Lastlight's Revenant #26

Twenty Years Ago

The firelight in Garran’s chambers flickered, casting playful shadows over tangled sheets and discarded clothing. The maid—Liora, with her sun-kissed freckles and laugh lines—giggled as Garran traced idle patterns along her bare shoulder.

At fifteen, he was all sharp edges and reckless charm, his dark hair mussed from their earlier escapades.

"Tell me again," he murmured, grinning, "how my brother pales in comparison."

Liora swatted his chest. "You’re terrible."

"And yet you keep—"

The door slammed open.

Liora shrieked, scrambling to cover herself with the sheets. Garran barely had time to blink before the looming figure of his father filled the doorway.

Lord Torvain Dornblade stood like a storm given human form—broad-shouldered, his beard streaked with iron-gray, his eyes the same unforgiving steel as the greatsword strapped to his back.

Garran, ever the fool, flashed a grin. "Father! If you wanted a turn, you could’ve just—"

"Your brother is dead."

The words landed like a hammer blow.

Garran’s smile froze. "What?"

Torvain didn’t blink. "Rovan fell at Black Hollow. The bandit leader challenged him to single combat. Your brother accepted—as honor demanded. The archers in the trees did not."

Garran’s throat tightened. Rovan—the golden heir, the perfect son, the one who’d never so much as skipped his prayers—had been sent to crush a handful of highwaymen. A task beneath his station, but one he’d undertaken without complaint.

"The fool," Garran whispered. "Why would he—?"

"Because that is what honor demands." Torvain’s voice could’ve carved stone. "Now get up. Prepare yourself."

"For what?"

Torvain’s gaze didn’t waver. "To be a man. A lord worthy of the name Dornblade." He turned to leave, pausing only to add over his shoulder: "Your days of leisure are over."

The door closed with a finality that echoed in Garran’s bones.

Liora had already fled, her footsteps fading down the hall. Garran sat alone in the sudden silence, the weight of his father’s words pressing down on him like a burial shroud.

Outside, the bells of Dornblade Keep began to toll.

...

The great hall of Dornblade Keep was silent save for the crackling of funeral braziers. Their flickering light cast long shadows over the stone effigies of ancestors lining the walls—stern-faced warriors frozen in eternal vigilance.

At the center of it all lay Rovan Dornblade in his coffin, clad in his finest armor, his hands clasped around the hilt of his sword. Even in death, his expression remained as unyielding as their father's.

Garran stood over the coffin, his jaw clenched. The scent of embalming herbs and candle wax filled his nostrils, thick and cloying. He studied his brother's face—the strong brow, the sharp nose, the faint scar above his lip from a training accident years ago.

They shared the same features, the same blood, yet could not have been more different.

Rovan the Duty-Hound.

Rovan the Grim.

The heir who had lived solely to meet their father's impossible standards. The brother who had watched Garran with wary eyes, always suspecting treachery where there was only indifference.

A ridiculous notion, Garran thought bitterly.

As if he would ever covet the title of Lord Dornblade. Their house was ancient, its roots entwined with the very founding of Lythanor. Their ancestor had stood beside Vaelric the Unbroken when the kingdom was forged in fire and steel.

Even as a second son, Garran's future had been secure—lands, wealth, a life of comfort. Why would he trade that for the crushing weight of duty Rovan had borne?

Yet here he stood, the last son of Torvain Dornblade.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He mourned Rovan, truly. Despite their quarrels, despite the chasm between them, blood was blood. But beneath the grief simmered something darker—resentment.

'You died in your foolish honor, catering to father's expectations till your last breath...' he thought, staring at his brother's still face. 'And now I must bear your burdens...'

A hand fell on his shoulder—heavy, unyielding. Torvain's presence loomed behind him like a gathering storm.

"Come," his father said, voice rough as gravel. "The pyre awaits."

Garran exhaled slowly, then nodded.

The path before him was set.

...

The funeral pyre burned low in the courtyard, its embers glowing like dying stars in the twilight.

Garran watched from the shadows of the keep’s arched doorway as his father bid farewell to the gathered nobles—his voice steady, his posture unbent, as if the weight of his eldest son’s corpse turning to ash behind him meant nothing at all.

That’s the Old Wolf for you, Garran thought, equal parts bitter and awed. The world could crumble, and he’d still stand straight as a sword.

He shook his head. Admirable, perhaps. But not a fate he’d ever wanted for himself.

A whisper of perfume cut through the lingering scent of smoke—something floral, expensive.

Garran turned to see Lady Elyria of House Vess passing by, her mourning gown clinging to her curves, her dark eyes meeting his with a look that sent heat straight to his teenage blood.

She smiled, slow and knowing, before gliding toward the gardens.

Garran didn’t hesitate. He took exactly two steps after her—

A hand clamped down on his shoulder like a vise.

"As the second son," Torvain’s voice rumbled behind him, "you were given certain leeway. But you are the only son now. I’ll have no more of your philandering ways."

Garran sighed dramatically. "Great."

Torvain’s grip didn’t loosen, but his voice softened—just a fraction. "I know this isn’t the path you wanted, boy. But it’s the only one before you now. You must be strong. Firm. The people of Dornblade will rely on you."

Garran shrugged, the motion deliberately careless. "Yes, yes. I’ve heard you say that countless times to Rovan."

And look where that got him, he didn’t add.

Torvain ignored the jab. "Follow me. You’ve neglected your sword studies for too long. I’d like to see how far you’ve fallen."

Without waiting for a reply, the Lord of Dornblade turned on his heel and strode toward the training yards.

Garran rolled his eyes. Of course. Not his academics, not his knowledge of trade and ledgers, not even his frankly impressive grasp of courtly intrigue—none of that mattered to Torvain Dornblade.

Just the sword.

Always the sword.

House Dornblade was a house of knights, after all.

Grumbling, Garran followed—but not before casting one last, longing glance toward the gardens where Lady Elyria had vanished.

...

The training yard of Dornblade Keep was a wide, sand-strewn circle flanked by racks of blunted swords and dented shields. The evening air carried the metallic tang of old blood from the morning’s drills, mixing with the distant scent of Rovan’s still-smoldering pyre.

Five of House Dornblade’s soldiers lounged near the weapon racks, their armor dulled from use, their voices low with the quiet camaraderie of men who had fought together for years. Their laughter died the moment Torvain’s shadow fell across the sand.

The Lord of Dornblade didn’t waste words. He pointed to the broadest of the soldiers—a man with a nose that had been broken one too many times and a jagged scar running from brow to chin.

"Jorrik. Spar with my son."

Garran recognized him instantly.

Jorrik Varthun. The same man he’d disarmed a dozen times as a brash twelve-year-old, back when he still bothered with swordplay. Five years Garran’s senior, yet never once had the soldier bested him. That had been three years ago—back before Garran grew bored of winning.

Jorrik straightened, his grin revealing a missing canine. "Been a long time since we crossed blades, young lord." He hefted a practice sword, the wood worn smooth from years of use. "Don’t expect this to end like last time."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he shot a glance at Torvain. "Your lord father even told me to put you on your arse."

The other soldiers snorted, elbowing each other.

Garran didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he turned to Torvain, gesturing to his own attire—the fine black doublet and trousers he’d worn to his brother’s funeral, now dusted with ash.

"So you wish to test me by pitting me against a veteran in full armor…" He raised an eyebrow. "While I’m dressed for mourning?"

Torvain’s expression didn’t flicker. "Is that a problem?"

Garran’s lips curled into a wolfish grin. "No. I’m just wondering if grief has made you soft, father." He turned back to Jorrik, rolling up his sleeves. "Because this? This is barely a challenge."

The soldiers erupted into laughter, one clapping Jorrik on the back hard enough to make his armor rattle. "Gods, he’s got you there!"

Jorrik’s face darkened. "We’ll see how cocky you are when you’re eating sand, young lord."

Garran plucked a practice sword from the rack, testing its weight. Three years without training, yet the hilt settled into his palm as if it had never left.

'Some things', he thought, 'you don’t forget.'