Lastlight's Revenant #27

The practice sword felt foreign in Garran’s grip—too light, too clumsy after three years of neglect. Jorrik’s first strike came like a hammer blow, a brutal overhead chop meant to test his reflexes.

Garran barely raised his blade in time, the impact rattling his teeth as he staggered back.

"Still quick," Jorrik taunted, circling him. "But your footwork’s gone to shit, young lord."

Garran didn’t answer. He adjusted his grip, rolling his wrist as Jorrik lunged again—a sharp thrust aimed at his ribs. He sidestepped, parrying at the last second, but the force still sent him stumbling.

The soldiers jeered.

"Look at him—swings like a proper nobleman now!"

"All that wine and women softened you up, young lord!"

Torvain watched in silence, arms crossed.

Jorrik pressed the advantage, raining down a flurry of strikes—high, low, a feint to the shoulder before whipping the blade toward Garran’s knee.

Garran blocked each one, but barely, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Missed me," Garran shot back, deflecting another blow.

"Keep talking," Jorrik grinned. "I’ll shut you up soon enough."

Then—something clicked.

Muscle memory flared. Garran’s stance widened, his body settling into the rhythm of combat like a long-forgotten song. When Jorrik swung again, Garran didn’t just block—he twisted his wrist, guiding the strike wide before pivoting on his heel.

The soldiers’ laughter died.

Jorrik’s eyes widened as Garran’s blade spun in his hand, the wooden edge snapping upward to crack against his gloved fingers. A sharp thwack echoed through the yard.

"Fuck—!" Jorrik hissed, his grip faltering.

Garran didn’t give him time to recover. He hooked his foot behind Jorrik’s ankle and rammed with a shoulder.

The soldier hit the sand flat on his back, the air bursting from his lungs in a wheeze.

Silence.

Then—

"Gods below," one of the soldiers muttered.

Jorrik groaned, clutching his bruised fingers. "Cheap fucking move—"

"Cheap?" Garran wiped sweat from his brow, grinning. "Or smart?"

Torvain’s voice cut through the chatter like a blade.

"Again."

Garran turned. His father’s expression was unreadable—but his eyes burned with something new.

Interest.

...

The third time Jorrik hit the sand, the impact sent up a small cloud of dust. The soldier groaned, rolling onto his back as the muffled laughter of his comrades echoed across the training yard.

Torvain’s voice cut through the noise like a blade through silk.

"Enough."

Garran exhaled, his breath ragged, sweat dripping from his brow. He planted the practice sword into the ground and extended a hand toward Jorrik.

The soldier stared at it for a moment before grasping it with a rueful chuckle. "Fucking hells, young lord… you haven’t lost it." He let Garran haul him to his feet, wincing as he brushed dirt from his armor. "Still a damn shame, though."

Garran arched an eyebrow. "What is?"

Jorrik hesitated, then sighed. "You’ve always been a prodigy with the blade. Makes me wonder… if you hadn’t stopped training, just how much better you could’ve been." 

He shook his head, his voice dropping to a murmur. "You could’ve been legendary. People would’ve known your name across the kingdom."

Garran scoffed, rolling his shoulders. "And what good would that do me? I’ll take booze and women over fame any day." He shot a glance at Torvain, who stood like a statue at the edge of the yard, his expression unreadable. "Unfortunately, that’s no longer an option."

Torvain crossed his arms. "Exactly. You are now the heir to this house. You will act like it."

Garran didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he gave Jorrik a long-suffering look—you see what I have to deal with?

Jorrik cleared his throat awkwardly, suddenly very interested in adjusting his gauntlet.

Torvain ignored the silent exchange. "Rest. We resume your training tomorrow. You will reclaim what your brother lost. Our honor—from those bandit filth."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode back toward the manor, his cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud.

Garran watched him go, then pivoted on his heel and started toward the opposite end of the yard.

Jorrik called after him, amused. "The manor’s the other way, young lord."

Garran flashed him a grin over his shoulder. "I know. I’m heading to the gardens."

The memory of Lady Elyria’s lingering smile, the way her gown had clung to her curves as she slipped into the hedges—it was still fresh in his mind. If the gods were kind, she might still be there.

Then he caught a whiff of himself—the reek of sweat and sand clinging to his skin. He wrinkled his nose.

"Gotta wash up first," he muttered, changing course toward the well.

The soldiers’ laughter followed him as he went.

...

The manor halls were dark, lit only by the flickering glow of sconces as Garran crept toward his chambers. His collar was pulled high, but it did little to hide the marks trailing down his neck—proof of his evening’s diversion with Lady Elyria.

He moved with the practiced silence of a man accustomed to sneaking in at indecent hours, his boots barely whispering against the stone.

Then—a voice.

Muffled, raw, echoing from the prayer chamber ahead.

Garran paused.

The door was ajar, candlelight spilling into the corridor. Within, the shrine to Velmara, Lady of Mercy, stood in quiet reverence—a statue of the goddess with her hands outstretched, her marble face forever frozen in sorrowful benevolence.

It was here that men came to confess their sins, to whisper secrets too heavy to bear alone.

And Torvain Dornblade was kneeling before her.

Garran had never heard his father’s voice sound like this—broken, stripped of its iron certainty.

"Velmara, hear me..." Torvain’s words were thick, as if each one cost him. "I have failed my sons in more ways than I can name."

Garran’s breath caught. He shouldn’t be listening. He knew he shouldn’t. Yet his feet remained rooted to the spot.

"All my life, I set standard after standard, thinking I was forging men of steel..." Torvain’s hands clenched into fists on his knees. "But Rovan—he took them as law. He thought honor meant never bending, never questioning. And I... I let him believe it... hoping he'd learn on his own..."

A ragged exhale.

"I never wanted him to be a slave to honor. I wanted him to wield it—to know when to stand firm and when to strike. But he... he was so determined to prove himself. To measure up to a brother who didn’t even care about surpassing him."

Garran’s chest tightened.

"And Garran..." Torvain’s voice cracked. "Gods, I let him waste himself. Three years of whoring and drink—because I thought if he played the fool, Rovan might finally stop seeing him as a threat. But it wasn’t enough. None of it was enough."

Silence. Then—

"My sons are broken because of me. One dead. The other... I don’t even know if he can be set straight..."

Garran stepped back, his pulse roaring in his ears. He couldn’t listen anymore.

He turned on his heel and fled—not toward his chambers, but back into the night, the weight of his father’s words chasing him like a shadow.

...

The barracks courtyard stood silent under the pale morning light, the air thick with the scent of oiled steel and restless anticipation. Fifty soldiers of House Dornblade stood at attention, their armor gleaming, their faces set in grim resolve.

Behind them, the towering statue of Ardun loomed with sword raised—an eternal sentinel watching over them.

Garran stood at the forefront, clad in the full plate of a Dornblade knight, the sigil of his house—a silver wolf on a field of black—emblazoned across his chest.

The weight of the armor was unfamiliar, the responsibility it symbolized even more so.

Before them, Torvain Dornblade stood like a storm given human form. His armor, older and scarred from countless battles, seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it.

His gaze swept over the assembled warriors, lingering briefly on his son before he spoke.

"Tell me, men," his voice was a low rumble, "do you know why bandits and beasts alike steer clear of our lands?"

Silence. Not the uneasy quiet of men who didn’t know the answer, but the hardened stillness of those who did—and were ready to enforce it once more.

Torvain’s lips curled into a snarl.

"Because we protect what is ours. And to those who dare threaten it?" He drew his greatsword, the steel singing as it left its sheath. "We return their malice tenfold in blood."

A murmur rippled through the ranks, fists tightening around sword hilts.

"For generations," Torvain continued, his voice rising, "House Dornblade has held the East. Not through empty titles, but through steel and slaughter. We carved peace from the throats of marauders. We taught the wilds to fear us." 

He paced before them, his boots crunching on gravel. 

"And even in peace, we did not let our blades grow dull. We turned them toward threats in other lands—toward any who would harm this kingdom and its people. Now, any warrior bearing our sigil is welcomed with open arms, for the people know what we stand for."

He stopped, his gaze darkening.

"But some... some forget."

The air grew heavier. Garran could feel the shift in the men around him—shoulders squaring, jaws setting.

"A band of filth has settled in our lands," Torvain spat. "They torment our people. They slaughter our kin. And like cowards, they ambushed my son—your brothers—under the pretense of a duel."

A growl rose from the soldiers. Garran saw Jorrik’s knuckles whiten around his axe.

Torvain took a deep breath—then roared.

"TODAY, WE REMIND THEM!"

The courtyard erupted. Swords hammered against shields, voices rising in a thunderous cry. Garran’s own blood burned, his pulse matching the rhythm of their fury.

Torvain turned, his greatsword pointing east—toward Black Hollow.

"Today, we teach them why no one dares raise a sword against the warriors of Dornblade!"