Chapter V — Burial and Resolve
Alfara knelt beside the fallen hero, the light of her own presence faint against the frozen ruins. His armor was battered and scarred, dented by centuries of war and the cruel strings of Althoran's curse. Yet even in ruin, there was something unmistakable — the weight of his will, the trace of a man who had once stood taller than kings, who had carried the hope of a city in his hand.
She ran her fingers across the jagged edge of his helm. "Alrick…" she whispered. "You fought so hard… and yet this is all that remains."
Grimm stood a few paces away, shoulders tense, blade still faintly smeared with frost and ash. He didn't speak, only watched the ruins, the fallen hero, the shards of a world that had once been alive. Alfara felt the heat of his presence, the unyielding resolve that had kept her safe. He had moved before he could think, acting with the ferocity of a man who understood what duty demanded — and for a moment, she felt a swelling of gratitude and awe.
"I can't imagine facing him like you did," she murmured. "I… I don't have your strength."
Grimm didn't respond he didn't feel like it was strength it was foolish to fight a hero from the Age if Life but here he was.
The wind carried through the ruins, whispering over broken walls and the bones of a city that had once breathed with life. Alfara closed her eyes, trying to imagine sunlight warming these streets, laughter filling the market squares, the clang of hammer on anvil in a forge long gone. It was a memory from a world that had no place here.
"We should bury him," Alfara said finally, her voice trembling but firm. "Even if the world won't remember, we should. He deserves that much."
Grimm exhaled slowly, the frost in his lungs misting as he crouched beside her. "A grave doesn't change anything," he said quietly, "but… if it matters to you, we'll do it."
Together they dug a shallow trench in the frozen soil, Alfara whispering a soft prayer over Alrick's body. She spoke of light and life, of courage that had burned brighter than the sun, and of a world that had nearly forgotten him. Grimm, silent, worked alongside her, the blade slicing frost and stone alike, and even Aethoron crouched nearby, muttering to himself about tradition, about the old ways of honoring the dead.
When the hero was laid to rest, Alfara pressed her hand over the freshly turned earth. "May you rest… finally. And may your spirit find what the world could not give you."
Grimm stood, brushing snow from his cloak. "He's gone," he said simply.
"No," Alfara whispered, eyes wet. "Not gone. His will… his courage… it's here. In us. In what we do next."
They moved away from the grave, the wind carrying faint echoes of the fallen city. Alfara's gaze lingered, reluctant to leave. Then she turned, and Grimm fell into step beside her, calm and unyielding as always.
"We have to understand what he meant," she said. "The western plain… the fallen gods… where they sleep."
Aethoron, standing a few paces ahead, rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Some of it is clear. There's a city not far from here — Cragspire. It was a Dwarven kingdom once, a place of stone and fire and forge. Now… it's a fortress. One of the few pockets where the sane keep to themselves, producing steel for Bastion and the other holdouts. If Alrick's words mean anything, we might find someone there who knows the truth about the fallen."
Alfara's brow furrowed. "And the fallen gods? The others?"
Aethoron shook his head slowly. "Not certain. But the city is old enough that some memories linger. Some ghosts of the past, even among the living… if you know where to look, you might find answers."
Grimm's hands tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Then we go. The sooner we understand, the sooner we can move."
Alfara hesitated, looking back at the ruins, at the snow settling over Alrick's grave. "I… I wish we could save them," she whispered. "Even now, they deserve rest."
"Some things," Grimm said softly, "we can only honor, not fix."
She nodded, biting back tears. "Then we honor him. And we keep moving. That's the only way to make what's left matter."
The three of them set off, the wind at their backs carrying the faint echo of steel striking steel, of a hero's courage whispering through frozen streets. Cragspire waited ahead, a bastion of order in the middle of Husk's chaos — and perhaps the next clue to a world they could still hope to save.