuine act of support.

“Tell me one thing, Captain.”

He looks toward his shoulder, then into the eyes of his king.

“Were these men brave? Until the very end?” Plain yet honest words, ones filled with the concern of a benevolent king.

“...Yes. Brave until their last breath.”

“Then allow the grief to lift from your shoulders. It is easier said than done, I understand, but if my blessing may assure you” - King Khalim grasps the Captain’s hands in his own - “I hope you may accept it. You have done what you could, and here you are. Hope is not lost.”

“Your Majesty!” Captain Raaf answers, flustered by the gesture. “I--!”

The signs Therion noted throughout the city make sense, now. Among the lack of stifling air appears to be a king without his head in the sand.

He’s equally forthright and humble when Captain Raaf ends his report, and the king faces H’aanit directly.

“Lady Eliza informed me of a huntress with a key to ward off the beast’s curse. What is your name?” King Khalim asks.

“I am H’aanit,” she states. “This key… it lieth in the herb-of-grace from the Frostlands. Wardest off this curse, it shall, and with thy support, we canst slayeth Redeye.”

“I feel the conviction in your words, H’aanit,” he shares candidly. “Even so, the most renowned hunter in these lands could not quell the threat. Many have given their lives for this cause - will the strength in your heart be enough?”

“I…” H’aanit ponders, lingering doubts coming toward the surface. “In all honesty, ‘tis a question I oft asketh mineself.”

Worry appears upon her normally stoic face. Despite the feats she can call her own, H’aanit wants to make her master proud. How often she guides her friends to find their own paths, and here, she struggles upon her own. Master only supported her goals, her longings of adventure. For what reason does she feel indebted when he encouraged her to find her true self?

“If I may, Your Majesty,” a voice interjects, and all eyes fall upon the ever-forthright Olberic.

Despite this first meeting, King Khalim looks with deep respect in his eyes.

“So the tales from Wellspring are true. It is quite the honor, Sir Olberic.”

“The honor is mine, truly,” Olberic humbly deflects. “Pray, allow me to address matters at hand, if only to bolster your faith.”

Therion senses a different air about him. Unlike the somberness that befell him beneath the stars, he brims with confidence. If Olberic wants to redeem some part of his past, he picks a hell of a time to do it.

“For countless moons, I had wandered, lost and confused. What honor was left when no honor would revive the fallen? It was a question I pondered alone. At times, I still do, but… I am no longer alone. The ones you see before you - my friends, dearest to my heart - have given me the strength I thought I had lost. Such is no exception with H’aanit.”

“Olberic?” H’aanit watches her friend with a confused expression. She doesn’t know what he’s planning.

Therion has an idea.

“Her strength in battle is unmatched, yet even that cannot match the strength in her heart. When we struggle, she is there to support us, to help us stand when we fall. One’s heart feels at ease in H’aanit’s presence, and it is nothing short of admirable. Trust in her, Your Majesty.”

Therion smiles on the inside as the others share their anecdotes, having grown comfortable in the king’s presence. From Tressa’s confident praise to the dignified air of Cyrus and Primrose, they all carry different energies in their delivery. The overall message is clear: there’s no one better for the task.

And then it’s his turn - the best for last. At least, that’s what Therion wants to think. He and authority never saw eye-to-eye, but he’ll do it for H’aanit. She would deny it, but he owes her so much.

“You’ve heard the stories from everyone, Your Majesty, so I won’t waste your time.”

He feels H’aanit’s stare upon him, questioning. He continues.

“Once H’aanit sets her eye on the goal, she never backs down. She’ll see it through to the end... I know from experience,” he ends with a square look into the King’s eyes.

Therion’s struggles with authority are known by the others. When his past self looked someone in the eye, it was to deceive, to lower their guards before he looted their pockets. He was deceived, and he deceived to live - an unfortunate twist of fate. He hopes he may channel this honesty through one eye to compensate for the other, marred through deceit.

“Take what you will, but that’s my truth. You couldn’t ask for anyone better, whether it be a warrior… or a friend.”

His heart pounds, and he feels her stare intensify. It’s like he said: that’s his truth. It’s his trust in H’aanit, and that’s a sentiment worth fighting for.

It takes a moment for H’aanit to calm her surprise as she faces King Khalim.

“I didst not expecteth this, Majesty.”

He laughs, warm and genuine. “It is a testament to your character, H’aanit. Such bonds are rare to come across, in this day and age. I hope you may hold them close, and treasure them dearly.”

“Aye, with all of mine heart,” H’aanit responds. “Perhaps they hath wished to respecteth mine, as well… ‘tis why I must admitteth the true reason behind mine intent.”

“Oh? Pray tell.”

A deep breath, and it’s the moment of truth.

“The ‘renowned hunter’ thou hast spoken of… he is Z’aanta of the Darkwood. He is mine Master.”

The king’s chamber is silent, awaiting H’aanit’s words with understanding.

“ ‘Twas in the forests of Stonegard where I hath met his gaze of stone, where I hath read the last letter attached to his arrow. ‘In the flesh, so to speak’, he hath penned whilst turning to stone.“ A bitter chuckle.

“A fool, but a man of great strength and will, he was. He hath raised me, taught me the ways of the hunt... the ways of family. Canst thou see, Majesty? I must assuren Master that mine forgiveness is true, nary for his sake alone, but mine, as well.”

It’s King Khalim’s turn to look H’aanit in the eye. Glints of steel, and a deep resolve to see through with her task.

“I need no more convincing, H’aanit, for the strength in your heart, and the strength of your dear friends, is telling enough.” A gentle hand rests upon her shoulder, and then he pulls away. Ascending the stairs, he addresses the chamber with candor.

“You have the full support of our fair kingdom. Recuperate in the palace, and when the time for battle comes, brave warriors, we shall be there. Know that we have faith in your success.”

They exchange bows and blessings, and the king’s audience concludes. Eliza informs them that she will return to discuss strategy, but insists that they rest until then. The palace guards escort them out of the chamber and toward the guest rooms. - four rooms at the end of the hall, just as they prefer.

Inside his shared room, luxurious in its decor, Therion searches the cupboards for anything suspicious. Alfyn helps out, opening the wardrobe and turning over pillows.

“All clear,” he pats the bed, removes his shawl, and lies down to meet the sweet embrace of sleep. His voice is muffled against the sheets.

“That was a lot.”

“Tell me about it,” Alfyn stretches his arms. “Lots of good things, though.”

“Clean yourself up. I smell it from here,” Therion gestures in the air.

Alfyn huffs and tosses his vest over Therion. “Keep it smelly for me.”

“Ugh,” he pushes the garment toward the edge of the bed and returns to his sprawled-out state.

If it wasn’t clear to H’aanit before, it is now. They care for her, and Therion hopes she may never forget it.

The sun sets, and H’aanit reflects on their meeting with Marsalim’s king. Forthright and honest, as well as humble in his demeanor. She holds a fair impression of the man, yet it’s not his speech alone that strikes her heart. All of the kindness from her friends, the reassurance, how they stood by her side in every sense of the word. It’s more love than she can hope to return.

Even so, there is one person she must thank personally. And so she knocks gently on the door, wondering if she disturbs their sleep, wondering if-

“H’aanit,” Olberic speaks in a hushed tone. “Come in.”

A sleeping Cyrus is the reason behind his quiet steps. They step past his bed and onto the connected balcony overlooking Marsalim. The streams glimmer beneath golden light, and the townsfolk go about their business. It’s quieter after the morning’s events, yet the city still bustles. Several men prepare the tall oil lamps that line the city streets. H’aanit wonders how evenings fare in this jewel of the desert when she notices her friend’s distant stare. It’s a familiar sight.

“Art thou thinking of thine homeland?”

A deep sigh, then a nod.

“As the years pass, some memories pass with them. Seeing the townsfolk here, and meeting his Majesty… the sights bring me back to those days.”

“Pleasant memories, I hopen.”

The light smile lifts her heart somewhat.

“There were many. Mornings spent in the training grounds, afternoons walking with King Alfred in the castle gardens, and evenings…”

H’aanit waits patiently, watching shadows dance as the sun sets.

“I never asked Erhardt if he had visited Marsalim while we were apart. Knowing of his remorse, I do not think he would entertain the idea.”

“ ‘Tis a heavy burden for him, I canst imagine,” she sympathizes. “Yet, ‘tis not too late to seekest this answer. Thou hast done it once, and mended a bond.”

“Perhaps. Rest assured, we are working to mend the pieces together, to heal.”

“I hopen thou canst achieven thy goal, so long as thine heart is at ease,” H’aanit’s warm tone shifts into a tease. “And I also hopen to testeth his might in a duel, one day.”

“Oho, he would certainly rise to the challenge.” Olberic’s laugh causes the blankets to rustle from behind. They sneak a quick glance, and Cyrus remains asleep.

Some dreams exist only in sleep. Others are in the open, waiting for someone to live through them. H’aanit’s hopes are stronger than before, knowing that dear friends remain by her side.

“Thanken thee. For what thou hast shared with the king.”

“I should be the one thanking you, my friend, for all you have done,” Olberic smiles. “It is… hard to express through words, at times, but I hope you may understand.”

H’aanit watches Olberic clutch the balcony, hands clenching and loosening. Amidst the imposing stature and name he bears, she knows he’s a bit of a mess. But they’re all a mess, are they not?

“In mine village, we oft showeth gratitude without words. A pillow crafted with birdian feathers collected over time, a warm meal after the day’s hunt, a woven blanket to wardest off the cold… such aren acts of care. And thou showest many of them, whether thou wieldest a blade or protecteth us at camp.”

She rests a steady hand against his back, wanting to protect him, as well.

“Thy purpose lieth soundly, but a blade canst dull, and a shield canst break.”

“You are saying that it is noble to accept strength and support from others,” Olberic says, relaxing his shoulders. “Wise words, they are. I must remember them.”

He turns to face her, open arms welcoming an embrace. “But for now, I wish to be the one who offers strength, should you accept.”

The question needs no response as H’aanit returns it with a strength of her own. Even warriors like themselves must embrace, every now and then. It soothes the soul.

“Soon, you will see your Master again. Know that I am by your side until that day, and beyond.”

“The same thoughts, to thee,” she says, and they bask in this moment, enveloped in warmth and kindness. It eases her heart.

Another day of rest, and the eve of battle arrives. H’aanit can’t sleep.

The same restlessness plagues Eliza, and as they peer over the city bathed in moonlight, they reminisce about simpler times.

“To think, it feels like yesterday when we would rise at dawn and spar through the morning. Eager youths, we were.”

“Indeed. Thou art the reason why I wieldest mine axe, after all,” H’aanit recalls with a smile. “Master hath oft stopped us for meals, yet we teasen him in jest. 'One canst not groweth strong through the spinning of words', we wouldst tellen him."

"And we would point out every lie in his tales!"

"Any grand birdian he claimeth to fight was a fletching relieving itself upon his head!"

" 'Have I nary an ally in this accursed land!?', he would yell to the heavens!" Eliza mimics his speech with perfect accuracy, and the two burst into laughter. Shoulders heavy from responsibility, they find comfort in mutual jabs against the man they seek to save. It relieves the tension in the air.

“Teasing aside... I sense a peculiar strength within you since the last we met.”

“Dost that scaren thee?”

“Not in the slightest," Eliza jests. "Though our goal here remains the same, there has been a change in your heart. Lighter. Softer, even.”

Perhaps Eliza’s words hold true, as they often do. To associate a soft heart with a huntress is an oddity among strangers, yet H’aanit knows herself better than most. Many moons ago, Master shared his own wisdom: while hunters took lives, hunters honored them, as well. Warm wishes and gratitude follow every beast felled by her arrows. To earth, to dust, to lives anew - such is the cycle by which she abides.

“Mine travels hath changed me, for the better. Oft hath I enduren trials with Linde alone, yet now, dearest friends fighteth by our side. ‘Tis the reason I canst moven forward without fear.”

“In that case, I look forward to seeing you in action,” Eliza says, her tone growing serious.

“...I have heard of your exploits in the Frostlands. The Dragon Slayer, and more recently, the Stormbringer. Sate my curiosity, will you not?”

Tales of the far north even reach the folks in the south. It’s surprising, and it’s one that would have Z’aanta leaping from his chair upon hearsay.

“ ‘Tis true, though not for the reason thou may thinkest. Atop those mountains, I hath encountered a beast liketh none other,” H’aanit clenches her fist, then loosens her grip.

“How so?” Eliza inquires.

H’aanit takes in a breath. “ ‘Twas a man, if I canst calleth him that. One who hath harmed mine friend.” Venom laces her words, yet she leaves the story there to respect said friend’s privacy. “I do not know what tales roameth among these lands, but ‘twas mine rage that had summoned the storm.”

“The townsfolk did mention its peculiar nature,” Eliza shares, noting her friend’s shift in tone. “There are even rumors that the goddess Draefendi herself appeared.”

H’aanit certainly felt a divine presence in her veins, though she only saw red.

“Then she hath witnessed both mine rage… and mine fear,” H’aanit confesses. “Unable to quelleth mine emotions, I hath endangered the life of mine friend. But all is better, now. That man… nay, that beast, is gone, and Therion is here. ‘Tis all that matteren to me.”

Even with the knowledge, H’aanit trembles from the memories. It is a small price to pay, and sharing thoughts with an old friend helps.

“Forgive me for dredging up the past, H’aanit,” Eliza places a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

“Thou needest not worryen. We hath settled matters between us, “ H’aanit reassures. “But I thanken thee for thy concern.”

Eliza gives a knowing smile. “It is nice to have others by your side, is it not?”

From a lowly huntress who befriended animals better than humans, she has become a member of this strange yet lovable family, intertwined and irreplaceable. She holds a number of names - some grander than others - yet in the end, she is undoubtedly H’aanit of the Darkwood. She can take pride in that.

“Aye. They aren the greatest blessings in mine life.”

“Let us pray that these blessings will aid us in battle,” Eliza says, glancing up at the sky. “It grows late. Rest, and I shall meet you in the morning.”

H’aanit gives thanks and bids her farewell for the evening. If blessings can break this baleful curse, then she will pray into the night.

“Will you be requiring armor for battle, my lady?”

Primrose turns toward the voice, the words carrying a chivalrous air. There’s no fatigue within them, even as the sun wakes from its own slumber.

“Lady Eliza,” she bows her head in greeting. “If you have suggestions, I’m open to hearing them.”

Eliza nods, crossing her arms. “The rock formations can be rough against the body - I would suggest light armor. Of course, the final choice is yours. Some find it cumbersome, yet if you would like, H’aanit can assist you.”

H’aanit pauses, fingers tangled in the midst of her braid.

“You know how to put on armor?” Primrose asks.

“Aye,” H’aanit gestures toward Eliza. “I hath learned whilst helping Eliza preparen for the hunt. Many moons hath passed, but I canst recallen the steps, shouldst thou needest them.”

“...All right,” Primrose agrees, entrusting H’aanit with her care.

Preparations are quiet as H’aanit adjusts her arm and leg guards, making sure Primrose can move with relative ease. She watches her strength grow with every battle, and a part of her wonders how she may surprise her next (and oh, she is full of them).

When Primrose holds up her hair, H’aanit’s eyes trace a faded scar on her back. From what, she doesn’t ask. Perhaps it’s for the best.

“H’aanit?”

She clears her throat in realization. “Ah, ‘tis nothing.”

Primrose hums, rolling her shoulders to gauge the feeling of armor upon them. H’aanit silently admits that it suits her well, and should it hinder her movements, she can always discard it. She’s startled more than one foe through a slip of attire, a purposeful tactic that earns H’aanit’s surprise and respect.

“The two of you seem quite close,” Primrose chimes in as she secures her hair with a ribbon.

“Aye, a friend since the sixteenth summer, if I hath counted correctly,” H’aanit says. “A woman of equal strength and spirit - it wouldst have been a shame if we hath not met. Reckless youths, we were.”

“You’re still reckless, though.”

“ ‘Tis true,” she winks in her direction and wears her usual attire for battle. She moves to retrieve her bow when the charming voice turns soft. Somber.

“This armor… it reminds me of what Father once told me.”

Her hand stills, and H’aanit returns to Primrose’s side. Resting a hand upon her shoulder, she remembers Primrose’s path toward healing. A thorned rose who once kept others away, one who didn’t wish for others to taint an already-tainted soul. H’aanit only wishes for the best, and whether there are walls to break or thorns to shed, she finds a way to her friends’ hearts. Such is no exception with Primrose, who allows others to come close with consent.

Here, she gives it.

“And what sayest he?”

“When I was young, he would speak of finding the perfect attire when I was grown. The perfect gown, and the perfect armor - at least, that’s what I remember.”

A promise from her youth, a youth cut short, and broken promises in its wake. Within Primrose’s name lies promise, so much promise. Beneath the darkness, H’aanit sensed a heart of unfulfilled dreams. Maybe she can help her fulfill this one.

“ ‘Tis not a lost dream,” H’aanit says. “We may findest them when matters aren finished. Eliza canst helpen thee with armor, yet with the gown, I am unsure…”

Primrose’s laugh, soft and genuine, lights H’aanit’s heart in a way she doesn’t expect.

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you,” Primrose masks a blush, and H’aanit silently claims a victory. “Maybe when this is all over, you and I could travel together, even find this gown along the way.”

She leans into H’aanit’s ear and whispers, low and alluring.

“You’ll have to help me put it on, though.”

It’s H’aanit turn to chuckle. That’s a challenge she’s willing to take.

“Saveth thy flirtations when the battle hath passed.”

They laugh together, light and hopeful. H’aanit touches the rings on her necklace as they leave the palace, hoping they will have much time to spend together.

The road to the ruins lies beyond, and it’s an impressive scene for H’aanit to take in.

Regiments of Marsalim’s forces, companions in arms, and the Knights Ardante gather in formation. She harbors a deep respect as she watches Eliza at work. How she instructs the knights to guard ‘Sister Ophilia’ and ‘Professor Albright’ - her manner of speech is cordial and competent, and H’aanit wonders if she, too, can achieve such skill.

Nearby, Olberic converses with Captain Raaf, mirroring the way he speaks to friends who need strength.

“This is your home. It is only fitting that you lead the charge,” Olberic says with a strong and assuring voice. Nodding toward Eliza, they lead the formation, with Captain Raaf at the center.

Perhaps this day brings back memories of that fateful battle - a day Olberic doesn’t wish to relive. She will ensure that he doesn’t.

It’s a different battle beneath dawn’s light. Tressa stands in front, guarded by Marsalim’s guards and knights alike. With evasive sorcery H’aanit has yet to fully comprehend, she understands her role among the troops. This leaves Primrose, Alfyn, Therion, Linde, and herself, tasked with entering the ruins while the rest push back the beasts. She’s aware of the beasts’ growing numbers, and that they may need to fight on their own. After many moons together, she harbors no doubt in their strength.

“There is little cover among the sands,” Eliza glances back. “Be ready.”

A light wind sweeps the sand off the ground, and they look toward a clear sky.

“For our comrades, and for our King!” Captain Raaf rallies his men, emboldened by their loyalty and the strength of his allies.

With these words, they embark, the sand crunching beneath their heels.

The quiet is short-lived as a fire elemental materializes in the desert air and attacks the group. Ophilia waves her scepter, and the veil of light deflects the flames, signalling the beasts’ charge.

Swords unsheathe. Magic swells. The fight is on.

Beams of light burst against stone beasts, breaking limbs from their bodies. Ophilia pivots away, and Cyrus takes her place, hands shrouded in blinding blue light. Shards of ice arc across the sand, piercing scorpions and stone serpents alive. Lizards and other vermin scuttle past, only to brace the misfortune of howling winds. Beasts and sand fly back from Tressa’s magic, and it’s the luckiest and sturdiest who push forward.

The front line of warriors carve through foes with clean strikes. Whatever scurries past meets the taste of a knight’s blade, a spear of Marsalim, and the faith of their beloved king. Ophilia battles from the center, casting a healing light upon her allies when they must replenish strength. Tressa is quick with her supports, maneuvering soldiers out of harm’s way with a sweep of her arm and a swirl of magic. Cyrus commands ice at his fingertips, and the heat cannot stop him.

A new foe heightens the encounter, shambling limbs and stone body barely held together by pulsing, blue energy. Olberic catches a leaping scorpion and tosses it aside, brandishing his shield for the real challenge.

Stone fists slam against steel, and a regiment breaks off with the final group of five. It’s dusty and hectic, yet they comply without complaints. Beasts intercept, and they circle around with another regiment, pushing closer toward the ruins. Ice and wind wreak havoc. Spears and stone beasts collide. They only focus on the allies who guide them.

Alfyn intercepts a lunging serpent with a startling burst of ice, much stronger than expected as the bracelet glows with arcane power.

Whatever Therion purchased, it works. H’aanit wishes she could see the look on his face.

As they run toward the entrance, nestled between cliffs and beyond steep stairs, the air heats against their backs. A veil of light deflects the blast of fire, and the elemental meets its demise.

“Go! We’ll be all right!” Ophilia waves them off.

“Good luck, brave warriors!” Eliza and Captain Raaf bolster them in their own words.

And so they set off, closer to the end of their dear friend’s journey.

“Thou feelest this air, too, Linde?”

Linde gives a low growl, and her tail tenses in alert. The air smells of dust and dread, and H’aanit assumes the leading role without a word. Should any danger strike, she would rather it strike her first. Even so, Linde remains at her side, receiving an appreciative pat upon her head.

“Well, isn’t this pleasant?” Primrose says without pleasantries.

“Prison felt better.”

“Therion.”

“What? Trying to lighten the mood.”

Rifling through her pack, H’aanit retrieves several vials filled with a cloudy liquid. Handing off the herb-of-grace to each person, she sets the pace of their descent.

“Stayeth close, and watcheth thy step.”

Sunlight and sand streams through the cracks above. As they descend several flights of stairs, imprints lie upon the sands - signs of the hunt before them. A strange beauty permeates the unsettling air, ancient glyphs preserving memories of years past. Such memories decay with time, however, as they observe within a faded mural. In the middle lies a gate, and a long-limbed figure decorates the front.

“Professor said he saw somethin’ like this back in Duskbarrow,” Alfyn shares his findings aloud. “Wonder what he’d say.”

“He’s too busy stabbing bugs to death,” Therion says, coaxing Alfyn away from the mural. “Ask him later.”

“Right,” Alfyn nods, and they join the other three ahead.

The paths grow narrow and treacherous, and H’aanit recalls fantastical tales of sand serpents that rise from the depths below. It was likely Master exaggerating as he always does, yet she entertains the thought. Rock crumbles and she hears someone curse from behind, followed by Therion telling them to be careful. The eerie presence grows stronger amidst the silence. It’s unnerving.

As they descend another flight of stairs, scattered bones and corpses of beasts greet them. H’aanit examines the remains, noting singular puncture wounds. Manmade, and remnants from the prior invasion, she concludes. Scattered remains of stone insects and serpents, seemingly torn into two halves, lie partially buried beneath the sand.

Corpses grow in number as they press forward - until they don’t.

Primrose gasps as her foot touches something cold. Crouching down, she stares at the petrified hand, and her eyes make out the fallen soldier. His face is frozen, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

“Careful, Prim,” Alfyn maintains his distance as he carefully examines the body. “Shit… nothin’ broken though, at least from what I can see.”

“Got another one over here,” Therion informs the others. This soldier stands with legs apart, blade brandished and ready to strike. His neck cranes upward, face contorted as if he yelled his final battle cry.

“You know how the beasts get bigger every time?” Therion follows the soldier’s line of sight. “I’m not liking this.”

“Thou hast a point,” H’aanit mimics his actions. “But we must moven forward.”

The air’s thick with dust as they reach a deeper portion of the ruins. Less light filters through the cracks, and worrying signs show themselves in plain view. Petrified soldiers greet them with the same fear, and Linde searches for signs of life within their frozen forms. Clusters of five claw marks defile walls and faded glyphs, haphazard in nature. Ascending a longer flight of stairs, broken pillars obstruct their path. Shuffling past scattered pieces, they help each other climb over the intact ones.

At last, the path leads them to a chamber. H’aanit and Linde enter first, scanning the sunbeams against the ground and pieces of stone pillar. Low cliffs enclose portions of the chamber, yet nothing stirs.

“Stayeth alert,” she warns as the others enter. Save for their feet crunching against sand and rock, the prolonged quiet is worrying. They barely hear each other breathe.

They hear something else breathe, instead. They’re heavy, and each one seems to take all the oxygen from the chamber.

Two beams of dim red emerge from the darkness atop the cliffs. Beams of sunlight outline its gaunt, skeletal form, and a dark substance drips from its body. A rancid odor fills the air as it crawls closer to the edge, limbs bent at unnatural angles, square teeth protruding from its maw.

There’s the quietest “what the fuck”, and the beast whips its head and roars, sending sand and rubble flying from the force.

The ground shudders as Alfyn conjures a wall of ice against the attack. The chamber rumbles, winds whip past, and ice crackles from impact.

“What’s the plan?!” he yells through the roar, the bracelet pulsing with arcane magic.

“Avoideth its gaze!” H’aanit yells back, shielding her face with an arm. “Learneth the rest later!”

The ground quakes as Redeye leaps from the cliff, shock waves shattering and toppling the ice where it stands. The group darts off, and the beast charges.

It’s chaos and confusion as they weave through broken pillars, gauging Redeye’s movements. They circle around its body and avoid locking eyes when the beast whips its head around. Rancid steam rises from its body, and limbs writhe and twitch as it searches for the closest target.

Ethereal shackles fly through the air and clasp Redeye’s limbs. Therion’s muscles tense from the strain, yet the beast proves stronger, chains shattering as it wrenches free. He gives chase, hiding behind rubble to avoid detection.

Linde rushes forward, weaving between gangly limbs, sweeping sand into Redeye’s maw when it lowers its head. She darts off, and the beast is in pursuit, crushing rock beneath its palms.

H’aanit catches on and quickly nocks her arrow. She releases one into the beast’s side, but dark matter engulfs and sinks the arrow into nothingness. A sharp huff, and H’aanit trades the bow for her axe.

“To the wall, Linde!”

Linde sprints, and Redeye crawls faster. She climbs along the cliff, using the momentum to launch herself back at an angle. Alfyn swings his axe upon Redeye’s leg as it closes in, yet the beast sees Linde’s trickery and gives chase. Shards of ice fly from his palm, bouncing off of Redeye’s fleeing form. He curses as he yanks the axe from the ground.

It’s a chase of attrition between two beasts, and neither gives in. Linde circles the chamber, leaping over broken rubble in her path. Redeye crushes a piece of stone and stumbles on another. The pattern repeats.

“That’s it, come closer...” Primrose says under her breath. A ring of dark magic surrounds her body, rising and extending into long tendrils that move at her command.

Redeye’s roars of frustration grow as Linde confines her sprints within a single area. Limbs slam against stone and entangle themselves. Tendrils tighten around Redeye’s limbs, holding it in place.

“Now!”

The air heats, and fire bursts from Therion’s palms. Redeye shrieks and writhes as the flames sear its flesh, burning stench saturating the air. Dark matter encroaches upon its wounds, yet they don’t heal.

Body smoldering, Redeye wrenches free from Primrose’s restraints and roars, more deafening than the last. The force sends her flying and crashing against a cliff face, and she collapses on the ground.

“Foul beast!” H’aanit bristles at the sight, tightening her hold around the axe.

Seeing the source of her wrath, Linde rushes to Primrose’s aid. H’aanit hears an affirming growl, yet it’s a cold comfort. Rushing forward, she dodges Redeye’s claw as it lodges itself into the ground. With the momentum, she pivots and slams the axe between its ribs. Steam hisses, and dark ichor spurts from the wound, yet the shrieking Redeye doesn’t back down.

Linde charges forward, teeth bared. A sweep of a hind leg sends sand flying, and she scrambles back, growling and pawing at her face. Redeye shakes off H’aanit’s strike, grasps, and hurls a chunk of pillar toward Linde. Ice shatters in its path, and Alfyn takes the offensive.

Redeye weaves past jutting icicles with alarming speed, ripping itself from the ice piercing its flesh. Blasts of fire join the frozen assault, flames and frost against darkness and ichor. A bestial roar catches the two mid-attack, and as their feet slide and lose their grip, Alfyn barely shoves Therion away to take on the full impact of rock against his back. Therion flies back at an angle and lands nearby, panting and spitting sand from his mouth, Alfyn’s name catching in his throat.

A bolt of lightning strikes the beast from above. Muscles seizing, its harrowing shriek sends tremors up their spines.

“I am thine enemy!” H’aanit yells, the air around her crackling with energy. It’s tough on her body; she rarely resorts to the arcane. Sweat drips down her face and she provokes the beast again.

It obliges, limbs scrambling and maw unhinged, seeking its new prey.

Arrows fly with haste, yet the strain of H’aanit’s magic weighs down her limbs. She nocks another when Redeye grasps her body and slams her to the ground, bow sliding out of reach. Five fingers - it’s all she sees before shutting her eyes. Hands clutch the beast’s wrist, pushing, trying to relieve the crushing pressure against her chest. Rancid breaths suffocate the air, a burning wetness drips onto her face, and she fights with all her strength.

Openeth thine eyes and die. Closeth them and die.

Teeth clenched and breaths labored, she would go proudly.

A roar rings in her ears, the air burns, everything burns.

And then it doesn’t.

The claw wrenches back, and the pressure lifts from her chest. H’aanit painfully gasps for air, heaving from the strain. All is orange when she finally opens her eyes.

Time comes to a halt as divine light pulses within Therion’s chest, bursting forth into blades that encircle his body. It’s as if rings of fire protect a burning core, stepping forward, ready to ignite. Therion’s eyes glow with fire, vivid and piercing, fixed upon one target. The prince of thieves ascends his throne.

The outer ring unravels, and Redeye screams as ethereal daggers tear through its flesh, shattering with blinding sparks. Ichor pours from the wounds as it claws against nothing, the lights leaving as quickly as they came.

The inner circle of swords expands, and eight blazing blades fly, each strike stronger than the last. Redeye turns as the last of the eight explodes in its face and its head drops to the floor - right within range.

Sprinting forward, Therion sees only red as he sinks a final, ornate dagger deep into its eye.

Redeye shrieks and stumbles back as dark matter surrounds the hollow socket, unable to reach the dagger. The wounded eye turns black, never to glow again.

It’s a short-lived victory.

A frantic sweep of its arm sends Therion flying, rolling, sliding across the gravel. Claws clutch its head, and Redeye’s guttural screams increase in pitch, morphing into a voice unlike its own. The voice hitches in its throat, and a black tear escapes the remaining eye.

Drained from the attack, Therion tries to stand, but his feet don’t move. A hand tries to brush the hair from his eyes, but fingers lock in place.

A weak laugh. He really did it this time.

“Therion!” H’aanit screams, watching his limbs turn to stone before her eyes.

Fighting the buckle of her knees, she forces herself off the ground and sprints - right within Redeye’s range of attack. She nearly stares into its hollow gaze when a harsh slap sends Redeye reeling. The purple tendril leaves a dent near its maw. Primrose is up and back with a vengeance.

H’aanit silently thanks her as she drops to her knees beside Therion. With every call of his name comes no response, and she panics.

Sliding a hand under his head, H’aanit props him up, arms shaking, voice rising with every no, no, no! The other hand fumbles for the herb-of-grace, and she jams the vial into his mouth, glass harshly knocking against his teeth. She ensures that he swallows, watches his grey arms, and waits. Grunts, crackles, shatters, and roars pervade her senses, yet H’aanit is silent, save for the anguish in her heart.

I canst not losen another… not again...

Please…

A soft groan. It’s hard to catch amidst the chaos.

She holds her breath.

There’s another, and his head shifts in her hand.

H’aanit gasps. The stone ceases, ashen grey unmoving beyond his limbs.

“...fuck…”

Oh, thanken the heavens…

Gently brushing his hair aside, H’aanit sees dazed, confused eyes peering up at her. It takes a moment, but he offers a weak smile.

“Heh… guess we’re even now.”

“Fool…” she softly chides, supporting Therion in her arms. The stone curse releases its hold, and ashen grey recedes from his limbs. His breaths are shallow, but he’s stable, and her heart swells with relief.

The sudden wall of ice (and subsequent smash of the top) breaks through her thoughts. H’aanit acts as a shield against the rain of ice, and she hears frantic footsteps among the frenzy.

One glance at Therion’s condition quells some of Alfyn’s worries, yet there’s more to do.

“I got it from here - go!”

Tendrils rise beyond the ice wall, wrangling the rampaging beast into submission. With a nod, H’aanit leaves Therion in his care and circles around the wall.

“You made it,” Primrose greets, smashing a grappled Redeye against the ice. While it’s stunned, she kicks H’aanit’s bow closer. Her breaths are heavy, and her veins glow with dark magic.

H’aanit secures the bow against her back and holds out a hand. Arrows won’t suffice.

“Helpen me.”

Primrose gives a knowing glance and maneuvers her arms, a purple light encompassing H’aanit’s body. Sparks crackle and fingers tense as lightning builds in her open palms.

She would have the upper hand, this time.

Darkness and lightning collide with searing, brutal force, and Redeye staggers from the impact. Sparks fly as H’aanit tears through its defenses, and Primrose no longer holds back. Each crack of a tendril against Redeye’s writhing form is louder than the last. They fight as one - it’s their grand act on this stage of hell.

Hidden behind a fallen pillar, Therion rouses from his half-conscious state. His back rests against the stone, and Alfyn meets his bleary gaze.

“Hey, bud. Hope I didn’t jostle ya too much.”

Therion feels a cold hand press against his legs, forearms, and hands. With every “can ya feel that?”, he weakly nods, too dazed to speak. There’s a bitter taste on his tongue and numbness in his limbs, but he wills himself to shift his feet, to clench his fist. Slow and stiff, but successful.

Alfyn sighs in relief, trying to smile as he places a vial of medicine into his palm.

“Stay here till you’re ready,” he instructs, gesturing toward their unannounced friend. “Ya won’t be alone.”

Heavy footsteps crunch against sand as Alfyn re-enters the fray. Linde nuzzles against Therion’s leg, ready to protect him should the need come.

Squeezing the vial for good measure, he downs the medicine with haste. It tastes terrible, but it’s strong, and it’s working. Amidst thundering booms, flashes, and rumbles, he tries to focus on breathing as the pain dissipates. Linde offers her softness in support, covered in dust and whatever the hell drips from her teeth. He accepts the comfort in full, beckoning her forward to wipe sand from the corners of her eyes.

Roars and rumbles continue with equal strength, and it’s time to be useful again. Therion presses a hand against the wall, and Linde supports him as he stands with shaky limbs.

Back from the brink again. He just refused to die.

Therion reaches the others as an icicle shatters in Redeye’s face. It staggers back like a cornered animal, guttural sounds leaving its throat. Screams die down, and mournful cries intensify. The beast reaches out with wounded arms, claws twitching as it tries to hold onto something.

It tries to hold onto Alfyn, and only Alfyn.

Yells and confusion fill the chamber as Redeye gives chase. It pays no heed to the blast of fire or the fangs sinking into its hind leg. The lightning that cuts across its torso does little to stop it, and scrambling limbs push away dark tendrils. Singed flesh and gaping wounds mean nothing, for it seeks only one prey.

The wall doesn’t form quickly enough, and a backhand sends shattered ice and Alfyn against the opposite wall. More screaming and yelling his name, and Redeye’s getting close, too close.

Dazed and confused, Alfyn hisses as a sharp pain seizes his shoulder. Blood seeps through his clothes, and he can’t move his arm - through the wound or fear, he can’t tell. He looks up and quickly turns away to avoid the gaze that falls upon him. Eyes tightly shut, Alfyn resigns himself to a grim fate.

Redeye reaches out, closer, too close, right against his shoulder.

Then, it stops.

A sickly green energy radiates from its claws, bathing Alfyn in unsettling light. Redeye staggers back, and the hand leaves his shoulder. It screeches, scratches at itself, writhes, wails.

Weeps.

There’s no mistaking the sorrow.

Gathering his senses, Alfyn touches his shoulder. Dry blood crusts over the closed wound.

“Stop! Don’t attack!”

The yell halts the others where they stand. Magic pulses in their palms, and an arrow veers in another direction.

“Alfyn!”

“What happened!?”

“Get outta there!”

So much yelling, and his mind can’t make out the voices.

“I don’t know! It healed me!”

Black tears stream from its remaining eye as Redeye shudders in place, mournful cries filling the chamber. It claws at its wounded, bleeding body, stopping itself from advancing. Dark tendrils hover near its form, waiting.

A strange noise escapes its throat, guttural and garbled in its efforts.

“...KiLl…”

“...Me...!”

Eyes widen, and they exchange confused glances. This foe is no forest beast, no victim under a blood crystal’s hold. Or is it?

What is it?

A harsh growl diverts their attention as Linde sinks her fangs into dark flesh. Tendrils dart forward, ensnaring Redeye’s limbs to appease its final wish.

“Prim!”

“I can’t hold it for long!” she shouts toward Alfyn. Her muscles strain from the grapple, and she holds on with all her strength.

Alfyn’s still shaken from the healing as Therion joins his side, grasping Alfyn’s arm as he stands. With deep breaths, he clenches his fist, willing the remains of arcane energy into his hands.

“Gonna need your help,” he raises his right hand. Linde senses his resolve as she joins him, and he nods down at her. “Yours, too.”

The bracelet’s light flickers and dims, and Alfyn needs to make this count.

Therion understands, summoning fire in his palms.

“H’aanit! Get ready!” he yells.

With the two at his side, Alfyn steels his heart and rushes forward.

He maintains distance as he circles around Redeye’s form, with Linde and Therion trailing beside him. A gaping maw snaps at whatever moves, yet Linde is too fast and flames keep it at bay. Claws scrape against the ground as Redeye struggles, failing to land a hit as Primrose restrains it, darkness conquering darkness. Shards of ice erupt and pierce through flesh and bone. Dark ichor spurts from wounds as icicles anchor the beast to the ground.

Blue and red lights flare as the two aim their attacks above Redeye. Frost and flames collide with a thundering hiss, and the shower of vapor descends upon its body. As heat melts the ice beneath, a crackle of lightning signals their retreat, leaving H’aanit to deliver the coup de grace.

We hunt so we may live.

Such is the advice H’aanit recalls as she nocks his arrow. From the forests of Stonegard to the sands of Marsalim, she can finish what Master started. Dark tendrils release their grip, and she prepares her mercy kill.

“Farewell.”

Lightning swirls around her arm as she releases, hair blowing back from the force. The bolt surrounds the arrow in fatal light and pierces through the remaining eye, setting the chamber alight with blinding sparks. Redeye’s chilling shriek dies with a once-red void, now hollow.

Ghastly limbs hang limply, and Redeye rests its weary head on the ground. Limbs start to disintegrate, black dust clouding its crumpled form. The group watches as ribs turn to dust, a mournful heart turns heartless, and a single tear escapes from an eye socket.

“...fr...free…”

A final, shuddering sigh leaves its maw, and the beast is no more.

No one speaks for a while.

With a solemn air about her, H’aanit walks to Redeye’s final resting spot. No dagger and no arrow - merely the lingering smell of decay. Linde hurries to her side, wary of potential dangers that may leap from the dark. No dangers come, though she sniffs at the ground where Redeye once lay. H’aanit watches Linde’s expressions, the ones her companion wore when she sniffed the petrified soldiers. Perhaps something was here, something she cannot comprehend.

She can ponder that thought another day. For now, she kneels, kisses Linde’s forehead, and gives a huntress’ blessing.

“There is more to thine heart than what meetest the eye, something beyond mine understanding. Whatever fate hath befallen thee… may thy spirit layeth to rest.”

Among sand and stone, and from ash to air, she hopes its spirit can be free.

Mirroring their moment in Northreach, Therion offers a hand to H’aanit. With the same gratitude, she accepts his aid. Nearby, Primrose and Alfyn lean against each other for support.

H’aanit breathes deeply, and they make their way toward the entrance.

Commotion greets them as they traverse the ruins a second time. Once-petrified soldiers rejoice, for they are flesh and blood once again.

Does this mean Master is also free from the curse?

Familiar friends reach the group, embracing them, asking questions she can’t quite answer. They mention Captain Raaf and Eliza scattering the beasts, how they came as quickly as they could, how they’re relieved to see them.

“You are all safe,” Olberic looks up from his position, where he supports one of Marsalim’s soldiers with a steady hand. “That would mean…”

“The beast has been slain?” said soldier finishes Olberic’s words. He wears a different set of armor than the rest, and his voice carries a stoic air.

“Aye, by our hands,” H’aanit speaks on the group’s behalf. They’re in various states of wear and tear, but they’re alive, and they’re together.

The news sparks cheers and relief among the other soldiers. If they witnessed the sight in that chamber, however, would their responses change?

“You have our utmost gratitude,” the man shares, introducing himself as General Lenaar of the city guard. “My men and I must catch our breaths, but please go on ahead.”

“I shall stay with you, General,” Olberic adds, turning toward his friends. “Do not worry. We will follow shortly.”

Whatever plagued this tormented soul, it is free. In turn, the city is now free. It’s some relief from what transpired.

Passing scattered stone and streams of sand, much news awaits the king.