Episode 4 - Chapter 20

A muted prayer for my story.

Ianc rolled the parchment flat on his desk. Its meticulous, childish scribbles clashed with the solemnity of the moment. Ianc traced a line with a calloused thumb, a line Aaron had sketched to show how the string would be woven, or how the handle would be shaped to fit the archer’s hand. He remembered Aaron’s voice, soft and earnest, chattering beside a campfire.

It’s your dream bow, woodman. Herald, I mean. I know you liked Blake’s giant bow. This one won’t impale a plagueborn, but it’ll crack a kite shield. Ianc remembered Aaron’s quiet presence, how it had become a steadfast guard during the battle. He had fought with a ferocity born of despair and loyalty. He had chosen to stand, to fight, to protect Ianc. He had not been forced into this war, not by a family name or a divine Spark he did not ask for. He had made a choice, a final, lethal choice.

He picked up a gnarled length of wood, an ancient piece of the Aeimortis, the god tree itself. Rahorh had given it to him before disappearing, a silent token of shared loss. The wood felt heavy, not with its own weight, but with the memories it held. It was like holding the core of the sacred tree, the essence of a land that had fought and died.

He began the final shaping after the heat treatment. The rasp of the file against the grain was rhythmic, meditative. Each shaving that fell was a memory—a moment of laughter, a shared meal, a quiet vigil in the dark. He worked with a forgotten skill, a woodman’s muscle memory. This was not a weapon, but a eulogy carved from the heart of a fallen god and the dream of a dead boy.

The bow slowly took form under his hands. Slender and elegant, it was not a weapon of war but a work of art. Forged from two worlds, born of the Aeimortis and hardened by Solfire. This bow was a fusion of the old gods and the new, a testament to what could have been. He strung the bow with a single, thick leather strand, an exact replica of Aaron’s design.

He held the bow aloft, its polished surface catching the faint light filtering through the tent flap. He drew the string back to feel the wood’s resistance, not to test its strength. The bow hummed a low and resonant note, like a song of sorrow and remembrance.

His gaze drifted to his own hands, calloused and scarred, the hands of a man forced to serve. He thought of the words Rahorh had said to him in the dungeon, I want freedom for everyone. Empower every single person with Solfire.

He looked at the bow again. It was a bridge between the living and the dead, a memory carved in wood. He raised the bow, his eyes, usually so guarded, now filled with an unspilled grief, a raw and agonizing emptiness. His mind was a still pond, reflecting his dead friend’s face and his own complicity. He touched the smooth, elegant curve of the bow, and a quiet, solemn promise left his lips, a whisper carried on the wind. “May it never be used in vengeance.” The pain of loss had passed. Not gone, but shaped into something useful.

The tent flap rustled. A soft, rhythmic patter on the canvas announced the rain. Abby slipped inside, a clay bowl steaming in her hands. The air was thick with the scent of sawdust and fresh-cut wood shifted to hold the warm aroma of stew. She didn’t speak, didn’t comment on the bow in Ianc’s hands, or the grim set of his jaw. She simply sat, setting the bowl between them, the metal spoon clinking softly against the rim.

“I thought you might be hungry.” Her voice felt like a balm against the raw edges of his grief. She took out a jerky and started shredding it into smaller pieces.

Ianc grunted, setting the bow aside, his hands falling to his knees. He hadn’t realized how cold they were. He picked up the spoon, the heat of the metal offered a small comfort. “Share some meat?” He took a slice for himself. They ate in a companionable silence, the only sounds the scrape of the spoons and the gentle drumming of the rain. The stew was a simple affair, with root vegetables and some kind of foraged meat, but it was rich and warm, a small anchor in the storm of their lives.

When the bowls were scraped clean, Abby finally spoke. “They’ve reached the Verhaltens Inn.” Her voice was quiet, but held a new thread of steel. “Campa’s getting them set up. ‘Good for business,’ he says.”

“Camelford, Havenstead, Caladryn Dea.” Ianc’s voice was a rasp in his throat. “Good.”

Abby stared into his eye. “Indeed. You’ve acquired quite a following. Almost enough for a Magister house.”

“Without pure commitment to the Church’s doctrine? I think not,” Ianc chuckled. “The moment I even have that idea spoken, they will be massacred.”

“Good, you have thought it through,” Abby said. “Kieran and Blake will stay with them. They are teaching the children now. How to make fires, how to find food in the woods. He said they need things they can hold onto. Not just Solfire. Blake’s teaching them too. Not books, but songs. He says it’s the best way to get them to remember. Campa is brewing beer. It’s terrible. But they smile more there.” The quiet hope in her voice was a fragile thing, a single flame in a vast darkness.

“Sounds too good to be true.” Ianc smiled with the familiar ache in his chest. He had been a storm that had swept through their lives, bringing chaos and destruction. Abby had been a quiet rock, a steady point of calm in his tempest. “I need them with me when I face the Sage’s Mantle.”

Abby’s hands, which had been resting on her knees, tensed. Her eyes, usually so steady, flickered with a raw fear he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t a fear of him. It was something else. A deeper, more personal dread. “It shines in your Inner Sanctum and no secret could escape.”

“I’ve no secret left. Rahorh has sewn it together and probably has reported to Cle,” Ianc said. He reached out and rested his hands atop hers.

“You don’t understand. They’ll put you in another cage.” Her voice was low and fierce. “They don’t judge what’s in you, Ianc. They see a weapon. A tool. Something expendable.” Her eyes, so full of warmth a moment ago, were now haunted.

He looked at her, truly looked, and saw the shadow of an unknown past. A history of fear, flight, and hiding. “Abby, what are you talking about?”

“Whatever you are will not matter. You are a pawn in their games,” Abby said. She raised her eyes to meet him again. “Don’t trust anyone when you walk into the City of Light.”

He nodded at her words. “I could trust you and the people of the Iron Maiden.”

“Then you’ve already lost.” She sighed, falling into his arms. Her touch was warm and reassuring. The rain continued to fall, a steady drum against the canvas. But inside the tent, a fragile sense of hope had taken root.

He looked at the bow, at his careful work. It was a bridge. A testament to a lost life and a vital friendship. He looked at Abby, her face a mask of worry, and he felt a cold dread in his stomach. What if she was right? What if he was truly helpless in the game unknown? He didn’t want to think about it anymore and landed his lips on Abby.

The air in the tent, still heavy with the scent of rain and wood, grew thick with tension as his hands moved with raw instinct. They were curious and invasive and hungry. Her breath quickened. The sound that escaped was irresistibly inviting. His heart pounded fast, way too fast, as his mouth slid down her neck. His inexperienced fingers fumbled with the buttons. Heat of embarrassment steamed on his cheeks.

Abby giggled, undressing as she climbed on top of him. A flash of white and red, then she was against him again, kissing him passionately.

A cough came from outside the tent. Ianc saw the outline of Rahorh’s back through the canvas. “Cle. Give them a minute,” he said out loud.

Abby sprung around and quickly dressed herself back to form. Ianc did the same and waved his hands before him like he was chasing the heat away. He cleared his throat loudly, signalling them to enter.

Clementine burst inside first, and without a comment, she just stared at Abby. After a moment too long, she flicked her head toward the space beside her. Abby moved to sit there, facing Ianc. The rhys joined in, and sat on the other side of Cle.

“My left hand is ruined.” Cley withdrew a knife and twirled it around her fingers. It dropped just when reaching her middle finger. “I can still lead a charge, but I can’t even dice an onion without dropping the blade.”

Ianc didn’t know what to say and looked at the other two for help. They also sat stiff, their eyes staring at their chest. “I guess it’s time to finish your end of the betrothal promise?” Ianc knew immediately that he fucked up.

“Or I could forfeit and ask my father for a new betrothal. To you, Herald of the Sacred Light.” Her voice hissed, high with sarcasm on the title.

He knew she had fucked it up as well when Abby shot her sister the eyes of the needles. “An excellent proposal, Lady deMolay. It would give me cause to fight Gerald for your hand.”

Abby narrowed her eyes but said nothing. Her mouth quickly formed a sly smile.

“You will die,” Rahord said, oblivious of the joke. “We are not here for this. Are we, Cley?”

Clementine leaned back. “We are not.” Her posture became rigid, her gaze steady. “We are here to brief you.”

“Me?”

“The Selenai’s claws were fused with mutated Solfire. A zealot rhys in Havenstead almost replicated Rahorh’s composited spell. And you were at the center of the Necromancy Orb incident in Camelford.” Cley said.

Ianc nodded. “The Archlich who enchanted my sister could be the stealer of Rahorh’s note.”

Clementine continued, her gaze settling on Ianc. “The Sacrosancts are divided. A schism is coming. For five hundred years, the Church alone granted Solfire through the Disciple Road. Rahorh’s work broke that monopoly. He acts on my father’s orders. The Magisterium believes such power must be set free, for the good of all.” She paused, locking eyes with Ianc. “You are the key. They will try to claim you, or destroy you.”

The words hung in the air, a grim echo of Abby’s own fears. Ianc felt the weight of it all—the expectations, the judgments, the impossible burden of a power he never wanted.

“That much I know,” Ianc said. “But the real mastermind is the Archlich.”

Rahorh leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. “It has come very close to success. With your sister as a just cause for the rebellion, the Suledins will join. It won’t need faith, just hatred. It’ll grant Solfire to those who fall to its perversion. An undead god wielding our sacred Solfire.”

“You must pass the trial, Herald,” Clementine said, bringing the conversation back to the path ahead. “It gets you a position to save your sister.”

Ianc inhaled nervously. The undead had conceived this invasion for centuries. It left embers across the land until the wind blew them up now. His race against a dark mirror of the divine began. “I’ve walked on embers since you found me in that cage.” He held the new bow aloft. “Now to hellfire. May his Light show me the shadow it casts.”

Rahorh stared at the bow. “Have you named it?”

“Silent Dirge,” Ianc said. A muted prayer for my story.

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Note: He actually wants the power (but not the responsible) but I haven’t edited this piece, lol. It is quite an old draft. I still don’t know how to frame it in a better way.