The hush that followed the whispers felt heavier than the noise that came before. Ronan stood in a patch of untouched earth, surrounded by decay, feeling the weight of the villagers' fear create a barrier between them and him—the very person who had attempted to help. The little girl cried into her mother's shoulder, but the woman's gaze was fixed on Ronan, full of a mix of terror, gratitude, and a dread that felt almost superstitious.
Ronan took a step forward, and the crowd instinctively shifted back, as if they were separating themselves from him, which hit him like a punch to the gut. He paused, letting his arms fall open at his sides in a gesture he hoped would convey peace. What could he say? I don't know why the Blight doesn't affect me? That would only stoke their fears further. Understanding amid fear can often be weaponized.
"He's a Blight-walker," someone accused from within the group, their tone sharp.
"A ghost," another voice chimed in, reinforcing the belief that Ronan wasn't just a man but something otherworldly.
He closed his eyes for a moment, stifling the guilt that welled up inside him. This was why he preferred the solitude of the borderlands to the paranoia-laden settlements. His very presence reminded these people of their deepest fears, and now he stood as a frightening paradox to that fear.
In that moment, he resolved to do what he knew best: help where he could. Ignoring the stares burning into his back, he walked over to what was left of Old Man Hemlock's cabin. The Blight had ravaged the back wall, exposing the inside like a child's dollhouse left out in the rain. Inside, the old man lay on his cot, shivering, his skin a stark gray. Liana was crouched beside him, doing her best to shield him from the chilling air.
"He's in shock," Ronan said, his voice slicing through the anxious murmurs of the crowd. He knelt down to face the old man, turning his back to those watching, and focused on his patient. Carefully, he pulled a thin blanket from his pack and wrapped it around Hemlock's frail shoulders. "The surge makes the sickness worse. The tea will be crucial now."
Liana looked up at him, her wide eyes filled with a mix of fear and desperate hope. "Thank you," she whispered as her gaze drifted toward the spot where he had saved Myla. "For the girl. But you… you need to go."
He nodded, deliberately avoiding her gaze. She was right. The damage was done. As he finished tending to Old Man Hemlock, the weight of the gazes from the settlement pressed on him like heavy stone. Just as he prepared to leave, three men from the bastion appeared, wearing armor that was polished, Blight-resistant, and seemed out of place against the rough backdrop of the settlement. They were the Warden's men.
The tallest of the trio, a man with a scar across his eyebrow, shifted his gaze from the circle of untouched earth to Ronan. His hand rested uneasily on the hilt of his short sword. "You. The medic. The Warden wants to see you."
It was not a request.
The journey to Bastion Kraken was silent and grim. This wasn't a town; it was a fortress—a dark stone slab built with sharp angles and designed to withstand the constant threat of the Blight. The walls bore scars from previous surges, but they held strong, standing as a testament to resilience against decay. Once inside, the air felt different: tense and militaristic, filled with the scent of ozone and forged steel instead of dust and despair.
They ushered him through narrow corridors lit by flickering torches until they reached a chamber resembling a bunker. The walls were lined with maps, their edges curling, marking areas where the Blight was creeping in. A harsh white light from a single lamp illuminated a heavy oak desk.
Behind that desk sat Warden Kaelen.
Kaelen seemed to be made from the same unyielding stone as his fortress. His hair was cropped closely, silver at the temples, and deep lines filled his face—not from age, but from the stress of the choices he had made. He wore a simple gray tunic instead of armor, yet he commanded authority. His flint-gray eyes lifted from the report in front of him to pin Ronan in place, revealing a man who had made too many hard decisions to still feel their weight.
"Ronan," Kaelen said, his voice calm, but with an underlying chill. "The medic who survives."
The guards stepped back, sealing the heavy door behind them with a click that felt final.
"I was a medic," Ronan corrected gently. "Now, I'm just a man trying to help where I can."
"A man," Kaelen echoed, the hint of a humorless smile flickering across his lips. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled thoughtfully. "The report from Fallow settlement is remarkable. A Blight surge of class-three intensity. Seven confirmed dead, twelve with advanced decay sickness. Structural damage to the eastern palisade and multiple dwellings." He paused, his piercing gaze boring into Ronan. "And one man, standing in the middle of it, unharmed."
Ronan remained silent. He had nothing to say.
"We've heard rumors," Kaelen continued, standing and slowly circling his desk with the grace of a predator. "A ghost in the borderlands. A medic who goes where others fear to tread and returns unscathed. I dismissed it as mere superstition—tales spun by those clinging to hope in desperate times." He stopped a few feet away from Ronan, close enough for him to see the fatigue etched in his eyes and the deep wound of a man trying to hold back the tide with bare hands. "But it seems the stories are true."
"I don't know why it happens," Ronan said, meeting Kaelen's gaze. It felt true.
"I don't care," Kaelen replied, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Understanding the 'why' is something for philosophers and long-gone souls. I'm a practical man. I have a problem, and you seem to be the only one who can solve it."
He turned away and picked up a small, flat object from his desk. It was a locket, old and scratched up. He tossed it to Ronan.
Ronan caught it reflexively. The metal felt cold in his hand. He opened it and found a tiny, beautifully painted portrait of a woman with fierce eyes, golden hair, and a bright smile that could light up even the darkest room. His breath hitched. He recognized that face—a face everyone knew.
Lyra. The Sun-Knight. The Hope of the Last Stand.
"She didn't die in the final battle," Kaelen said, his tone flat, without the emotion that was stirring inside Ronan. "When the Blight hit, she was at its center. We all thought she was lost. But our far-off scouts—the ones we never expect to see again—they've reported strange things. Echoes deep in the Blight. Signs."
Ronan's fingers tightened around the locket; the metal pressed into his palm. "Signs of what?" he asked.
"Of her," Kaelen said, a sudden fire burning in his eyes. "Her power is too great to be easily snuffed out. The Blight didn't kill her; it corrupted her. She's alive in there. At the heart of the Grave."
The world seemed to tilt beneath Ronan. Lyra was alive. It was a thought that filled him with both hope and dread.
"My problem," Kaelen continued, leaning closer, "is that I can't send an army into the deep Blight. They would perish within ten steps. My top mages are useless; their magic would act like a beacon to that thing. It devours magic. But you…" He gestured dismissively at Ronan, as if he were nothing more than a tool. "You, it ignores."
A cold wave of fear ran through Ronan. He sensed the demand coming, strong and unavoidable.
"Your immunity is not a curse, Ronan. It's a weapon. The only one of its kind." Kaelen's voice hardened. "You will go into the deep Blight. Find the Sun-Knight. And you will bring her back."
The sheer audacity of the request left Ronan momentarily speechless. It felt like a death sentence. It was crazy.
"You're asking me to walk into the Grave of Heroes," Ronan said, his voice hollow. "To search for a woman who might be a ghost or worse, and simply… bring her out?"
"I'm not asking," Kaelen corrected him. He returned to his desk and picked up another document. This one featured a rough sketch of Ronan's face, clearly a bounty poster. Underneath, in bold letters, it read 'BLIGHT-CURSED'. The reward they were offering was considerable. "The world is in a fragile state, medic. People are scared and desperate for someone to blame for their suffering. A man immune to the plague that's killing them… they won't look kindly upon him. I can make this poster disappear. I can offer you a safe place here. Or I can plaster it across every notice board from here to the sun-scorched ruins."
He let the poster drop back onto the desk.
"The choice is yours," Kaelen said. "You can die a monster out there, or you can be a hero in here. But you will find me Lyra."
Ronan stared at the bounty poster, at the wild gleam in Kaelen's eyes, and at the locket still clutched in his fist. He thought of Lyra's portrait, the promise in her smile now ensnared in a nightmare of gray. And he remembered the settlers, their eyes brimming with fear and hope.
There was no choice to be made. There was only the path ahead, deeper into the gray.
He raised his gaze to Kaelen, trying to keep his own expression steady. "Where do I start?"
Kaelen's smile was thin and cruel. "The scouts last reported a strange light three days' walk into the Blight, due west. A persistent golden glow in a place where light shouldn't exist. We believe that's her. You'll leave at dawn."
Kaelen turned his back, dismissing Ronan entirely. The meeting was over. Ronan felt like a tool that had already been set into motion.
As the guards escorted him away, Ronan looked down at the locket in his hand. The painting seemed so vivid, so alive. He snapped it shut, but the image of Lyra's face remained etched in his mind.
He was about to plunge into the heart of the world's end. To search for a ghost. And he faced an uncertain fate—either saving her or joining her in death.