Lastlight's Revenant #4

Garran sat in the dirt, his hands limp at his sides, watching the pillar of sickly light claw at the sky.

It was a mockery. A desecration.

Lastlight had been named for two truths:

Figuratively, it was the final torch held against the Maw’s endless dark—the last spark before the abyss.

Literally, it had been a beacon—five watchtowers anchoring its walls, their pyres burning night and day.

For decades, those flames had guided lost Repentants home through the Maw’s illusions. Men who strayed too far into the wastes would see that glow through the haze and remember: Here is the way back. Here is the way home.

Now, that light was gone.

In its place, this thing pulsed—a grotesque imitation, its green radiance seeping into the soil like poison. Garran didn’t know what purpose it served, but the way it throbbed made his teeth ache. It wasn’t calling anyone home.

One thousand years.

A millennium of blood and sacrifice, of knights and Repentants holding the line against the dark—gone. Reduced to this thing clawing at the sky.

Dread coiled in Garran’s gut, thick and suffocating. But worse than fear was the emptiness.

What was left for him now?

He hadn’t joined the Repentants out of fear of the noose. He’d chosen the Maw because he refused to die pointlessly. Even as an outcast, even spat upon, there had been purpose in that endless war. Honor in standing between the dark and those who’d never know the horrors within it.

And now?

Because I was too slow. Too weak.

The thought should have hollowed him out. Instead, it just sat there, heavy and inert, like a stone lodged in his chest.

A shadow fell across him. The captain dropped onto the ground beside him with a grunt, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

“You look like a man whose soul just left his body,” the captain said, voice rough but not unkind. He offered a waterskin. “Drink. The dead don’t get to mourn themselves.”

Garran took the waterskin but didn’t drink. His smile was a cracked thing, brittle at the edges.

"Selfish bastards, the dead," he muttered, thumb brushing the leather pouch. "They drop everything and go, leaving the rest of us to clean up their mess."

The captain barked a laugh—short, sharp, like the sound of a hammer striking flint. "And how do you plan to do that, then?"

Garran finally took a sip. The water was stale, warm from the sun, but it washed the taste of ashes from his tongue. He shook his head. "Don’t know."

"Here’s an idea." The captain leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. "The Duke of Vaeldrith is raising an army. Plans to retake Lastlight once the capital’s reinforcements arrive. Sent us to scout the land, tally enemy numbers, and…" He gestured to the pulsating pillar. "Figure out what fresh hell this is..."

A pause. The green light painted the lines of his face, deepening the shadows under his eyes.

"You’re likely the last Repentant left. Only man alive with real experience fighting Maw-spawn. Your skills would be… invaluable."

Something flickered in Garran’s chest—not quite hope, not yet, but the absence of absolute despair. A space where purpose might grow again.

"Can’t rightly think of anything better to do," he admitted.

The captain nodded, then extended a calloused hand. "Name’s Edric, by the way. Chief scout of Vaeldrith’s eastern host."

"Garran Dornblade."

Edric’s grip tightened slightly. A spark of recognition flashed in his gaze—quick, there and gone—but all he said was, "Welcome back to the war, Garran."

Above them, the false beacon throbbed, indifferent.

...

What should have been a two-day trip had already taken three.

Garran’s boots sank into the loam as the party picked their way through the tangled woods, their pace slowed by the need to avoid the demons now skulking through Lastlight’s corpse.

Every snapped twig, every rustle of leaves, set the scouts’ hands twitching toward their blades. But by dusk on the third day, the air no longer stank of burnt hair and ichor.

The Maw’s whispers had faded.

Edric called a halt with a raised fist. "We’ll rest here—"

A roar split the trees ahead.

Not a demon’s shriek—something deeper, wilder. The scouts melted into the undergrowth, arrows nocked. Garran followed, his borrowed sword loose in its sheath.

Through the bracken, he saw the fight.

A shirtless man, his torso a tapestry of swirling tattoos—wolves, stags, serpents—locked in a dance of death with a Goreback. The beast was all muscle and rage, its spine bristling with bone spurs, tusks slick with saliva.

The man fought with chains, their links glinting like silver in the dying light. One looped around the Goreback’s foreleg, yanking it off-balance; the other whipped across its eyes, drawing a spray of blood.

The monster staggered. The man lunged, driving a knee into its ribs. A final twist of the chains—a wet crack—and the Goreback collapsed, its breath gurgling into silence.

The scouts exchanged glances. "What in the Five’s name…?" muttered one.

Garran exhaled. "He’s of the Varekai tribe. Ancestor-worshipers. They live on the Maw’s edges, where the land’s still raw enough to bleed according to their treaties with Lastlight."

Edric’s eyes narrowed. "Lastlight had treaties with savages?"

"Not savages. Survivors." Garran’s thumb brushed the brand beneath his collar. "The Varekai don’t raid settlements. In return, the Repentants left their holy groves untouched. Even traded steel for their remedies when demons poisoned our wells."

"And now?" Edric’s voice dropped. "Lastlight’s gone. You think their oaths died with it?"

Before Garran could answer, the Varekai warrior straightened, chains slithering through his fingers like living things. His gaze locked onto the undergrowth—onto them.

"Only one way to find out," Garran said, and stepped into the clearing.

The warrior’s head snapped up the moment Garran stepped into the clearing.

His nostrils flared, sniffing the air like a wolf catching blood-scent. Then his lip curled. "Even washed, you stink of demon blood." The chains in his hands coiled tighter, links whispering against each other. "The last candle’s light is out. Yet you still walk, repentant."

Garran kept his hands visible, fingers spread. "So do you," he said, "far from your groves."

The warrior offered a grim smile, his tattoos shifting like living things as his muscles tensed. "The Maw vomits its children into our valleys. The prey is scarce." 

He jerked his chin toward the Goreback’s corpse. "The ancestors guided me here to find nourishment." His smile faded. "But you… you’re running."

Edric stepped forward, his sword still sheathed but his voice sharp as unsheathed steel. "And you're poaching in the Duke’s land. But that can be overlooked, given the current situation." 

He cleared his throat, forcing diplomacy into his tone. "I’ve heard your tribe had treaties with Lastlight. You can forge new ones with Vaeldrith to secure supplies for your people and drive the demons back."

The warrior spat. The glob landed between Edric’s boots, dark with chewed herbs and contempt. "The Duke’s meager resistance will only make the Maw hunger more. Already, the rot-walkers stir in the deep places." 

His gaze flicked back to Garran, as if the scouts were no longer worth his attention. "But he knows. His blood remembers."

Garran grunted. He had nothing to add.

The warrior wasn’t here to raid. That made this none of his business.

He shifted his weight, fingers drumming against his sword hilt. "So… is that a yes or a no?"

The warrior paused mid-step, shoulders tightening as if resisting the urge to snap his chains at the man’s ignorance. "I do not see the wisdom," he said slowly, "in fighting alongside men who know nothing of the Maw and its hunger." 

His voice trailed off, gaze drifting to the treeline where shadows pooled like spilled ink. Then, quieter: "However, I will ask the ancestors for guidence. They see what I do not."

Edric nodded, though his jaw worked like he was chewing on a reply that wouldn’t get him spat on again. "And when should we expect an answer?"

The warrior’s laugh was a short, sharp sound—less humor, more the bark of a fox scenting a trap. "The ancestors speak when they will it. I move as they command." 

He tilted his head, the bones woven into his hair clacking softly. "Should they guide me to you again, that will be your answer."

Edric turned to Garran, his expression a silent plea for translation—or better yet, intervention.

Garran shook his head. "There’s nothing more to be done here. These people have their own customs. Their own rules." He jerked his chin toward the deepening twilight. "We should get moving now."

Edric sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But if he comes back to knife us in our sleep, I’m haunting you."

The warrior didn’t look up as they turned to leave. Instead, he knelt beside the Goreback’s corpse, drawing a curved bone knife from his belt.

As the first cut split the beast’s hide, he spoke again, voice low but carrying:

"Until we meet again."

The promise—or warning—hung in the air as the sound of butchering began behind them.

Garran didn’t glance back.