Chapter 12
Rowan's voice faded into silence, the weight of memory pressing down on him like chains of iron. He leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand across his face. The weariness within him was not only of the body but of the soul. Battle, blood, and truth had carved themselves too deeply into him to fade. He closed his eyes for a moment, the faces of the fallen flashing behind his eyelids.
Across the oak table, Eldhar sat still as stone. The firelight sharpened the edges of his scarred features, his expression unreadable except for the tension in his jaw. His knuckles turned pale where his hands gripped the table. A muscle twitched in his cheek, betraying the turmoil beneath his stoic facade.
"The Trinity of the Abyss…" Eldhar finally spoke, his voice as heavy as a millstone. "And a tome that leads to Daath's altar. May the gods preserve us."
Upstairs, faint against the muffled sounds of the inn, Azre stirred. Her body ached with every breath, but her mind caught fragments of Rowan's voice and her father's, carried to her as though from underwater. Seraphine's name. The Trinity. A stolen book. She could not piece them together, but even fragments were enough to chill her blood. A vision flashed in her mind the dark forest, Holon's crimson eyes, and the faces of her fallen comrades. The pieces were disjointed, but the sense of dread was undeniable.
She closed her eyes again. She had fought, bled, and nearly died, yet the true storm was only beginning.
The inn's common room sat in half shadow, the hearth casting an orange glow across weary faces. The air smelled of ash, smoke, and the faint aroma of stew drifting from the kitchen. Outside, Ethille's streets awakened with morning sounds street hawkers calling, hooves clattering on cobblestones, bells ringing from the temple towers. Yet here, silence hung like a shroud after Rowan's account, pressing on every soul present.
The other Purge Knights slept above, their bodies broken, their mana drained to nothing. The quiet was fragile, as if one loud word might shatter it.
It broke anyway.
The door creaked open, and boots sounded against the floorboards. Captain Viera entered.
Her armor, dulled by travel and flecked with dried blood, bore none of its former polish. Her face was lined with worry, her braid loose from sleepless nights. She carried herself with a weary determination, her shoulders squared despite the exhaustion etched on her face. Three acolytes followed, their pale robes heavy with satchels of herbs, bandages, and small crystal phials glowing faintly with healing light.
"You all look as though death itself trampled over you," Viera said. Her tone was sharp, but her eyes carried something softer relief that they yet lived. She lifted her chin toward the acolytes. "See to them. Now." Her gaze lingered on Eldhar for a moment, a silent communication passing between them.
The young clerics bowed and hurried upstairs. Their hushed voices floated faintly as they moved from bed to bed, channeling warmth into broken bodies. Azre felt that soothing light flow into her like the trickle of water into a dry well. The pain dulled, though it did not vanish. She and Nilda, healers themselves, lay humbled by the truth even those who could mend others could not save themselves when mana was drained.
For the first time since the forest, Azre allowed herself to rest. Her chest rose and fell with fragile peace.
When the work was done, the acolytes descended with pale faces, whispering prayers as they departed. Viera alone remained, settling at a small desk by the window. She drew ink and parchment from her satchel and began to write, the quill scratching with urgency. She dipped the quill in ink, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She wrote of the Trinity of the Abyss. Of Holon's schemes. Of the tome stolen from House Brightnox.
Her message was sealed in wax with the mark of the Purge Knights, bound for the capital, and then for Ragnafiore itself. She lingered over no words; they would bring dread enough to any who read them. She folded the parchment carefully, her movements precise and deliberate.
Before she could rise, the door opened again.
Lady Seraphine stepped inside.
Her silken gown was torn and dulled by travel. Her golden hair was tangled by wind and dampened by tears. Her face was pale, her eyes swollen from sleepless nights. She hesitated at the threshold, clutching the frame as though her legs might give way. She looked like a broken doll, her once vibrant beauty dimmed by trauma.
When Rowan and Thalia turned to her, she bowed so deeply that her hair spilled across the wooden floor.
"I…" Her voice cracked as she pressed her fists to her chest. "I owe you both my life. But because of me because of my weakness the tome is gone. Because of me, mankind may suffer. Forgive me. Please… forgive me."
Her shoulders shook. She wept openly, shame chaining her where she knelt.
The room stilled. Even the fire seemed to quiet.
Then Thalia rose.
Without hesitation, she crossed the floor and knelt before Seraphine. Gently but firmly, she drew the noblewoman into her arms. Her touch was gentle but firm, her embrace offering both comfort and strength.
"Listen," Thalia whispered, her voice steady as tempered steel. "This was not your fault. If not for you, Rowan and I would never have known Holon's trap. We would never have reached the others in time. You are not our downfall, Lady Seraphine. You are our salvation."
Seraphine sobbed harder, her tears soaking Thalia's shoulder.
Rowan moved closer, resting his hand lightly on Seraphine's trembling arm. "Thalia speaks true. You did not doom us. You gave us the chance to fight back. That is what matters." His gaze was filled with compassion, his touch a silent reassurance.
One by one, the others added their voices. Viera bowed her head. Eldhar, stern as always, gave solemn thanks. Even Aven, gruff and unwilling with words, muttered his gratitude.
Each voice fell upon Seraphine like a balm.
Her sobs changed not only grief now, but release. She wept freely, overwhelmed by the kindness of those she had admired from afar, voices she never thought would defend her.
The door burst open once more.
Lord Welhime Brightnox strode in, his cloak dusty from travel, his fine garments creased from the long road out of Ragnafiore. His face was lined by age and fear, but his eyes burned with nothing but paternal love. He moved with a fierce protectiveness, his gaze sweeping the room until it landed on his daughter.
"Seraphine!"
She turned just as he swept her into his arms. His hands clutched her tightly, as though letting go would mean losing her again. Father and daughter wept together, their voices muffled, their reunion raw and unrestrained.
The knights stood in respectful silence, granting them their moment.
When at last Lord Welhime raised his head, his voice trembled but carried the full weight of House Brightnox.
"My gratitude is yours, noble knights. You saved my daughter when I could not. The Brightnox name is forever in your debt. And know this our coffers, our ships, our reach everything shall stand behind you in the war to come." He met each of their gazes in turn, his words a solemn vow.
No more needed to be said. His word was his oath.
In time, he departed with Seraphine at his side, guards waiting with a carriage outside. The inn fell quiet once more, firelight flickering against tired faces.
Outside, Ethille lived as though untouched by shadow. Children ran in the streets, merchants called from their stalls, bells tolled from the temple towers. Yet here, within the worn walls of the inn, a storm gathered.
The Purge Knights rested, but in their dreams, crimson eyes lingered.
The Trinity of the Abyss had revealed themselves.
The tome was in their hands.
And the path to Daath's altar was now open.
The silence in the common room was no longer peace. It was the silence before war.
Yet far from noble halls and heavy oaths, in a quieter corner of Ethille, life moved at a different pace.
Upon the back of a creaking hay wagon lay a young man. He rested lazily in the straw, one arm tucked behind his head, the other idly playing with a toothpick between his lips. His chest rose and fell as though he slept or perhaps as though he cared little for the world rolling past him.
His hair was striking black as midnight on one side, white as untouched snow on the other. His eyes were closed, but a faint smile played on his lips.
The farmer who drove the wagon paid him no mind. To most, he was only another wanderer catching a ride to nowhere.
But none in Ethille knew that his path was about to cross theirs.
And nothing would remain the same.