Lastlight's Revenant #30

The soldiers erupted into cheers as Garran rose from Vorric's corpse, their voices ringing off the broken walls of Black Hollow. Blood dripped from his split brow, his jaw throbbed with every heartbeat, and his ribs ached where Vorric had landed his blows—but beneath the pain, there was satisfaction.

Justice, however brutal, had been served.

He spat a mouthful of coppery blood onto the dirt, watching it darken the earth. Around him, men clapped each other on the backs, some even raising their swords in salute.

Then—

"Silence."

Torvain's voice cut through the celebration like a whip. The soldiers stiffened, their cheers dying instantly. The old lord stood motionless, his visor raised just enough to reveal eyes like chips of flint.

"You," he pointed to a grizzled veteran—Sergeant Daeron, a man who had served House Dornblade since before Garran was born. "Take five men. Mount the heads of these filth along the King's Road. Carve their crimes into wood and nail it beneath them. Let every outlaw in the East know what happens to those who prey on Dornblade lands."

Daeron nodded sharply, his face grim. "As you command, my lord." He turned, barking names—"Harlen, Corren, Varth, Hendrick, Rikkard—with me." The chosen men moved without hesitation, drawing their daggers and setting to their grisly work.

Torvain watched them for a moment before addressing the rest. "We've had reports these marauders took captives—women and children. The rest of you, comb every inch of this ruin. If there are survivors, we bring them home. If there are bodies, we bury them with dignity."

The soldiers dispersed, fanning out through the rubble, their earlier triumph replaced by grim purpose.

Garran approached his father, working his sore jaw with his fingers. The swelling would be brutal by nightfall.

"Father," he said, his voice low. "We need to talk."

Torvain didn’t even look at him. "Later." The word was final, brooking no argument. "The safety of our people comes first."

With that, the Lord of Dornblade strode past him, his cloak swirling as he followed the soldiers into the ruins.

Garran exhaled through his nose, watching his father’s retreating back. The weight of unspoken words pressed against his ribs, heavier than any armor.

But for now, duty called.

He turned and walked the opposite way, stepping over corpses as he began his own search.

...

Garran edged forward, his sword extended as he nudged the rotting door open with its tip. His shield remained raised, muscles coiled tight in anticipation of hidden bolts or blades.

That gnawing unease still clawed at him—Vorric’s final words slithering through his thoughts like a serpent.

Queen of Lost Innocence. Golden all-seeing eyes.

Madness, surely. Yet the bandit had died grinning, as if he’d won some unseen game.

The door creaked inward, revealing a cellar choked with broken crates and moldering sacks. The stench of damp rot and spoiled grain rolled out in a thick wave. Garran exhaled, lowering his shield slightly. Another dead end.

He turned to leave—

—when bootsteps echoed on the stairwell behind him.

A young soldier—Percin, one of the newer recruits—appeared, his face pale beneath his helm.

"M’lord," he panted, "we’ve found something. Lord Torvain commands your presence."

Garran’s grip tightened on his sword. "What is it?"

Percin shook his head, swallowing hard. "Don’t know. Only young Colwyn saw it before the lord barred the room. Whatever it is…" He trailed off, his throat working. "It reeks like the Hells’ own cesspit. Colwyn’s still retching in the courtyard."

A cold weight settled in Garran’s gut. He’d seen these soldiers scoff at the spilled innards of the bandits, but whatever lay in that room had broken a Dornblade soldier.

"Lead the way," he said, his voice grim.

Percin nodded, turning on his heel. As they navigated the ruin’s crumbling corridors down toward the dungeon, the air grew thicker, the stench coiling around them—not just decay, but something fouler.

...

The stench hit Garran like a physical blow as he approached the chamber. Percin’s description—the Hells’ own cesspit—had not prepared him for the reality.

The air was thick with the cloying sweetness of rotting meat, the iron bite of old blood, and something worse, something chemical, like burning hair and spoiled incense. It clung to the back of his throat, making his eyes water.

Torvain stood before the door, his armored frame rigid, his face a mask of grim resolve. But Garran had known his father long enough to see the cracks—the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw worked as if biting back words.

The sight of the greenish puddle near the threshold—vomit, still fresh—sent a cold prickle down Garran’s spine.

"What’s behind that door, Father?" he asked, his voice low.

Torvain exhaled, long and weary. "The result of inaction. Of failure." He turned to face his son, his gaze heavy. "See for yourself."

Garran hesitated. The door loomed before him, its warped wood streaked with dark stains. Something primal in him recoiled, whispering that whatever lay beyond would carve itself into his mind forever.

"Must I?"

Torvain didn’t flinch. "Yes," he said, the word final. "You must."

For a heartbeat, Garran considered refusing. Then, steeling himself, he reached for the handle.

...

The door groaned open, and the stench that poured forth was a living thing—thick, putrid, clawing at Garran's throat like a strangling hand. His eyes burned as they adjusted to the gloom, the flickering torchlight revealing the horror in jagged fragments.

Bodies.

Dozens of them. Women. Children.

Arranged.

Not discarded like refuse, not piled like slaughtered livestock—posed, with grotesque deliberation. Their limbs were splayed in a macabre arc, their hollowed-out torsos stitched together with crude twine, forming a ghastly crescent around the centerpiece of this abomination.

A wooden statue.

A child.

No—a thing shaped like a child, its face hidden beneath a tattered hood, its body coiled in serpents. Every detail was carved with unsettling precision—the folds of the robe, the scales of the snakes, their golden eyes glittering in the torchlight.

But it was the statue's face that froze Garran's blood.

The hood's shadow concealed all but its eyes—twin orbs of pure gold, polished to a mirror's sheen. They watched him, unblinking, reflecting his own horrified expression back at him in distorted mockery.

Beneath the statue, the floor was black with dried blood, the patterns too deliberate to be accidental. Sigils. Words in a language that made Garran's skull ache just to glimpse.

His stomach heaved.

He stumbled back, his boot slipping on something wet—a scrap of cloth, a child's tiny shoe, sodden with old gore.

Then the world tilted.

Garran barely made it outside before he doubled over, retching violently, his body trying to expel the horror seared into his mind. Behind him, he heard Torvain's voice—not in condemnation, not in pity, but in grim understanding.

"Now you see," the lord murmured.

Garran didn't answer.

He couldn't.

All he could do was vomit until his throat was raw, until the image of those golden eyes stopped burning behind his own eyelids.

...

The bonfire crackled before Garran, its flames devouring the last remnants of that cursed room. He sat on a splintered tree stump, elbows resting on his knees, fingers pressed against his throbbing temples.

The acrid scent of burning wood and charred flesh clung to his clothes, but it was nothing compared to the stench that still haunted his memory.

He had smashed that grotesque statue himself—reduced it to splinters with a blacksmith’s hammer until only the golden eyes remained, glinting mockingly up at him from the dirt.

He had burned the arc of stitched-together corpses until they were nothing but ash. He had even ordered the walls of that chamber torn down, burying the horror beneath rubble.

Yet none of it erased what he had seen.

Why?

Not madness. Not mere cruelty. There had been purpose in that slaughter. A ritualistic precision that made his skin crawl.

Before he could spiral deeper into the thought, Torvain’s voice cut through the night.

"There you are."

Garran turned to see his father approaching, his silhouette framed by the distant glow of torchlight. The old lord moved with the same measured stride as always, but there was a heaviness to him now—a weariness that went beyond the physical.

Garran exhaled sharply through his nose and slid off the stump, lowering himself to the ground instead. A silent invitation.

Torvain didn’t hesitate. He took the offered seat, his armor creaking as he settled beside his son. For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then—

"How are you feeling?" Torvain asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

Garran shot him a sidelong glance, his jaw tightening. "That was a harsh lesson you taught me." A pause. "Too harsh. Even for you."

Torvain’s expression didn’t flicker. "Perhaps. But you needed to see what happens when men of power hesitate. When they fail to act." His gaze drifted to the bonfire, the flames reflecting in his eyes. "It’s the people who suffer."

A log collapsed in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks.

"Your brother," Torvain continued, his voice softening just a fraction, "was misguided in many ways. But he understood this much: Lordship is not a right. Not a privilege." He turned to Garran, his stare unyielding. "It’s the duty to protect these lands and the people who call them home."

A beat of silence.

"It’s your duty now."