It had been ages since Baronsworth last walked these tunnels.

  It felt as though that night belonged to another life entirely.

  He remembered it still—the desperation, the fear pounding in his veins, the frantic rhythm of his steps and ragged breath as he fled through these dark corridors.

  Dread had stalked him then—the helplessness of a boy running from death, unable to save his family from slaughter.

  Now the path was the same, yet the purpose was not.

  He was returning, not fleeing—and that truth steadied him.

  Whatever awaited at journey’s end, he welcomed it.

  The greatest regret of his life had been that night of flight.

  He had obeyed his father’s final command without question—Lord Godfrey’s word was law—but some part of him had never forgiven himself.

  He had loathed the feeling of leaving a fight behind, no matter the odds.

  But at last, he understood.

  Had he stayed beside his father and young Elros, it would have been for nothing.

  Skilled though he had been for his years, he was still only a boy.

  His death would have served no cause, saved no one.

  Survival had been necessity, not shame.

  And now—now his survival bore meaning.

  His blood carried what others could not: the key to reigniting the fragments of the Great Crystal, to rekindling hope itself in those who dared stand against the coming dark.

  He had returned, no longer a boy but a man, leading a host of the brave and the steadfast.

  Bhaal would know of it by now; likely it was he who had whispered warning to Garathor.

  Yet even the Betrayer could not guess what was to come, for—as his father had once told him—none knew of these paths.

  In his heart, Baronsworth felt the goddess’s hand upon him again, veiling his passage so that he might strike unseen.

  The tunnels stretched on, their end lost to shadow.

  None spoke.

  The time for words had passed; only the sound of boots on stone filled the air.

  The time for doubt and regret was gone—they were committed to this road, and there would be no turning back.

  The great trial lay ahead, and they must be ready, for it would be fierce indeed.

  Each man there was resolute; they had made their peace.

  Among this company led by Lord Baronsworth, none feared death.

  At last, the tunnel widened into a chamber Baronsworth knew too well—the secret training hall beneath the Sunkeep.

  His heart caught as he stepped inside.

  Here he had spent countless hours as a boy at his father’s side, learning the art of war.

  And now, at long last, he had returned.

  “So, that explains it,” Alexander said, his voice echoing softly off the stone.

  “There were times I searched for you for hours, yet never found a trace of either you or your father. Though the Sunkeep is vast, I know it well—yet you were hidden beneath the earth itself.”

  “Yes,” Baronsworth replied.

  “My father brought me here whenever duty allowed—to shape me in the ways of the warrior.”

  “And it served you well,” Alexander answered.

  “For it is no exaggeration to say his instruction carried you through these long years.”

  “Indeed, it has,” Baronsworth said, placing a hand upon his old friend’s shoulder.

  “But so has yours, mighty Alexander.”

  “No thanks are needed, my lord. I have only done my part.”

  “And you continue to do so. Despite all that has befallen us, you remain steadfast in service to my house. Know this: such loyalty will not go unrewarded. I say the same to every man here who stands with me in this hour of need—I will not forget it. I am bound to you in gratitude, now and forever.”

  The soldiers struck their chests three times, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a solemn drumbeat.

  Here, deep beneath the Sunkeep, they could have feasted and sung at full voice and gone unheard.

  Karl ambled forward with a grin.

  “So this is where little Baronsworth learned to topple men twice his size. Magnificent!”

  He laughed, then cast a curious glance about the room.

  “I see the tunnel carries on that way—but what of those?”

  He pointed toward a great pair of doors at the far wall—towering, intricately carved, long sealed.

  “I do not know,” Baronsworth admitted.

  “The means to open them was lost long ago.”

  “Well then,” Karl said, eyes gleaming.

  “Why not try that trick of yours?”

  The thought had already stirred in Baronsworth’s mind.

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  “I believe I will.”

  He approached the doors, heart quickening.

  Since boyhood, he had wondered what lay beyond them.

  Now, at last, he would see.

  His hands filled with Light as he laid them upon the cold stone.

  At once, the carvings sprang to life.

  Lines of blue radiance threaded across the doors and along the walls until the whole chamber shone with pale glow.

  The men stared in wonder.

  Even Alexander—seasoned, weathered, steeped in the lore of their people—stood transfixed.

  Baronsworth drew a deep breath and spoke with command:

  “Fásto!”

  The great doors rumbled, then slowly, majestically, swung wide.

  Stale air poured forth—cold, dry, bearing the silence of centuries.

  For the first time in ages, living eyes beheld what lay beyond.

  A vast chamber stretched before them, fading into shadowed distance.

  Towering bookshelves lined the walls, laden with countless tomes inscribed in the Old Tongue.

  Crystals mounted in sconces glowed with a pale, steady light, casting the hall in a ghostly, hallowed brilliance.

  At the chamber’s heart, beneath a hanging orrery of silver and crystal—a masterwork like those of the Elves—stood a wonder beyond imagining: upon a pedestal, a grand crystal pulsed with quiet light, bright as the heart of a star.

  Yet unlike the fragment from the Felwood, whose light burned gold and warm, this one shone blue and still—serene as starlight caught in ice.

  Alexander’s voice broke the reverent hush.

  “The Heart of the Sunkeep,” he breathed.

  Baronsworth gazed upon it, memory stirring—his father’s voice speaking of a device wrought by their ancestors, said to grant the Lord of the Keep command over every stone, gate, and ward.

  He had thought it legend—but as ever, his path had revealed legend to be truth.

  He stepped forward, each footfall echoing in the awakened hall.

  The Heart’s light pulsed softly, as though aware of his approach.

  At the pedestal, he paused, looking into its depths.

  Pale currents of light moved within, alive, expectant.

  He set his hands upon it.

  The chamber flared with sudden brilliance.

  Every crystal in the hall blazed to life.

  Power surged through him—not as heat or violence, but as presence.

  He felt the Sunkeep above: its walls, its hidden ways, its long-slumbering wards.

  It was as though the fortress itself had opened its eyes and waited for his word.

  He steadied his will.

  Not yet, he thought.

  Let them believe the stone still sleeps.

  Through the Heart, he reached out and veiled its light, leaving the crystals above dark and silent—their awakening masked from prying eyes.

  He focused, seeking to bend the Heart’s power to their advantage.

  Yet concentration eluded him.

  His mind drifted, untrained in the device’s communion, flitting between glimpses of the Keep above—halls he had known as a child, now prowled by dark figures in blackened mail.

  He saw them laughing, eating, living within sacred walls that were not theirs.

  Their every breath profaned the air of his home.

  Rage stirred.

  His thoughts narrowed, sharpened, fixed upon the source of this desecration—the oathbreaker who had brought ruin to his house.

  In an instant, the Heart carried him to the Sunkeep’s summit.

  A towering figure stood there, clad in black plate, a greatsword planted point-down at his side.

  “Garathor.”

  The name tore from his lips like a curse.

  This was the man who had stolen everything from him.

  Twenty years of exile, of grief and wandering—all because of this traitor.

  His heart pounded; the need for retribution burned white-hot.

  He wanted to see Garathor fall, to watch his blood soak the stones of the Keep.

  “I will end you!” he cried.

  Wrath consumed him—hatred, vengeance, a flood threatening to overwhelm reason itself.

  Then, abruptly, the vision fractured.

  A steadying force pulled him back.

  He blinked, breath ragged, and found himself upon the library floor.

  Alexander knelt beside him, a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “Young Baronsworth…” the veteran said quietly.

  “Forgive me, but you began to scream—your face twisted in rage. I know not where your mind wandered, but I would not see you lost to it.”

  Baronsworth’s chest heaved once, twice, then steadied.

  He clasped Alexander’s hand.

  “Thank you, old friend. You did what was needed.”

  Alexander helped him to his feet.

  Together they stood beneath the golden-domed ceiling of the vast library, the great orrery above turning slowly in pale light.

  Endless ranks of books stretched out around them; unseen corridors beckoned beyond.

  Baronsworth felt a pull—subtle but insistent—towards one such passage.

  He took a step, but Alexander’s hand briefly stayed him.

  “Milord, we are short on time.”

  “I know,” Baronsworth replied.

  “But something calls me onward.”

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  Alexander released him without a word.

  Baronsworth moved down the corridor, the glow of the Heart guiding him.

  Far ahead, something caught his eye—a faint gleam, like sunlight glinting on polished steel.

  His pace quickened, until at last he burst into a circular chamber.

  Along the walls were alcoves fitted with empty racks, each one meant to hold armor long vanished.

  All were bare.

  All, save one.

  The central alcove held a suit of armor unlike any Baronsworth had ever gazed upon.

  He had studied such forms in the illuminated pages of ancient tomes his father once showed him, but to behold one here, whole and real, stole his breath.

  Alexander entered close behind and halted beside him.

  His eyes widened.

  “Baronsworth… this is beyond belief. The Armor of the Eagle—worn by your forebears for millennia. Some say it was lost in the Flood with Alistair. Others speak of Berethor wearing it when he liberated these lands. Perhaps this is not the Protector’s own, but even so—its quality is beyond doubt.”

  He stepped forward, reverently running a hand along the plate.

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  “Asturian work. The kind we can no longer replicate. Our great forges, our machines—all drowned with the Flood, and the craft lost with them. Yet this endures…”

  He paused, studying the helm, and turned to Baronsworth.

  “Take it, my lord. Look closely.”

  It gleamed as though newly wrought, unmarred by centuries.

  Under the light, its hue struck him—different from the rest of the suit, yet kin to the silver of his bracers and the glow of his blade.

  “Could it be?” he asked quietly.

  Alexander nodded.

  “Divinium. Our greatest smiths once forged such relics for the chosen of old. Few remain now—scattered, forgotten—but this one has waited for you.”

  Baronsworth stared into the polished surface.

  Reflected there was not the frightened boy who had fled these halls, nor the exile who had wandered in shadow for twenty years.

  Staring back at him was a man—steady in purpose, sure in his strength, and filled with faith.

  Alexander’s voice rang firm.

  “This armor is yours, my lord. Fate has brought you to it, and to this hour. Wear it, and when you rise from these depths, none will doubt: the rightful Lord of Cael Athala has returned.”

  Baronsworth’s voice was quiet, but resolute.

  “Yes. As I claim this armor, so shall I claim my home. And Garathor will know fear when he beholds the heir he thought dead standing before him.”

  Alexander gathered the pieces and fitted them upon his lord.

  They settled as though made for him—strong yet light, intricate patterns chased across flawless plates.

  Upon his shoulders lay a mantle of blue and gold, bearing the double-headed eagle clutching a serpent—the sigil of his house.

  When at last he stood fully arrayed, Baronsworth no longer looked a worn traveler, but a lord restored to his strength.

  Alexander’s pride shone plainly.

  “My lord, you look every bit the hero our people need. Come—let us rejoin the men. It is time to plan.”

  Baronsworth nodded once, and together they turned toward the waiting host.

  When Baronsworth entered the chamber in his ancestral armor, a hush fell.

  Then, as one, the men struck their chests in salute.

  The sight of him—resplendent in majestic full-plate, the colors of their house upon his shoulders—stirred their hearts like nothing else could.

  Confidence surged; at last they felt not only the weight of their cause, but the certainty of victory.

  They formed a circle about him.

  Though the chamber was vast, their ranks filled it, and many crowded the adjoining halls just to hear.

  Alexander stepped forward; his voice was clear and strong.

  “Friends, at last we stand beneath Cael Athala. We have followed our lord, and he has led us true. Before us lies the greatest battle of our lives—the reclaiming of our home. Now we must set our strategy, for our foe will not lightly yield these lands. I give the floor to our liege.”

  He opened his hand to Baronsworth.

  The young lord stepped into the center of the ring and looked upon them all—Asturians and Gryphons alike—faces set with resolve, caught in the faint glow that traced along the walls.

  He drew a steadying breath, then began.

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  His voice was measured—iron, yet calm.

  “Indeed, this will be a hard fight—perhaps the hardest any of us has ever faced. Our foes are Asturian-born, tall and strong, yet they serve the darkness.”

  He let the words settle, his gaze sweeping the crowd.

  “The gods have brought us here and granted us what we need, but they will not fight this battle for us. Their favor is with us—but our fate is ours to claim.”

  He paced a few steps, a gauntleted hand brushing the hilt of Lightbringer.

  “These tunnels reach to many places within the city and fortress. We are strong, but still few. We cannot take the city in full; to spread ourselves thin would invite ruin.”

  He paused.

  “We will strike where it matters most.”

  He pointed toward one passage.

  “This path leads to the armory, where the Keep’s weapons are stored. There we will emerge. We will seize it, hold it, and let no one through. Without arms, the garrison is crippled.”

  A ripple of assent moved through the crowd; Baronsworth stilled them with a raised hand.

  “From there we will move upward, clearing the halls as we go—swiftly, without mercy.”

  His gaze hardened.

  “The main body will secure the entrance hall and seal the gates—cutting the Sunkeep off from the city. While you hold the ground below, I will ascend to the summit. There, Garathor awaits.”

  He planted himself firm, eyes like forged steel.

  “When I find him, you will not interfere. Garathor is no common foe. His strength is great—for dark powers run through him. To face him unprepared is to face death.”

  He let the threat hang, raw and precise.

  “I know you long to see him fall—I promise you, he will. But his end must come by my hand alone. While you bar the gates and hold the tide, I will hunt him and cast his soul down into Mortharas beside his master.”

  The warriors struck their chests three times in solemn assent.

  He straightened, shoulders squared; his voice rose like a trumpet.

  “Do this, and their spirit breaks. With their leader slain, their will shall crumble. They will yield—or I will descend to stand with you, and together we will sweep them from these halls. One way or another—we prevail.”

  He drew another breath, slower now, and let his words land with careful weight.

  “Our plan is simple—and simplicity wins wars. Simple does not mean easy. You will meet the full fury of the enemy at those gates, as I will face their worst above. But we possess something they do not: the favor of the gods, and faith in one another.”

  He held the silence a single heartbeat, then—softer, but unyielding—:

  “Hold fast to your faith. Hold until the dawn. When this night ends, we will either stand as victors in the Great Hall—or be received into the Halls of Helm. Either way—we will have won.”

  The cry that followed burst from them—fierce, unshakable—a brotherhood’s shout of defiance.

  Baronsworth raised his hand once more.

  When he spoke, it was with quiet conviction.

  “Make ready. Say your prayers; speak your last words to your companions—if you must. I will offer one final prayer to the goddess… and then we march to meet our fate.”

  Baronsworth withdrew to the newly opened chamber.

  He passed through its silent threshold into a hall much like the one where his armor had rested, but here, instead of armor, stood the statues of the gods.

  At the center rose Sophia, serene and luminous even in stone.

  He went to his knees.

  “Goddess,” he whispered.

  “Give me the courage to face what lies ahead. Give me strength to cast down my enemies and reclaim my home. I long for this above all things. I will make Cael Athala what it was always meant to be—a refuge for the weary, a beacon of Light where no shadow may enter. A place where all of good heart may gather and stand against the dark. Grant me this, O Mother. Bless me now, in my hour of need. Be by my side, as you always have.”

  He bowed his head.

  Though the gods had ever shown him favor, fear still coiled within him—not for his men’s eyes to see, but here, alone, he could admit it.

  He knew the weight of what hung upon this night.

  He knew the strength of those he faced—Garathor most of all.

  They said his uncle could carve through armies, that no swordsman of their people had ever stood his equal, that he had never lost a duel.

  But neither had Baronsworth.

  That truth steadied him.

  He closed his eyes and stilled himself, drawing his mind to silence.

  Slowly, thought faded, and in that quiet a voice came—soft as breath, yet clear as daylight:

  My son, cease your doubting. All you need has already been given. We walk beside you, as we always have. Your victory will not be by your strength alone, but by ours. Evil will strive to see you fall, yet it has been decreed—you shall stand triumphant, if only you let go of your fear. Trust in us, and in those who guide you. We will not abandon you in your hour of need.

  Then the voice was gone, leaving only the deep stillness from which it came.

  Baronsworth opened his eyes.

  Her words had eased the last of his unrest; his resolve felt like iron in his chest.

  He whispered his thanks, then remained kneeling in silence for a moment longer.

  Footsteps approached, echoing strangely through the hall’s perfect acoustics, lingering as though the stone itself carried the sound.

  “Baronsworth. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Karl’s deep voice broke gently through the hush.

  “Not at all,” Baronsworth said, rising to his feet.

  “I have finished my prayers. What is it, my friend?”

  “Well… nothing urgent.”

  Karl shifted his weight, his gaze flicking away.

  “I just wanted a word before the final battle. This fight… it’s unlike anything we’ve faced. An army of your kind, a fortress like this…”

  He exhaled slowly.

  “I believe in our chances, but I’m not blind. Some of us won’t see the dawn.”

  He paused, searching for words.

  “That’s why I came. If either of us falls tonight, I want nothing left unsaid.”

  Baronsworth regarded him silently, and Karl drew in a breath, his great frame seeming suddenly unsure.

  “You’re no ordinary man,” he began.

  “I knew it the day I met you. Before that day, I was… lost. Haunted by what I’d seen, what I’d done. I drank to quiet the ghosts of my family’s slaughter, but the silence never lasted. Even among the Gryphons, I was living on borrowed time—a brute waiting to burn out.”

  His voice grew steadier as he went on.

  “Then I met you—a boy, thin as a reed, carrying a sword too large for him. I thought you’d be easy prey. Instead, you humbled me. We fought, and you beat me, and in that river, as you left me half-drowned, I swear I felt the goddess herself. She gave me a certainty: that I was to follow you, to protect you, wherever you went. And I have.

  I thought I’d be your guardian, maybe even a teacher. But it didn’t take long to see I had it backwards. You’ve taught me more than I ever taught you. You’ve saved me more times than I can count—not just in battle, but from myself. Because of you, I’m not the man I was. The nightmares are gone. My heart is clean.”

  His voice caught briefly, but he pushed on.

  “If I die tonight, I want you to know this: you gave my life meaning. You gave me back my honor. And I would give that life for you gladly, so you can keep doing for others what you’ve done for me. And if the gods decree it’s you who falls, then…”

  His jaw tightened.

  “Then the world will have lost a light it won’t see again for a thousand years. Thank you, Baronsworth—for everything.”

  The big man suddenly closed the space between them and wrapped Baronsworth in a crushing embrace.

  Baronsworth felt the air nearly driven from his lungs by Karl’s powerful arms, yet he returned the gesture without hesitation.

  He could hear Karl’s breath hitch—the faint sound of a sniff—proof enough of what this moment meant.

  At last, Karl released him.

  Baronsworth drew in a grateful breath and spoke, his voice low but steady.

  “I am honored by your words, Karl—and know that the feeling is mutual. I am grateful for every mile we’ve traveled together, and proud to call you my brother. Your loyalty and your integrity are beyond question. You have reclaimed your dignity, and your honor stands untarnished. I have no doubt your father watches you now, and that his heart swells with pride at what you have become.”

  Karl’s eyes glimmered at the mention of his father.

  He tried to blink away the tears but failed.

  Baronsworth laid a hand on his shoulder and continued.

  “As for death—do not dwell on it. All things come in their time, and not a heartbeat sooner. If we are meant to fall tonight, then so be it. But if the gods will otherwise, then no scheme nor steel can bring us down. Enter battle with that truth in your heart. And know that I believe—truly—that we can see this through. All of us. Gryphons and Asturians alike. The gods are with us, Karl. And if they are with us, what can stand against us?”

  A sound interrupted him—a metallic thud, measured and deliberate, followed by slow, ringing applause.

  Both men turned toward the corridor.

  Out of the shadows strode a figure of striking presence: Siegfried, clad in polished plate that caught the pale light, his long golden hair falling loose about his shoulders.

  His voice carried rich and clear.

  “Baronsworth, a man of faith at last,” he said, smiling.

  “I knew you had it in you, my friend. The mighty Magnus—once a fierce, haunted boy, dangerous as a cornered wolf—now stands sure and unshaken. You have become what I always suspected you would be: a leader to stir men’s hearts, a light to drive back the dark. You lead a thousand souls beneath the earth, soon to rise and reclaim the day. By the gods, Magnus—yours will be a tale for the ages.”

  Baronsworth’s answering smile was genuine.

  “Your words honor me, Siegfried. Soon we will dine in my family’s hall and toast our victory—a moment I have long awaited. And I tell you now: I would rather have your Gryphons beside me in this fight than an army of a hundred thousand other men.”

  Siegfried laughed, warm and proud, and clasped Baronsworth in a firm embrace.

  “Then let us earn that feast, my brother.”

  Before any more words could be exchanged, another figure stood among them—silent, sudden, as though he had stepped from the very shadows.

  Gil’Galion’s light tread had betrayed nothing.

  “I did not mean to startle you,” he said, arms folded loosely, one hand brushing his chin.

  “I came seeking a moment with Baronsworth before the battle. It seems I was not alone in that thought.”

  “Gil’Galion,” Baronsworth said, gesturing him forward.

  “Your presence is always welcome. Speak your mind, my friend.”

  The Elf inclined his head slightly, then glanced toward the statue of the goddess before meeting Baronsworth’s gaze again.

  “In truth,” he said slowly, “I am unsure what I came intending to say—save this: thank you. For letting me walk this path with you.”

  He let the words linger, as though weighing them.

  “At your side, I have lived an adventure more wondrous than any tale in the thousand books I have read. We have stood together against perils beyond counting”—his eyes flicked to the floor for an instant, remembering—“and now fate casts us once more into the wolf’s den. I do not shrink from it; I welcome it. Every foe we strike down is one less shadow over this world.”

  Gil’Galion’s voice grew quieter for a heartbeat.

  “It was foretold at my birth that I would take part in a great struggle against the darkness. The Athelari marked my destiny by the heavens themselves.”

  He paused, then looked up—and there was a glint in his eye like starlight upon water.

  “But yours…” he said softly, “yours is greater still. You were born beneath the Great Star, as my sister Alma was—a sign unseen for ages beyond count.”

  The Elf shifted, fingers brushing the edge of his cloak.

  “Many follow you because you inspire them; you draw out their courage, awaken hope where none remained. It is a quiet power, yet mighty—the kind that changes the course of an age.”

  He drew a measured breath, and when he spoke again, his tone was steadier, deliberate.

  “You inspire me as well. But this”—he tapped his chest lightly—“this is not why I follow you. Others believe you may have a great destiny; I know it. The heavens themselves have proclaimed it. This universe is not chaos—it is order, design, meaning—and within it, your time approaches. You have only begun to touch the edges of what you are.”

  He let silence hang for a moment, then continued, voice low but resolute:

  “The gods have chosen you as their champion—the light that will endure when all else falls to shadow. I see it as surely as the star that crowns the heavens. And when the moment comes to fulfill what was foretold, I will be with you—here, now, and always.”

  Gil’Galion straightened, shoulders squared with quiet pride.

  “My people and yours have stood side by side since the Great War of the gods; as long as breath remains in me, that alliance endures.

  So once again—thank you, my friend, for letting me share this road.”

  His hand came to rest briefly over his heart.

  “You have lifted the shadow from my own land; now I would help lift it from yours. My bow, my life—they are yours, Baronsworth, Protector of the Realm and rightful Lord of Cael Athala.”

  Baronsworth could not answer at once.

  Gil’Galion’s words were as a song, wrought of wisdom and grace beyond mortal tongue.

  At last, he stepped forward and clasped the Elf in a firm embrace.

  Then the last of them approached: Fredrick, the valiant knight.

  He came at an easy pace, fists set on his hips, wearing a mock scowl.

  “What is this? A feast underway, and I’m not invited?”

  “Why would you care? You’re a monk—and monks are a bore at parties,” Karl shot back.

  “I’ll have you know I’ve attended my share of banquets in the capital,” Fredrick replied, quick as a blade.

  “No guest has ever called me a bore. On the contrary, more than one noble lady has fallen prey to my charms—and had I been a man of lesser resolve, I might have abandoned my vows for the… delights on offer.”

  He let the words hang, then narrowed his eyes with a half-smile.

  “And if memory serves, Karl, it wasn’t I who passed out beneath the table at Nim Londar.”

  Karl’s face went crimson.

  “I… it had been years since drink passed my lips… surely—”

  The knight’s laugh rang out, warm and victorious.

  “Fredrick,” Baronsworth said, smiling, “this meeting was not planned, and we’ve no food or drink—poor fare for a feast. But you are welcome to join us nevertheless.”

  “His faithful companions gathered before him, on the eve of reckoning,” Fredrick declared, half in jest and half in earnest.

  “Truly, Baronsworth, yours is a tale worthy of legend. If we survive this night, I will commit it to ink and parchment—if you grant me leave.”

  “You have it,” Baronsworth said.

  “All I would ask in return is this: be kind. Let history remember these men for their courage more than their follies.”

  “If we fail tonight,” Karl muttered, “there’ll be little left to remember—us or our story.”

  “You’re right,” Baronsworth answered, “and yet we will not fail.”

  Karl gave a short nod.

  Fredrick’s mirth fell away; his posture straightened and his voice took on quiet weight.

  “In all my years I have never seen one so plainly favored by the gods. It is as if they walk beside you, lending you their strength at every step.”

  He glanced at the sword at his hip—Redemption—then met Baronsworth’s gaze.

  “I know now it was they who led me to you. Indeed, I believe the Father Himself wished us to meet. I am grateful to play my part in this great struggle.”

  Fredrick’s eyes hardened briefly.

  “I grieve the decline of my order—and of the Church itself. They should be here, with a host at your side. But they have wandered from the Father’s will. Still”—his hand rested upon Redemption’s hilt—“I have been entrusted with this blade, the sword of Avalon, our founder. Perhaps it is the gods’ way of calling me to redeem, in some measure, that which my order and the Church have lost.”

  He exhaled slowly; when he spoke again his tone softened, intimate.

  “And hear me, Baronsworth: I love you. I see the Light in your eyes, rising from your heart—the Light of the gods themselves. I see in you their vessel, by which a new season of hope and peace may enter the world.”

  Fredrick’s gaze turned inward for a moment, as though recalling that first meeting.

  “Thank you for letting me join your road in that cursed forest. You walked with me through my dark night of the soul; by your side I was drawn up from depths I could not escape, set again in the arms of the gods—of my Father, to whom I have commended myself. Traveling with you has renewed my purpose. My faith stands firm.”

  He looked up, steady and unflinching.

  “Know that I stand with you, from now until the gods decree I should part from this world. And when that hour comes, I will go to the Father and tell Him that you were a faithful son.”

  Baronsworth moved to him without a word and clasped him in a firm embrace.

  Fredrick’s arms closed in return—the final bond sealed, the last words spoken before the storm.

  They gathered then in the center and knelt, each offering his final prayer to the gods.

  Words had run their course; now the hour of action dawned.

  Hearts unburdened—nothing left unsaid—they rose as one and turned toward the waiting tunnels.

  There they rejoined their men.

  Without fanfare, without hesitation, the company moved into the passage that would take them to their destiny: the Sunkeep.

  They would give their all—resolve set to wrench this hallowed place from the grasp of evil… or to hold it until none were left to fight.

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