Legacy's Edge

With a firm yet gentle hand gripping the worn leather reins, Alaric coaxed his horse, Fire, into a patient halt. The horse, named for the fiery streak of his spirit, snorted softly, breath misting in the cool early morning air. After being confined for so long in the ship’s hold, Fire wanted to ride, to run. The horse pawed at the ground. Beside him, Grayson brought his own mount—a robust dapple gray named Storm—to a stop alongside Alaric. Both men wore their armor and heavy cloaks, which draped over the horses’ rumps.

They had been threading their way along a meandering dirt track for the last several hours, a path so rugged and untamed, it scoffed at the notion of being termed, even remotely, a road. It was a vein of dirt, nothing more, carved and hacked through the forest.

The forest had been a canvas of untamed beauty, with towering trees whose canopies wore a drapery of brightly colored fall leaves—yellow, deep purple, and red—that at times worked to take one’s breath away. Already, there was a carpet of leaves that had fallen. Alaric had forgotten how pretty fall could be. In the south, he had missed the changing of the seasons.

Alaric’s gaze drifted over his shoulder, looking back along the path. Just behind them, Thorne, Ezran, and Jasper had also reined in their mounts. Beyond them, three hundred yards back, the head of the column was rounding a bend in the forest. With his soldiers marching at the van, the column stretched for nearly a quarter-mile as it snaked its way after them through the forest.

Somewhere within the trailing procession walked Rikka and Kiera. Both women had elected to go by foot, rather than by horseback and the comfort a ride might afford. Kiera had her own horse. Alaric had extended the courtesy of a mount to Rikka so the two could ride, yet she had declined with a polite nod, her eyes reflecting a determination to remain grounded, connected to the land she traversed. Kiera had decided to join Rikka.

“After so long shipbound, I wish to stretch these wonderful things I call legs,” Rikka had told him. After spending his nights with her, he had to admit she did have fine legs.

Turning his attention forward, Alaric faced the threshold of the forest’s embrace. They stood on a hill, looking down upon the cusp of civilization’s touch. Surrounded by partially harvested fields, the village was a patchwork of thatched roofs and cobblestone paths, with smoke curling lazily from a handful of chimneys into the crisp air, signifying the life that simmered quietly within. Here, the untamed wilderness, with its cryptic shadows and ancient secrets, gave way to the chaos of habitation.

The air carried the scent of woodsmoke.

“Thornwicke,” Grayson said.

“What?” Alaric inquired, his curiosity piqued as he shifted in the saddle and looked at Grayson.

“That’s the name of this place, the village, Thornwicke.” Grayson shielded his eyes against the brilliance of the sun, which hung low yet ascendant in the blue expanse of the sky. He pointed. “Just beyond it, on the other side, is a good road that will take us straight to the keep and your father. It will be an improvement over this miserable track.”

Alaric squinted in the direction indicated, beyond the village. There was the road, off in the distance, as a brown line that disappeared back into the forest after a few hundred yards. He sucked in a cold breath of air, as underneath him, Fire shifted, clearly eager to be off once again. Alaric took a firmer hold of the reins and stilled the animal.

They had broken camp at the earliest hint of dawn, starting out on the twenty-mile trek toward Alaric’s ancestral keep. With only a couple of breaks to rest, they had been marching ever since. Alaric figured they were about halfway to their destination, which should see them arriving around dusk.

The wind gusted, the biting cold swirling and stinging exposed flesh. It rustled the tree branches overhead and sent a flurry of leaves to flight. Alaric glanced up as the leaves fell around them as the gust died off. The sun, in its steady ascent toward its zenith, offered scant warmth to the ground and those below.

Alaric found himself frowning as he gazed out at the village. Thornwicke itself seemed to recoil from the chill, its assortment of dilapidated buildings displaying their wear as if it were a badge of honor. At the village’s threshold stood a modest, thatched cottage, its once robust structure succumbing to time’s relentless march. The roof sagged despondently in the center, its thatch faded to a lifeless gray, with gaping patches revealing the brittle wooden skeleton beneath. The cottage’s walls, crafted from wattle and daub, bore the scars of relentless weathering, fissures webbing through the material like the veins of a leaf. One of the windows was boarded up, suggesting long abandonment.

Beyond the cottage, the track, more mud than dirt now from a recent rain, meandered through the village, which consisted of more than two dozen buildings. Among them, near the edge of town, stood a building that bore the telltale signs of a blacksmith’s forge.

What appeared to be a good-sized tavern languished nearby, its sign hanging desolately by a single hinge, creaking in the wind—a mournful dirge for better days now long past. Farther still, the heart of the village, a square that might once have pulsed with the vibrant chaos of market days, lay barren, empty. Encircled by shuttered stalls and forsaken stands. There was not a soul in sight.

“This place appears abandoned,” Thorne observed, his voice tinged with a blend of disappointment and intrigue as he scanned the village from the hill upon which they were perched. “They’ve not even fully gathered in the harvest. A good portion of it has been left to rot.”

Alaric was troubled by that.

“It’s not completely deserted,” Alaric corrected, and pointed. “Look there—smoke rises from the chimney of the blacksmith’s forge. It’s not much of a fire, but someone lit the forge this morning, and the tavern, along with a handful of other homes.”

Alaric felt a mix of curiosity and melancholy as he surveyed the scene. The village, with its decaying buildings and sense of abandonment, seemed to stand as a memorial to a forgotten people and broken dreams. Yet beneath the ruin and disrepair, there was a story here, a tale. Something bad had happened. What that was, Alaric knew not.

The ring on his finger began to emanate a subtle warmth, its temperature gradually increasing as if reacting to the secrets Thornwicke held. At the same time, it was as though an invisible force was drawing him deeper into the heart of the village, compelling him to peel back the layers of obscurity and bring to light the truths that lay hidden within.

Or was the ring trying to tell him something? Was it warning him?

“Thornwicke was thriving and full of life when we left,” Grayson remarked, his voice laced with plain concern. With a sweeping gesture that encompassed the depressing village, he added, “I don’t ever recall this village looking rundown… We used to recruit here… there were children, families.”

“That was ten years ago,” Alaric said.

“It was,” Grayson acknowledged sadly. “God knows what’s happened since then.”

“It’s possible disease ravaged these lands,” Ezran suggested, a hint of worry in his tone. “This village bears an eerie resemblance to Kol’tech.”

At the mention of Kol’tech, Thorne visibly tensed, a shiver coursing through him, causing his horse to sidestep. Alaric stiffened slightly in the saddle and glanced back at the former ash man. “I hoped to forget that place.”

“That was a town cursed by fortune herself,” Thorne said.

“Disease…” The idea struck a chord with Alaric, stirring memories of the plague he witnessed ravage the holy lands—visions of suffering and death that haunted his nights still as the healthy by the thousands sickened and died. It had been bad, very bad in Kol’tech. He cast a glance back at the column, drawing nearer with every passing moment. They were almost on top of them.

“I suspect our arrival did not go unnoticed,” Grayson observed, breaking into Alaric’s contemplations. “Hence no one in view.”

Alaric, pondering Grayson’s insight, looked over. “You mean to say the villagers have fled?”

With a nod, Grayson confirmed Alaric’s understanding. The behavior was not uncommon in times of strife and difficulty; communities would often flee to the safety of hidden retreats at the first sign of potential danger or strange soldiers appearing on the horizon.

“We may have been spotted by a hunter out in the forest,” Grayson added, gesturing at the town with a wave of his hand.

“I’d run too if I didn’t know who we were,” Thorne said. “Then again, if it is disease…”

“Have the standard unfurled,” Alaric ordered. “Though the inhabitants have likely run for the hills, let’s let them, and anyone else who sees us in the coming hours, know we are friendly and not a threat to hide from.”

“As you command, my lord,” Grayson said. “I will see it done.”

“I want no falling out of the column of march, no straggling,” Alaric ordered. “I know we’ve not had fresh food in some time, but we will not take what little these people have through scavenging. Besides, they are our own, and from the looks of things, they have little enough as it is and likely nothing to spare.”

“My lord,” Grayson said, “there are undoubtedly men who have or had relatives in this village. They may have nothing left, especially if disease has ravaged Dekar.”

Was the possibility of disease why he had not heard from his parents? Surely, someone would have written.

“That’s a good point,” Alaric conceded, “and all the more reason to keep the men on a tight leash. No one is to be released from service until I say so. Is that understood?”

“Understood, my lord,” Grayson said.

“Perhaps we should not march through the village, but around it?” Thorne suggested. “Less temptation that way.”

“Should we send scouts into the village?” Grayson asked. “Learn the news?”

Alaric turned his gaze upon Thornwicke, considering his captain’s suggestion. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. I think we have already frightened the inhabitants enough. We’re only ten—maybe twelve miles from the keep. Let us push on. We will learn all we need soon enough. We will find food and shelter there. Make it so, Grayson.”

Grayson turned in his saddle, barked a series of orders, and pointed with his hand at the lead of his column. He shifted his horse around and began to personally direct and guide the column wide to the right of the village, marching around the partially harvested fields. Alaric remained where he was, holding the reins of his horse lightly. Behind him waited Ezran, Thorne, and Jasper.

“Not the homecoming you expected,” Thorne said.

“Definitely not,” Alaric said with a shake of his head. “I pray Thornwicke is not indicative of the rest of Dekar, for if it is…”

As the column continued its march, the sounds of the soldiers’ lighthearted voices, a mixture of speculation and camaraderie, filled the air, punctuating the otherwise silent village. The chink of armor and equipment was strong as they passed by.

Soon the soldiers gave way to the families and camp followers. Amidst this procession, a solitary figure made a deliberate departure from the line of march. Father Ava disengaged himself and walked up next to Alaric’s horse, his gaze fixed upon the village. Clad in coarse brown robes that spoke of the humility of his vocation, the fabric worn to a near whisper of its former self and faded, he carried nothing but a light traveling pack.

“Father Ava,” Alaric greeted, gazing down at the priest. Ava, in his seventies, was in good health and fit, though Alaric thought a tad lean. The hair on his head was bushy and had long since gone gray. Alaric had known the man for nearly ten years, and in all that time, unlike the other priests, Ava had never demanded or even asked for money. He had always been very humble in Alaric’s presence.

“My lord, do you believe there to be a church in village?” the elderly priest asked, looking up.

“There should be.” Alaric shifted in his saddle to see if he could spot the steeple. After a moment, he pointed. “It is there, on the far side of village. Do you see it?”

The older man squinted, searching for a long moment, then gave a nod. “Do you mind if I depart the column? Do I have your permission, my lord?”

“You don’t need it,” Alaric said.

“But still, I feel compelled to ask.”

“You intend on visiting the church?” Thorne asked plainly.

Father Ava gave a nod as he scratched at an itch upon his neck. “I would honor God and give thanks properly for our safe deliverance.”

“My lord,” Thorne said, giving the old priest a meaningful stare. “You have long been gone from these lands. We don’t know if there are bandits, cutpurses, thugs, or whatnot about in that village down there. It looks rather mean, if you take my meaning.”

“Jasper,” Alaric said, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ve changed my mind. I am going into the village and to the church. Ride to Grayson and inform him where I am headed. We will meet him on the far side of the village.”

“Yes, my lord.” Jasper pulled on his reins and guided his horse off the track before nudging her into a trot, moving along the column, heading for Grayson, who was now more than five hundred yards away.

“Father Ava,” Alaric said. “We will escort you to the church to make certain it is safe.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the priest said. “I appreciate that. Though anyone harming a pauper priest like myself would face everlasting damnation. I think there is little risk and reason to trouble yourself.”

“You are most likely correct. But better safe than sorry.” Alaric started his horse forward into a slow walk. The priest began walking as Thorne and Ezran nudged their horses forward. After a few yards moving through the fields, Alaric was able to maneuver his mount along the sodden path that wound through the harvested fields and merged onto the main thoroughfare leading into the heart of Thornwicke. He kept the pace slow so that Ava could keep up.

Not another word was spoken until they reached the edge of town. The desolate view he had initially perceived from afar began to manifest with unsettling clarity. The village, which was once a vibrant hub of activity and communal life, now presented itself as a clear scene of neglect and decay. Many of the buildings, their structures compromised by time, disuse, and clear lack of maintenance, seemed to lean upon one another for support, embodying a collective grief and sadness for the souls they no longer sheltered.

The farther they went into the village, passing building after building, the more pronounced the signs of abandonment became. It was evident from the state of the outer buildings that very few dared to call this place home.

What had happened here? Why had people left? Was it disease? Or worse, war?

He imagined those who remained eking out an existence on the very margins of survival. The atmosphere was heavy with a profound silence, the kind that felt almost tangible, as if the very air mourned the loss of laughter, of footsteps, of life. With every clopping step forward by his horse, Alaric began to feel a mounting sense of unease.

The oppressive quietude was occasionally broken by the mournful creak of timeworn wood protesting against the wind or the distant, solitary caw of a crow. Not even a dog emerged to bark at them.

As they passed what once were animal pens and enclosures, Alaric noted their emptiness with a heavy heart. The absence of pigs rooting in the mud, sheep grazing contentedly, or chickens pecking at the dirt underscored the complete abandonment of domesticity and sustenance. These empty spaces, once clearly teeming with life and the daily rhythms of rural existence, were a sign of the unraveling of a community, of a way of life that had withered and faded like the last echoes of an ancient song.

Weeds had sprung up everywhere. They passed the blacksmith’s shop, where he imagined the ringing of hammer on anvil had once signified industry and progress. Now, only the lingering scent of burnt coal hinted at past labors, with the forge’s embers offering only a feeble glow, marking the absence of its keeper, who had clearly gone into hiding.

A cold gust of wind swept through the empty streets, telling of the coming winter. A shutter, loosened from its fastenings by time and neglect, clattered against a window frame, punctuating the silence with its erratic beat. Alaric’s keen eyes caught a hint of movement behind a window—a fleeting shadow that vanished as quickly as it appeared, suggesting that they were not entirely alone in this forgotten place.

Continuing their solemn and silent procession, they reached the village square, dominated by the church on the far side, a tavern on the other. For a moment, he thought he heard the discordant sound of someone snoring from that direction. Alaric considered going to the tavern first. He disregarded that idea. He imagined someone overcome with drink in an attempt to drown their sorrows. Instead, he kept Fire moving forward. He had agreed to bring Ava to the church, and that was what he would do.

Answers would come later.

The church, which might once have stood as a pillar of faith and a gathering place for the community, now, like the rest of the village, bore the marks of decay and abandonment. The steeple, which had ambitiously pierced the sky, now leaned precariously, a symbol that spoke of lost hope and direction.

The stained-glass windows, once vibrant with color and light, telling stories of faith, hope, and charity, were now dulled by dust and neglect, with many of the panes broken, leaving the interior exposed to the elements. These windows, designed to illuminate the church with divine light during the day, now offered only a fragmented glimpse into the interior, echoing the shattered spirit of Thornwicke itself.

Despite its dilapidation, the church door stood ajar, as if inviting Alaric and company into its sorrowful and lonely embrace. Before the entrance, he pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted, glancing over at Father Ava, who was gazing upon the building with plain, unfiltered sadness.

“Thorne,” Alaric said as he handed his reins to Ezran, “since you are a believer, you’re with me.”

In a jingle of armor and tack, Thorne dismounted and then handed his reins up to Ezran before joining Alaric, who led the way, ascending the steps to the church’s entrance. He looked through the open door. The interior was bathed in the soft, dim glow of a single candle, mixed with the natural light that flowed in through the windows.

A lone figure, draped in robes that spoke of a clerical life, knelt before the main altar, his posture one of deep, fervent prayer. This man, so absorbed in his communion with the divine, seemed very much like the last keeper of faith in a village lost to time and despair.

As Alaric stepped over the threshold, the change in atmosphere was palpable. The air inside was cool and tinged with the musty odor of disuse and mold, different from the vibrant community spaces of worship he had known in the south. The absence of pews and the lack of silver vessels for the sacramental wine marked a departure from the traditional adornments associated with such sacred places.

The walls, bereft of tapestries, and the altar, missing its customary golden compass, spoke of a simplicity that verged on destitution. The candle, its flickering flame almost a testament to some enduring hope, rested in a humble wooden holder, far removed from the grandeur typically associated with the church’s rituals.

Yet the presence of the praying priest suggested that even in the deepest reaches of despair, faith—or at least the search for it—persisted. And where that happened, hope remained.

Alaric continued forward, his approach, marked by the sound of the hobnails of his boots against the stone floor, reverberated through the hushed interior of the church, announcing their presence to its solitary occupant.

As the elderly priest made a painstaking effort to rise, his frailty became painfully evident. The robes that once might have draped with dignity over a healthier frame now engulfed him, accentuating his emaciated condition. His face was gaunt, and the man was clearly hungry. Yet, despite his evident weakness, the priest’s demeanor bore no trace of fear. His eyes, though dimmed by age and clouded with caution, fixed upon the newcomers with an intensity born of years spent guarding his faith against the encroaching darkness.

“Who are you?” The question, delivered in a raspy voice that carried the weight of countless solitary days and an age-born weariness, cut through the silence of the church.

Alaric stopped, with a gesture of introduction that bridged the gap between their worlds. “This is Thorne”—he indicated the companion to his right, then to his left—“and this is Father Ava.” The priest’s eyes flicked from Thorne to Ava. His shoulders relaxed slightly at the sight of another priest. Alaric touched his own armored chest with his palm. “I am Viscount Alaric, returned home from the Crusades, Holy Father.”

It seemed to take a moment for his words to penetrate. Hands trembling and shaking violently, the priest took a step forward, eyes narrowing as if in disbelief as he peered at Alaric. “Truly?”

“Aye,” Alaric said. “We landed last evening. I am on my way to the keep to see my parents.” He gestured at Ava. “I thought I would personally escort Father Ava to this church before pressing on. He wished to pay his respects to God in a holy house.”

“We have been traveling by sea for weeks, and this is the first proper house of prayer we have happened across,” Ava said.

The priest eyed Alaric, then Ava. His hand went to his mouth as if in disbelief as his gaze returned to Alaric. The priest was missing several teeth, with others browned. “You are Alaric?”

“I am.”

The priest dropped shakily to his knees on the dusty stone floor and bowed his head, which shook, as his hands had. “My lord earl. You have come at last.”

Alaric’s expression darkened into a scowl as he faced the frail figure of the priest kneeling before him on the hard stone. He glanced over. Thorne’s nonchalant shrug in reply offered little in the way of comfort or solutions, prompting Alaric to take a more direct approach. He stepped forward and, with a gentleness, grasped the elderly priest’s arm, drawing the man back to his feet. Beneath the threadbare robes, the priest’s body felt alarmingly insubstantial, as if he were more a specter of the past, a wraith imitating life, than a living, breathing individual.

“Why did you name him earl?” Thorne’s straightforward inquiry, posed with a mixture of curiosity and concern, echoed slightly off the walls of the church.

“He is old and clearly mistaken,” Alaric offered by way of explanation, addressing Thorne but keeping his gaze on the priest. He felt a sick worry begin to worm its way into his gut. “What is your name?”

“Father Boatman, my lord.” The elderly priest’s introduction came amidst the tremors of palsy that gripped his hands, an affliction that lent his manner a certain vulnerability. Yet, in his acknowledgment of Alaric, there was a clarity and conviction that pierced through the haze of time and frailty. “I knew you as a lad, my lord.”

Alaric’s mind raced to place the name, the face, but found no foothold in his memory for Father Boatman.

“Your mother used to bring you about occasionally, as did your father,” Boatman added, then hesitated, his hands shaking even more violently than before. “And you are the earl. There is none other.”

The words were like a key turning in a lock, and with them, Alaric felt a cold dread seep into his marrow. The realization that his father, the indomitable pillar of strength and authority in his life, might be gone, left him reeling.

“My father is dead?” Alaric echoed, the question hollow, as if saying the words aloud might somehow refute their truth.

“Yes, my lord, over a year ago,” came Father Boatman’s somber confirmation, his voice imbued with a sorrow that mirrored the gravity of his news. “I am sorry that I am the one to break the news to you. Truly I am. We, the people, loved your father.”

Gone?

The impact of this revelation left Alaric staggered, both physically and emotionally. The world seemed to tilt under his feet, unmoored by the loss of a man he had deemed invincible. His father had been a foundational force in his life and in the life of their lands, a man whose presence was as unyielding as the stone walls of their keep. To imagine he was no longer a part of this world, that he had been gone for more than a year, all while Alaric remained oblivious in a distant land, was a concept too vast and painful to fully encompass. “No, that cannot be.”

This moment of stark revelation marked not just the loss of a father, but the beginning of a profound transformation in Alaric’s life. He was now thrust into a role he had not anticipated assuming so soon.

“I understand your mother sent word for you to return soon after his passing,” Boatman said, “to bring your companies home, to help defend us, to protect us.”

“I never got the message,” Alaric said, absolutely stunned. “You must be mistaken.”

“I am not, Lord Earl,” Boatman said.

“What do you mean defend?” Thorne asked, glancing back the way they came at the open door. “Defend from whom?”

“The raiders, bandits,” Boatman said. “They’ve taken everything and roam the land freely without fear. There is no longer strength of will to stand up to them.”

Alaric rubbed the back of his neck. This was not welcome news. When he’d left, Dekar had been strong and safe, rich. There had been no bandits, no raiding. Everyone respected and feared his father, even their fellow and neighboring lords. He’d had knights and men-at-arms at his beck and call for such trouble.

“What of my father’s bannermen?” Alaric asked.

“They have their own problems,” Boatman said with a shrug, “and have done little.”

“Earl,” Alaric breathed to himself, still scarcely able to believe what he was learning. He regarded the priest, and his heart hardened in anger before turning to Thorne. “Go inform Grayson. Tell him I want men posted here to protect the town, at least fifty of our best. They can set up in some of the abandoned homes, but I want a guard at all times, understand me?”

Thorne gave a hard nod.

“They are also to work on a defensive wall for the village. Have him break out some of our rations for the men and those who still call Thornwicke home. I also want scouts put out around the column. We are not in friendly lands, not any longer. Warn him. Go… now.”

“Yes, my lord earl.” Thorne turned, his hobnailed boots clicking against the stone floor as he hurried from the church.

The priest was staring at him in astonishment, his lower jaw trembling. “You will defend us?”

“I will do more than that, Father,” Alaric said, his anger growing by the moment. “I will make Dekar safe and strong again.”

“I prayed for your coming, my lord,” Boatman said. “But many gave up and left. Those who remained are terrified.”

Alaric slapped his palm against his thigh. He glanced at the altar and knew without a doubt he should have come home sooner. He was needed here.

“The bandits took everything from the church?” Alaric asked, glancing around.

“They did, my lord,” Boatman said. “And… and… the thugs who run the town took what little was left.”

Ezran stepped into the church, his gaze flicking about before settling upon Alaric. The sound of hooves could be heard as Thorne rode off. “Thugs? Where?”

“In the tavern,” Boatman said, looking to the former ash man. “They live there and have chased most everyone off.”

“They won’t be running the town much longer.” Alaric’s tone was rock-hard. “You are sure my father is dead?”

The priest nodded.

“How?”

“They said sickness,” the priest said. “But…”

“But what?”

“Others said it was poison, my lord earl,” Boatman said. “I don’t know for certain…”

This revelation struck Alaric with the force of a winter gale, chilling him to his core. His father had always had enemies, people who wanted to claim Dekar as their own. “And my mother? Is she dead also?”

“No one has seen your mother for weeks,” Father Boatman said. “She has retreated into the keep. Some say she is being held prisoner by her guard, that they have become opportunists. Others say she is in mourning, lost to her grief.” Father Boatman paused. “I went myself to the keep to see her, to beg for help, and was turned away at the gate. The guards told me she was seeing no one. The people in the town have not seen her either.”

Alaric’s mother had always been strong. His father had even feared her temper. She would have grieved for her husband but not let it consume her. He could not see her turning from her duty to the people. The very idea that his mother might be suffering at the hands of turncoat guards spurred a mix of dread and resolve within Alaric. Feeling terrible frustration, he let go an unhappy breath that sounded explosive in the confines of the church.

“Many have fled Dekar for hope of safety elsewhere.”

“Why did you stay?” Ava asked.

“This is my home,” Boatman said and held out his hands. “This church is HIS home. What would it say of my faith if I left this holy place unattended, even in the state it is now? I am an old man… no threat to them, to anyone.”

“They took everything, chased most of your flock off, and yet you remained,” Ava said.

Boatman nodded. “They took nearly everything but my faith.”

The ring on Alaric’s finger began to grow warm. He glanced down at it, moving it around his finger with his thumb. It had been incredibly active of late, speaking to him with greater frequency. He looked back up on the old priest, racked by palsy. That he’d elected to remain when so many others fled was no small thing. He clearly believed and was strong with the faith.

Driven by an instinct he perhaps didn’t fully understand, almost an impulse, Alaric reached into a pocket and produced Father Kemm’s golden compass. As he did, the air seemed suddenly charged with an unseen energy, a power that made the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Father Boatman’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell agape, a reaction that went beyond mere admiration for its beauty.

Even Ava was taken aback, for he blinked rapidly.

“It is so beautiful,” Boatman breathed, taking a shaking step forward to get a better look. “In all my years—I have only seen one other like her.”

“Take it,” Alaric said, offering the compass to the man.

“My lord, I cannot accept such a gift,” Boatman rasped, his gaze going from the compass to Alaric. “This is too rich for me.”

“On impulse, I took it from one who was not worthy of bearing such a symbol, a man who professed to be a priest but had no faith. I claimed it with the intention of giving it to one who was a believer. I…” Alaric hesitated, feeling the object in his hand growing warm like the ring upon his finger. He looked upon it and knew what he was doing was right—more than right. His gaze shifted to Boatman. “This is now yours, Father. I… I think it is—was always—meant for you.”

“Take it,” Father Ava urged firmly. There was an intense light in the other’s gaze, almost an eagerness.

As Alaric extended the compass toward the elderly priest, the significance of the act seemed to magnify within the confines of the church’s crumbling and decrepit walls. The priest’s hand trembled violently as he accepted the gift.

The compass flared with golden light when his hand closed about it, bathing the church in an otherworldly glow. This illumination lasted but a moment, a mere flash. Brief as it was, it transcended the physical decay of their surroundings, hinting at a deeper magic or divine favor at play. Boatman’s expression of open wonder mirrored Alaric’s own astonishment as they witnessed this manifestation of power.

The palsy that caused the priest to tremble ceased as the light died off, his hands and body growing suddenly rock-steady, his gaze firm. The gaunt and starved look faded and the priest’s eyes became shaper, clearer, as did his stature as he stood straight. The man looked as if he’d grown slightly younger, losing at least five years.

For a long moment, there was absolute silence.

“Eldanar has judged him worthy,” Father Ava breathed, his words spoken with a reverent awe. “In HIS holy light, we are blessed.”

Alaric glanced over at Ava. The man had tears in his eyes.

“I felt the lord our god,” Boatman breathed, still staring at the compass in his hand. “I felt his love. I have work yet that needs doing—HE told me so.”

“Long has it been since I have seen a true miracle,” Ava breathed as he wiped the tears away with the back of his forearm. “That compass is a relic from an age past, and it recognizes its own. You have been blessed this day, blessed by our god, and so have we all, who stood witness to our lord’s judgment.”

Alaric glanced back at Ezran. The man’s eyes were wide. Godless, he too had clearly been stunned by what just transpired. Rikka and Kiera had joined them. Both were standing in the entrance. How long they had been there, he did not know, but the look in Rikka’s gaze was intense, fierce.

The profound moment shared within the shadowed confines of the church left Alaric deeply moved, yet it also reignited the embers of resolve and anger within him, especially for his father, mother, and the land he called home. Confronted with the neglect and decay all around him, Alaric felt the weight of his newly inherited responsibilities upon his shoulders. He had one company at his command, but they were all hardened veterans. More importantly, they were loyal. He turned his gaze back to the priest. It was time he claimed his mantle, his legacy.

“I will rebuild this church and bring your parishioners back, Father. I will do the same for all of Dekar.” Alaric’s tone was as hard as granite. “No one will live in fear again, not on my land. On this I swear before our god.”

“And I will help,” Rikka said from the doorway, drawing his attention. Ezran jumped as he realized they were not alone. “So has Eldanar called me.”

Alaric returned his attention to the priest, who was still staring at the compass. “You said they are in the tavern? These thugs?”

The priest, with effort, tore his gaze from the compass he clutched. “There are six of them, my lord.”

“Well, then,” Alaric said, turning to Ezran, “let us start there.”