Alexander exhaled, a quiet laugh breaking from him. “By all the gods… your return brings wonders beyond reckoning.”

  Baronsworth turned to the host assembled below.

  “My friends,” he called, his voice carrying clear through the cavern. “The goddess has given us her favor and shown us the path ahead. We must go deep into the earth and find the Black River—the hidden way our ancestors once sailed in times of peril, swift and unseen. Time presses; with every hour, our enemy gathers strength. We march at once!”

  Alexander stepped forward, his voice firm with command.

  “You heard our Lord! Gather what you need for the journey—nothing more. Travel light. All else stays here, in old Thengel’s care.”

  At that, Baronsworth glanced at Alexander.

  “Thengel? Why is he to remain, when every arm will soon be needed?”

  A shadow crossed Alexander’s face. He moved closer, speaking low.

  “Milord… Thengel is one of our dearest. A warrior of renown in his day. But years ago, in an ambush by Garathor’s men, he was struck down. Somehow he lived, yet he was left maimed—his left arm useless, his right leg stiff as wood, and one eye blind. He is brave beyond question—but… in battle, he would only hinder.”

  Baronsworth’s gaze grew thoughtful.

  “Bring him to me. I would speak with this man.”

  Alexander hesitated, puzzled, but obeyed. Soon he returned, and behind him came Thengel.

  The old warrior limped forward, cloak draped to hide his withered arm. His hair was long and gray, his face lined by years of hardship. One eye was clear and deep as navy, the other pale and clouded. Yet in his bearing there remained a quiet pride, undimmed by pain.

  “My Lord,” Thengel rasped. “Captain Alexander said you wished words with me. I cannot guess why. My best days are long gone, and I am no more than an old cripple now. Still… here I am.”

  Baronsworth smiled at him, warm and genuine.

  “Thengel. Your loyalty endures, as steadfast as ever. Alexander tells me you were struck down by our enemies, left broken. Tell me—why do you fight still?”

  At once, Thengel straightened, and his voice rang with sudden strength.

  “I fight for the honor of your house, my Lord—for Godfrey, who ruled us with justice and kindness. I fight for our people, who deserve to live free of the Tyrant’s heel. And I fight for the goddess herself—may her light blaze and herald the New Dawn upon this world.”

  He bowed his head reverently at her name.

  Baronsworth’s eyes softened.

  “And if I called you to arms this very day—if my life or that of your brothers hung in the balance—would you answer?”

  The old man’s good eye widened.

  “Of course, my Lord! My body may be slower, weaker, but I would give my last breath to defend you or any man here. I would rather die with a sword in my hand beside my kin than wither in hiding, or linger useless in a bed while the world burns!”

  Baronsworth’s voice deepened, resolute.

  “Your body is scarred, Thengel, but your spirit is unbroken. Such faith honors you—and pleases the goddess. Kneel.”

  Though puzzled, Thengel obeyed, lowering himself with effort before his Lord.

  “The strength of your heart will now be matched by the strength of your flesh,” Baronsworth declared. “This is the gift of the goddess, bestowed through me.”

  Light flared from his hands—pure, golden, alive. He laid them upon Thengel’s bowed head and shoulders, and power surged forth. For an instant, the old warrior was engulfed in radiance.

  When the glow faded, Baronsworth’s voice rang like a clarion.

  “Rise, Thengel Sophiasson. Stand as you once did—whole, and ready. Take up your blade, and rejoin your brothers. The battle to reclaim our home awaits, and you will not be absent from it!”

  Thengel rose—hesitant at first, then with wonder dawning on his face. The pain was gone. His left arm lifted at his command, strong and sure. He blinked, and saw clearly through two eyes for the first time in years.

  A great cry broke from his lips. He flexed his fingers, touched his healed leg, and then, overcome, strode forward and embraced Baronsworth fiercely.

  “Thank you, my Lord. And thank the goddess! You have given me back my life. I will fight, and die if need be, for you and for our people!”

  Tears streamed down Thengel’s weathered face—tears of gratitude and unlooked-for joy. In that moment, he saw not merely a man before him, but the living champion of the Light—the savior awaited through long, bitter years.

  The men halted their tasks, drawn by what they had witnessed. Emotion swelled among them as they beheld their beloved comrade restored. Then, as if a dam had broken, the chamber erupted in cheers and exultant cries. The spectacle of hope they had seen this day was enough to lift the weight of years from their shoulders, to mend what despair had broken.

  “The Light has returned!” someone cried, and the words rippled through the host like fire through dry grass.

  Baronsworth stepped forward, raising his voice above the tumult.

  “If any among you bears a wound that hinders you, now is the hour to set it right. No hurt is too small, no scar too deep. I have need of all of you—whole and strong—for the darkness we march against will show no mercy. I know you have hidden your pains for long years, out of pride, out of necessity. But that time is over. Come forward, and let us see you restored.”

  A line formed at the foot of the stair—longer than Baronsworth had dared hope. His people were proud, but they were not fools. They knew the trials ahead would test them as never before, and none wished to meet such a trial weakened.

  Baronsworth remained there, at the stair’s summit, laying his hands upon each warrior in turn, sending golden light into weary flesh and knitting what had been broken. As the line moved steadily onward, others made ready for the road ahead.

  At last, all was prepared. Torches were lit. Packs were shouldered. And the host—nearly a thousand strong—followed Baronsworth through the newly opened doors, into the fathomless dark of the deep earth.

  Onward they went, league upon league, down corridors untouched by breath or sunlight for uncounted ages. The air grew close and dry, heavy with the weight of stone. The cold here was different—ancient, impersonal, as if the earth itself watched their intrusion. None spoke. The only sound was the steady rhythm of boots upon stone, echoing endlessly ahead and behind. Though they would not voice it, many felt unease coil tight within them. This was a venture far beyond anything they had known, and some wondered—silently, fleetingly—if they walked into madness itself. Yet they did not falter. They trusted their lord, for it was plain that the gods walked with him, and so they followed, unquestioning, into the dark.

  At length, the descent ended. They emerged into a cavern vast beyond imagining. Before them stretched a world turned upside down—a mountain range hung from the ceiling itself, jagged peaks blazing with hues of emerald, sapphire, and crimson, as though the very rock had drunk the colors of morning. Two great lakes lay mirrored below, catching and scattering that light across the stone like living rainbows. And from somewhere deep within, faint but clear, came the music of running water.

  Awe held them silent for a time.

  “Come,” Baronsworth said at last, his voice quiet but sure. “The place we seek lies beyond this cavern. Watch your step, and keep from the lakes—we do not know how deep they run.”

  Gil’Galion stepped beside him, gaze roaming the radiant heights. “Rainbow mountains beneath the earth,” he murmured. “Truly, your road leads us to marvels.”

  The expedition followed Baronsworth across the cavern floor, moving with care beneath the shimmering vault of inverted mountains. Awe tempered their steps, but they reached the far side without mishap.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Another passage awaited them there, descending into shadow. Weariness might have disheartened them, but the sound of rushing water beyond quickened their pace and lightened their spirits. They crossed the threshold. This way was not like the last—no natural tunnel but one hewn by deliberate hands, its walls chiseled smooth by long-forgotten craftsmen. The descent was brief, only a few meters, and soon they emerged into yet another vast cavern.

  Now the river’s voice filled the air—a low, constant thunder. Baronsworth lifted his torch, and before him, at last, lay a broad and powerful current of water. Black as obsidian, it flowed swift and soundless, swallowing the torchlight whole—a dark mirror betraying no gleam nor ripple of reflected light.

  He turned to his men, his voice ringing clear.

  “My friends—we have found it. The Black River!”

  A murmur of relief swept through the host. Some hurried forward, kneeling at the banks to drink. The water was cool and startlingly sweet, unlike any spring of the surface. They filled their skins, washed the dust from their faces, and stretched their weary legs.

  Alexander crouched by the water’s edge, letting the current run through his fingers. “So the old tales spoke true,” he said, half to himself. “They say the Valley’s bounty comes from unseen streams that thread its roots. Perhaps this is their mother.”

  While the men rested, Baronsworth could not. Torch in hand, he strode along the shore, eyes searching the shadows for the promise Sophia had given him. His steps led him to a rise of stone, where the rough cavern gave way once more to craft and design. Stairs climbed the wall, and he ascended swiftly. At the top, the torchlight fell upon an ancient outpost—walls weathered by ages, buildings silent as tombs.

  And there, beyond, his breath caught.

  Neatly lined along the river’s edge, beached in their dry docks, lay the ships of his forefathers. Sleek, proud vessels of a forgotten age, their prows carved with flowing runes and crowned with figureheads that seemed to watch the darkness beyond. Row upon row they stretched, vanishing into shadow as if they awaited a signal long delayed.

  “Come!” Baronsworth’s voice rang out, unable to contain his elation. “Come and see!”

  The men rose at once, hurrying to join him. When they reached the docks and beheld the sight for themselves, a low murmur of awe swept through their ranks. Torches sprang to life one by one, casting ripples of firelight across the silent fleet. For the first time in untold centuries, the ancient harbor stirred once again.

  Baronsworth and Alexander approached one of the galleys. It was fashioned of wood, yet the planks were dark-gray, smooth as stone beneath their touch. Alexander rapped his knuckles against the hull, listening to the deep, resonant sound it gave.

  “This isn’t common timber,” he said. “It bears the same treatment as the sluice gates at the Sunkeep—the process that purges all rot and hardens the grain. This vessel may well be as old as the Sunkeep itself… and yet it stands as though built only yesterday. Truly, our ancestors crafted for the ages.”

  Baronsworth nodded, pride kindling in his chest.

  “Inspect them all,” he ordered.

  The men spread along the docks, hands running over age-darkened beams and steadfast joints, listening for the truth hidden in the wood. Torches flared as Baronsworth boarded one of the great galleys with Alexander, their footsteps echoing softly across its deck. They paced its length in silence, measuring not with numbers, but with the seasoned eyes of men who knew war and passage alike.

  At last, Alexander gave a single, satisfied nod. These ships would bear them.

  They chose the finest among them—vessels still strong despite the long sleep of years—and marked them for the journey ahead. Only one task remained: to break them free from the stone cradles that had held them since the elder days.

  Behind the drydocks, a small stone shed overlooked the harbor. Within, they found an array of levers, each etched with a number corresponding to the berths below. Baronsworth grasped one and pulled.

  A deep, echoing rumble rolled through the cavern. After a tense moment, water surged from hidden pipes, gushing into the drydock. The floodgate groaned and slowly opened, releasing the ship to the waiting river.

  The men stared in amazement.

  “You Asturians,” Karl remarked from the doorway, arms crossed, “you truly build for eternity.”

  Baronsworth allowed himself a brief smile. “Men! Board the ships. The way to our home is open!”

  A cheer went up, rolling like thunder against the cavern walls. Packs were shouldered, rations and supplies secured, and one by one the warriors climbed aboard the great vessels of their forefathers. Baronsworth pulled the remaining levers, and soon the other docks filled, releasing their charges to the current.

  The ships glided gently into the Black River, their prows turning downstream. The current caught them at once, drawing them into the unseen depths beyond. Though oars lay ready at hand, none were needed—the goddess had promised the river itself would bear them swiftly to their goal.

  Yet ease brought little comfort. Around them stretched a darkness so absolute it devoured the torchlight, swallowing even the memory of shape and distance. Beyond the dim glimmers of their sister ships, there was nothing—no horizon, no shore, no sky. Even the water beneath them was invisible, as though they sailed upon a void.

  They drifted on the Black River for what felt like an eternity. The journey was unlike anything they had ever known. The endless dark toyed with the senses, twisting thought and perception. At times, it seemed they were hurtling forward at great speed; at others, as if they floated motionless in the heart of nothingness. And sometimes—though no one would admit it aloud—they felt stranger still, as though they were no longer in the world at all, but slipping through some other plane, gliding along the shadowed edges of creation itself. Some swore it felt like sailing into the abyss before time began, into the primal silence that predated the stars.

  In such a place, time dissolved. No one knew how long they had been below the earth. The experience was unearthly, disquieting. To some, it was oddly soothing, a balm to weary minds; to others, it gnawed like a rat in the dark corners of the soul. Most balanced uneasily between those extremes, holding their composure out of sheer discipline.

  At the helm of the lead ship, Baronsworth lay on his back, gazing upward into the endless black, and let his mind drift where it would. Memories rose unbidden, rushing over him like waves. He saw again the brightness of his childhood: the scent of his mother’s hair, his father’s strong arms lifting him high, the golden fields around the Dawnstone where he had once ridden under a sky of perfect blue. He felt the sun’s warmth on his face, the wind in his hair—the simple joy of a world untouched by care.

  How far away those days seemed. Yet he realized now it was those memories—those small, bright moments—that had carried him through the long years of hardship. He lingered in them, letting them fill him, strengthen him. Other memories followed: the day he first struck Alexander in sparring and heard his mentor’s hearty laughter of approval; the moonlit night on the Elven shores, Alma’s lips meeting his as the sea mirrored the stars. Of all his life, that night had been the sweetest.

  And with it came longing—not only for Alma, but for the world he had always dreamed of. As a boy, his dream had been boundless: to see a realm where the strong did not prey upon the weak, where brother did not raise sword against brother, where peace and unity reigned. He had not understood why his father rode so often to war, why he was guarded even in his own home, why the world seemed to brim with sorrow and bloodshed. He had not understood evil.

  He did now. He had witnessed cruelty in its rawest form—men who killed not from need, but for sport; who took pleasure in breaking what others built. He could not fathom what twisted their hearts so, but he knew one thing beyond doubt: this was not the will of the gods of Light. Somewhere, the world had been led astray, hijacked by shadow, driven from its true course toward ruin.

  And now the gods had chosen him to set it right. He felt it in his bones, as though some buried part of him had always known this day would come. Was it fate? Perhaps. Some called him Avas Athala, the Redeemer reborn. He was not sure. But whether he bore that mantle or was simply Baronsworth, son of Godfrey, it did not matter. He would stand against the darkness all the same. If the road led him to Bhaal himself, so be it. He would face the Betrayer—and if death awaited him there, then he would meet it without fear.

  His thoughts turned to Alma—her eyes, her laughter—and to a world remade. A world where their children might grow strong beneath an open sky, unafraid. That was the future he fought for. That was the dream worth every drop of blood, every grief, every scar.

  And now, he was going home. The word struck him with a quiet force, almost painful in its longing. Home—the dream that had haunted every mile of his exile, the promise that had carried him when all else was lost. Every choice, every loss, every hard-won triumph had led to this brink.

  And here, on its very edge, the truth stood plain: everything was committed. If they failed, it would not only be their lives spent, but all of Mytharia imperiled. Bhaal’s darkness would sweep the fragile realms of Men like a tide of black fire, leaving nothing to stand.

  The gods had aided him so far, but Baronsworth knew there would come a moment when even they could not intervene. In that hour, it would rest entirely on him—on his will, his strength, his faith. The odds were long, as they had always been. But at least he had what he had long prayed for: a fighting chance to reclaim what was his and set right what had been broken.

  That was enough.

  A strange calm stole over him, quiet and deep. He released his thoughts, one by one, until only resolve remained. He would trust—trust the gods, trust his companions, trust the current of fate to bear him where he must go. The river carried them forward, unseen and unceasing, and in its silent embrace he found peace.

  His eyes closed. Sleep claimed him, dreamless and profound—the stillness before the storm.

  On the decks, the men lit the braziers, their flames casting warm halos against the void. They cooked what provisions they had brought, the scent of roasting meat drifting over the black waters. Karl, especially, seemed content to fill his stomach one last time before the trial ahead. Few words were spoken—there was little left to say.

  They gathered close to the fires, drawing comfort from their heat. As the flames danced, something stirred within them—a quiet, stubborn flame of their own. The darkness no longer felt oppressive; it had become a passage, a threshold to be crossed. Each man knew it: only by walking into the unknown could greatness be won.

  When the meal was done, weariness claimed them. One by one, they lay back upon the decks, eyes closing as sleep took hold. It was a deep, dreamless rest, granted by the goddess herself, that their strength might be whole for the battle to come. And so the river bore them onward through the endless dark, watched by unseen currents, carrying them ever closer to their fate.

  Golden Gryphons for hidden lore, sketches, and whispers from The Return of the Light:

  baronsworth.substack.com

  New chapters every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday — 17:00 CET / 11:00 EST