Sunlight trickled through the inn shutters like lazy gold ribbons. Somewhere downstairs, someone was burning bread.
The Thornmere Company woke in varying states of grace.
Borin snored face-down in an empty stew bowl.
Gorruk was sprawled on the floor, one massive arm draped protectively around a chair leg he seemed to think was a person.
The Twins had vanished entirely — until a muffled giggle came from the rafters.
Arden was already dressed, neat as ever, sipping tea by the window.
Sereth was pretending she wasn’t watching Elaris, who looked frustratingly unruffled as he adjusted his gloves and poured himself black coffee like the world’s most composed corpse.
Gorruk (groggy): “Why’s the ceiling moving?”
Vex (from above): “Because you’re looking at us.”
Laz: “Morning!”
Elaris: “Gravity’s wasted on you two.”
Vex: “Compliment accepted.”
Kael came down last, fully armored and already tired.
Kael: “If I have to fight a hangover again, I’m billing someone.”
Borin (muffled): “Bill it to the ale.”
Arden: “Gentlemen, please, the gods are watching.”
Gorruk: “Hope they brought coffee.”
The group eventually spilled out into Thornmere’s cobblestone streets — a cheerful chaos of market stalls, stray chickens, and gossip. The air smelled of baking bread, forge smoke, and wet earth after last night’s rain.
Children ran up to Gorruk shouting
He lifted one onto his shoulder and beamed.
Gorruk: “See that, Bones? My reputation’s growing.”
Elaris: “So is your liability.”
Borin stopped to test a smith’s new tankard design (“research,” he claimed).
The Twins flirted shamelessly with a baker to score free pastries, only for Arden to quietly drop coins on the counter behind them.
Sereth bought a new fletching kit, bartering down the price with a grin that made the merchant forget his words.
Kael walked ahead, half-listening, half-guarding, occasionally muttering “we’re too loud for our own good.”
Sereth (teasing): “That’s what makes us charming”
Kael (sighing): “That’s one word for it.”
Borin: “I know a few others.”
Elaris: “I’m sure.”
Laughter followed them through the square.
The town’s central notice board stood outside the hall — a rickety old thing covered in parchment scraps:
Lost goat,
Wanted: ratcatcher,
House for rent,
and in the middle, a fresh, wax-sealed posting written in careful calligraphy.
Sereth was first to notice it.
She tugged it free and read aloud, tone half amused, half curious.
“Seeking aid: a haunting at the Chapel of the Pale Star. A voice that sings at midnight — mournful, beautiful, and deadly. The spirit claims the soul of a bard named Fenn, who begs for her peace. Signed, Mayor Halden.”
Arden raised an eyebrow.
“A ghost that sings. How poetic.”
Laz: “How profitable?”
Vex: “How romantic!”
Kael: “How suicidal.”
Borin: “How much does it pay?”
Elaris took the notice from Sereth, studying it with that calm precision of his.
“The Chapel of the Pale Star… west of the valley. It was abandoned after the War of Ash. If the dead sing there, they’ve had practice.”
Sereth (smirking): “You sound intrigued, Bones.”
Elaris: “Professional curiosity.”
Gorruk: “So we’re helping a lovesick bard fight a banshee?”
Borin: “Aye, I’m in. Bet I can drink her under the table.”
Arden: “Borin, she’s incorporeal.”
Borin: “So’s my tolerance.”
Vex: “I like it. Haunted ruins, tragic romance — sounds like a lovely weekend.”
Laz: “And if she’s friendly, maybe she’ll join the band.”
Kael looked to Elaris.
“What do you think? Worth the detour?”
Elaris rolled the parchment once between his fingers.
“If she’s truly a banshee, she’s bound by grief. Grief can be ended or… redirected.”
He glanced at Sereth, who was watching him too closely.
“Besides, I’ve never met a ghost that sings in key.”
The group exchanged grins. The decision was made.
The Road to the Pale Star
The company left Thornmere just after noon, the smell of rain still clinging to the road. Low clouds drifted like torn silk over green hills, and the cobbles gave way to old cart tracks bordered by heather and wheat. Birds followed them for a while; then even the birds grew quiet.
The Thornmere Company was anything but quiet.
At the front, Borin and Gorruk walked side-by-side, arguing as if the fate of the realm depended on it.
Borin: “I’m tellin’ ye, ye can’t milk a goat and call it a cow. A goat’s a goat!”
Gorruk: “Milk’s milk, lad! Comes out white, goes in me belly, end of story.”
Borin: “That logic would let ye drink paint.”
Gorruk: “If it had the right head on it, maybe.”
They both turned expectantly toward Arden, who rode behind them, serene as a saint on her grey mare.
Arden: “If you two spent half this energy on prayer, the gods might answer just to shut you up.”
Borin: “That a yes or a no on the goat?”
Arden: “It’s a ‘stop talking before I test Silence.’”
That ended the debate—mostly.
Further back, Vex and Laz were flanking Kael, who trudged on like a man sentenced to enjoy himself.
Vex: “Come now, Grumps, there’s got to be a joke in you somewhere.”
Kael: “There was. I killed it in the war.”
Laz: “Tragic. We’ll resurrect it. Elaris can help.”
Kael: “Please don’t.”
Vex: “I’ll start: knock-knock.”
Kael: “Who’s there?”
Vex: “Interrupting bansh—”
Kael’s sword hand twitched just slightly.
Laz: “Worth it.”
A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Kael’s mouth made both twins gasp dramatically.
Vex: “He smiled! Witnessed!”
Kael: “Hallucination. Heatstroke.”
Laz: “Admit it—we’re miracle workers.”
At the rear, Elaris rode beside Sereth, the parchment of the mayor’s request open between them. His gloved fingers traced a note in the margin—a signature written twice, once in ink, once in what looked like dried tears.
Elaris: “The handwriting changes halfway through. Emotional distress, or possession.”
Sereth: “You make even romance sound like an autopsy.”
Elaris: “Romance and autopsies both involve hearts. One just beats longer.”
Sereth rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. They rode in companionable silence for a while, the wind tugging at her hair, his cloak snapping like a raven’s wing. Then she spoke again, tone bright and falsely casual.
Sereth: “Soooooo… a romantic spooky setting, ay? Haunted chapel, moonlight, tragic lovers…”
He glanced sideways; she immediately regretted it.
Sereth (trying for nonchalance): “How do you… feel about that?”
Her voice caught halfway between teasing and sincerity. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t subtle. Everyone heard.
Up ahead, Borin nearly tripped over his own boots.
Vex snorted so hard she coughed.
Gorruk gave a low whistle.
Arden sighed into her reins.
Even Kael muttered, “Subtle as a catapult.”
Sereth’s ears went pink. She shifted in her saddle, staring very hard at the horizon.
Sereth: “Just… you know… for atmosphere.”
Elaris’s mouth curved—slightly, infuriatingly.
Elaris: “Atmosphere noted.”
And that was all he said.
For a moment the only sound was hooves on dirt and the twins’ suppressed laughter. Then Borin, merciful as ever, changed the subject.
Borin: “Right! First one to spot the chapel gets the first mug of ale when we’re back!”
Gorruk: “Ye’ll owe me three, then.”
The laughter rose again, easy and unforced, carried away on the wind.
By late afternoon the road narrowed into a vale of pale stone and silver grass. Mist gathered low, curling around half-buried headstones. On a hill beyond, black against the reddening sky, stood the Chapel of the Pale Star—its spire broken, windows dark, and from somewhere within came the faintest thread of music, soft as breath and sad as memory.
The company slowed.
Elaris: “There’s your atmosphere”
Sereth (quietly): “Yeah… perfect.”
The last light of day spilled across their faces, catching steel, leather, and the bright curiosity that never quite left them.
The sun was sliding behind the hills now, pouring its last light over the mist-filled valley. The chapel rose from the fog like a memory carved in stone; half its roof had caved, ivy clinging to broken arches, a great window gaping toward the evening star. A single note of song drifted through the air—too pure, too sad to be wind.
The Company halted at the edge of the graveyard, the horses stamping uneasily. While Elaris dismounted to study the wards carved on the gate, Arden lingered beside Sereth, who was very deliberately tightening her bowstring for the third time.
Arden (lightly): “Well… how did it go?”
Sereth froze, pinched the bridge of her nose, and groaned.
Sereth: “Was it that obvious?”
Arden’s answering smile was half sympathy, half amusement.
Arden: “Only to anyone with eyes. Don’t worry—most of them were too busy pretending not to notice.”
From behind them came the sound of Gorruk inhaling to speak.
Arden didn’t even turn; she just looked over her shoulder. The expression she gave him radiated enough quiet divine warning to make the big orc go rigid.
Gorruk: “...Lovely weather we’re having,”
he finished lamely, turning away to whistle at nothing in particular.
Sereth sighed, letting the air out of her lungs.
Sereth: “Do you think he knows? Or cares?”
Arden: “He’s a clever man, Sereth. I think he knows. As for caring… he’s just focused. That’s how people like him survive. But focus changes.”
Arden reached out and, without ceremony, pulled her friend into a hug. Sereth blinked in surprise, then let herself melt into it.
Arden (softly): “Keep going. One step at a time, He’ll notice when he’s ready.”
For a heartbeat the mist, the ruin, even the ghost-song seemed to hush.
Then a voice boomed from somewhere behind them:
Gorruk: “GROUP HUG?! I LOVE THOSE!”
Before anyone could react, he swept both women up in arms the size of tree trunks. Borin, never one to miss chaos, piled in laughing, followed by Vex and Laz shrieking with delight. The heap grew until it was more a tangle of limbs than an embrace.
Kael and Elaris stood several paces away, equally expressionless.
Kael (flat): “Is this… tactical?”
Elaris: “Apparently.”
Kael: “Do we… participate?”
Elaris: “Not if we want to breathe.”
From somewhere inside the pile came Sereth’s muffled voice:
Sereth: “Help! Vex’s horns are in my hair!”
Elaris arched an eyebrow, then—just once—allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch.
Elaris: “They’ll untangle eventually.”
And as if on cue, the haunting note from within the chapel rose again, high and clear. The laughter faded. The group slowly released each other, turning toward the ruin where moonlight spilled through the shattered rose window.
The real work was about to begin.
The Chapel’s Threshold
The laughter from the group hug still lingers faintly, but the closer you step toward the Chapel of the Pale Star, the quieter everything becomes.
No crickets. No wind. Even the mist seems to hold its breath.
The chapel stands at the top of a gentle slope, its spire long collapsed into the courtyard. Half-buried gravestones lean like weary sentinels. The great iron doors hang crooked, one torn free of its hinges. Faded silver inlay marks the symbol of a seven-pointed star — Pelor’s light refracted through mortal imperfection.
Elaris felt it before he saw it. The air hums — not the wild shimmer of raw necromancy, but something older, colder, threaded with divine resonance twisted by sorrow.
He kneels, tracing the silver star’s lines. Beneath the corrosion and lichen he recognizes faint runic bindwork — not to ward spirits, but to hold one.
Elaris (quietly): “This wasn’t built to banish. It was built to cage.”
The magic is centuries old — decayed, but still functional. You sense the spell is half divine, half mortal-made — a collaboration between a cleric of Pelor and a mage of the old court, meant to tether one soul until contrition was achieved or forgotten.
Faint necrotic ripples tug at your fingertips. The soul inside the chapel isn’t simply haunting; it’s anchored — and the song? It’s part of the binding.
Arden runs her fingers over the star’s engraving, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She remembers the stories from the cathedral archives in Grayhollow — sermons about Lady Miravelle, a songstress and devotee of Pelor who fell from grace after refusing to silence her lover’s blasphemous melodies.
Arden (softly): “The Chapel of the Pale Star was hers. She and a bard named Fenn defied the clergy. They sang forbidden hymns — songs of death and dawn together. The high priests sealed her voice in this chapel when she refused repentance.”
She looks toward the dark archway.
“Her song wasn’t meant to summon — it was her prayer.”
Working together, they move around the entrance.
Elaris discovers faint sigils along the stone columns — one cracked, leaking faint blue light.
Arden finds a feather pendant wedged in the step — tarnished silver, shaped like a songbird’s wing.
Arden: “Likely the bard’s. It’s recent — days old, not centuries.”
Elaris: “Then the fool has already entered. The bond between them might have stirred her.”
The music shifts, almost responding — soft, distant, carrying the ache of a thousand unsung apologies.
Sereth unconsciously reaches for her bow.
Borin mutters, “Don’t like songs without taverns attached.”
Kael: “No traps yet, but don’t relax.”
Gorruk: “You sayin’ ghosts use traps?”
Elaris: “Only the polite ones.”
That earns a few nervous chuckles.
Arden glances at Elaris, her expression sober.
Arden: “We can’t break this carelessly. If we free her wrong, she’ll lash out. If we leave her, the binding might fail on its own.”
Elaris: “Then we go carefully. Speak before striking. Listen before judging.”
He looks toward Sereth, voice dry.
“And if words fail — shoot second.”
Sereth (smirking): “Glad to know I rank above diplomacy.”
The chapel door looms.
From within, a faint chord resonates — sorrowful, beckoning.
The Song Beneath the Stars
The mists around the Chapel of the Pale Star shift like living silk as the Thornmere Company fans out. The last of the daylight clings to the horizon, painting the world in pewter and gold.
Inside the gate, the air feels colder. Time itself seems to have stopped to listen.
Elaris and Arden — Within the Chapel
The two step into the nave. Dust drifts like ash through slanted beams of dying light. A cracked altar lies beneath the great, shattered window, its mosaic half-gone but still faintly glimmering with embedded quartz stars.
The smell here is old incense and old sorrow.
Elaris runs his hand over the altar’s edge — his gloves black against white stone — tracing faint glyphs only he can see.
Arden kneels, pressing two fingers to the floor where wax has melted and re-hardened countless times.
Arden: “She prayed here. Long after the congregation left.”
Elaris: “And someone prayed with her. Look — two sets of candle marks. One years old, one… days.”
Behind the altar, Elaris finds a lute case — open, empty, its velvet lining torn where strings once lay. The pattern of dust around it shows footprints, leading deeper into the apse where the floor has cracked into a yawning hole.
Elaris (quiet): “He’s below. And the wards are bleeding through the stone.”
Faint music ripples up from the fissure. A single note — soft, searching.
Arden draws a slow breath, feeling divine energy hum along her fingertips.
Arden: “If he’s communing with her… we’re already too late to stop the connection.”
Elaris’s eyes glint like candlelight.
Elaris: “Then we learn before we intervene.”
Outside, Sereth and Gorruk pick their way through headstones and knee-high grass. The moon has risen, a pale coin behind clouds. The mist moves strangely here — drawn inward toward the chapel as though inhaled.
Sereth kneels beside a small memorial stone where fresh flowers lie — blue lilac, still wet from rain.
Sereth: “Someone’s been here recently.”
Gorruk (sniffing): “Aye. Bard, by the smell of it.”
Sereth: “Bard smells?”
Gorruk: “All perfume and guilt.”
She smirks despite herself.
Near the flowers, a faint indentation in the grass — boot prints, deliberate, pacing. A man sat here. Possibly sang here. The marks are fresh — within the last day.
Then — faintly — the music rises again. A human voice this time, not ghostly. A man’s tenor, singing to the answering wail within the chapel.
“Bright one, bound one, my heart’s reprieve…”
Sereth looks up sharply. Her breath catches.
The sound is beautiful — heartbreak spun into melody.
The song slides through her like silver. The air vibrates. She feels warmth behind her eyes, like sunlight caught in glass.
Her bow lowers; her expression softens.
Sereth (distant): “He’s not… dangerous. He’s calling her home.”
Gorruk: “Sereth?”
She takes a slow step forward, eyes glassy.
Gorruk (worried): “Oh,… Boss is gonna kill me.”
He moves to grab her shoulder gently, but she brushes his hand aside without even seeming to notice, walking toward the chapel door, following the song.
Meanwhile
Circling the ruin, Borin, Kael, Vex, and Laz find the old sacristy door half-collapsed, hidden beneath ivy and rubble.
A gust of air spills out — cold, metallic, humming faintly.
Borin: “There’s yer back door.”
Kael: “Something’s moving air in there. The dead don’t breathe.”
Vex: “Lovely thought.”
Laz: “I’ll take a look.”
Vex & Laz slip through first, quiet as whispers.
Inside: a staircase spiraling downward, lit by flickering blue light seeping from cracks in the wall. Faint humming — like a woman’s lullaby sung through stone.
Kael follows, sword drawn.
Kael: “Stay sharp. That light feels wrong.”
Borin: “Someone’s been fiddlin’ with wards they don’t understand.”
Kael: “The bard.”
Vex: “Or what’s left of him.”
The song swells—now clearly two voices.
A woman’s wail and a man’s lament in perfect harmony.
Inside, Elaris and Arden hear the same harmony echo up from below.
Elaris looks sharply toward the crack in the floor.
Elaris: “They’re singing together. The tether’s merging.”
Arden: “If she binds him, he’ll die with her.”
Outside, Gorruk watches helplessly as Sereth walks toward the chapel door, her face illuminated by moonlight and ghost-glow. Her lips move as though she’s silently singing back.
Gorruk: “Oh no no no… Sereth, don’t you start serenadin’ ghosts.”
He reaches for her again — this time lifting her bodily over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She lets out a breathy, confused laugh, still half in the song’s spell.
Sereth (dreamily): “Put me down, I have to see her…”
Gorruk: “You can see her when I’ve got backup, aye?”
He trudges toward the door with her protesting softly over his shoulder.
From inside and below, the song reaches a crescendo.
Dust rains from the ceiling.
The quartz stars in the mosaic begin to glow.
A cold wind bursts through every broken window — swirling around the chapel like breath drawn in before a scream.
Elaris and Arden exchange a look — the kind that says this is about to go wrong.
Elaris: “We’ve run out of time.”
Arden: “Then we make it count.”
Gorruk bursts through the doors carrying Sereth.
Borin, Kael, and the Twins emerge from below via the sacristy.
Elaris and Arden stand at the altar, light rising around them.
And from the darkness of the fissure below the altar,
a figure in ghostly white rises,
her song shimmering between beauty and agony.
The Banshee of the Pale Star opens her eyes —
two burning constellations of grief.
The Banshee’s Duet
The last note of the duet freezes in the air — then shatters.
A surge of cold tears through the chapel; candles gutter and die, quartz stars blazing like white fire. The fissure under the altar cracks wider, and from it rises Lady Miravelle, the Banshee of the Pale Star.
She’s beautiful and terrible: hair like ribbons of moonlight, eyes twin novas. Her torn robes ripple as if underwater, and her voice still hums — low, mournful, and hungry.
Behind her stands Fenn, the bard — very much alive but pale, clutching his lute as if it’s the only thing keeping his heart from breaking.
The strings gleam with spectral light.
Fenn (hoarse): “Don’t hurt her! She’s not— she’s only lonely!”
His fingers tremble on the strings; each pluck sends a wave of light through the air, bolstering the banshee’s glow.
She turns her head toward him, and the sound she makes could be mistaken for a sob.
The air sings.
Everyone within the chapel feels it vibrating in their bones.
Elaris
He lifts one hand, necrotic energy gathering like dark silk. His voice cuts through the banshee’s melody.
Elaris: “Sorrow I understand, Lady Miravelle — but not at the cost of my friends.”
He casts Countercharm (flavored through Necromantic Resonance) — an anti-harmony, a pulse of opposing frequency that gives all allies resistance to her Resonance
Arden
She steps forward, holy symbol raised, light blooming around her like dawn through fog.
Arden: “In Pelor’s name, be stilled!”
She channels Turn Undead, radiant energy filling the chapel.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Miravelle shrieks — not in fear, but pain. For a moment, her form flickers.
Fenn gasps, strumming hard, trying to hold her together.
Fenn: “Stop! You’ll tear her apart!”
Arden’s eyes soften but her stance doesn’t break.
Arden: “Then let her go!”
Sereth
Her expression is blank, serene, almost peaceful. She nocks an arrow and draws on instinct — but not toward Miravelle. She turns toward Arden.
Sereth (calmly): “You’ll hurt her… stop shining.”
Elaris moves faster than thought, flicking a hand — Mage Hand knocks the arrow aside mid-flight.
It clatters harmlessly against a pew.
Elaris (through gritted teeth): “Enough of that.”
Gorruk (Entranced)
Growls, steps in front of Fenn protectively.
Gorruk (flat, distant): “No harm to the music.”
He raises his axe toward Kael, who interposes his shield.
The blow lands heavy but controlled — Kael barely manages to shove him back.
Kael: “I liked you better when you were arguing with cows!”
Kael
With precision born of discipline, Kael slams the butt of his sword into the floor, radiating a dull thud — the grounding technique of the old knights.
Kael: “Eyes on me, soldiers. Listen to my voice.”
He uses Command: “Wake.”
All entranced allies make new Wisdom saves with advantage.
Sereth gasps, the spell shattering.
She staggers back, clutching her head.
Sereth (hoarse): “Gods… she was in my mind…”
Elaris steadies her with a hand.
Elaris (quietly): “You’re stronger than the song.”
Fenn raises his voice — desperate now.
Fenn: “She’s not your enemy! She’s my heart!”
The banshee’s form solidifies, screaming. The stained glass explodes outward in a halo of spectral shards.
Her Wail of Sorrow bursts through the air
Half the group staggers. Borin’s tankard cracks in his belt. Kael kneels, teeth clenched.
Sereth covers her ears, eyes bright with tears.
Arden: “Elaris—!”
Elaris: “I know!”
Miravelle’s voice breaks, splitting between agony and love.
Fenn drops his lute, stepping toward her.
Fenn: “If this is the only way to be with you—then take me!”
He’s about to let her touch him—her hand reaching, ghostlight flaring.
Elaris knows what that means: if she takes him now, her binding will snap—and every soul within a mile might be caught in the release.
The air is alive with noise — echoes of shattered glass, the hum of fading wards, and the thin keening of the Banshee that sounds like both grief and hunger.
Elaris steps forward into that cacophony, raising his voice not in spell, but in conviction.
Elaris: “Fenn! If you love her, don’t touch her.
Love isn’t just what the flesh remembers — it’s what endures when even memory fades.
Fight for her by living. Sing for her through the pain — but don’t make the world pay your requiem.”
He gestures — sweeping a hand around the wrecked chapel, the fallen pews, the friends staggering from the last blast of sound.
“Look around you. This is what clinging to ghosts does!”
The words cut through the storm like a tuning fork of truth.
Fenn freezes mid-step.
His eyes flicker from Elaris to Miravelle — torn between devotion and dawning horror.
Fenn (hoarse): “But I need her… She’s all I have left. Have you ever—”
He breaks off, his voice trembling.
“Have you ever loved someone so much you’d rather die than forget them?”
Elaris’s expression softens, but his tone stays steady.
Elaris: “Once. And I learned that love, real love, is letting them rest.”
The banshee’s glow falters, flickers between fury and anguish.
Her eyes dart to Fenn — then to Elaris.
A new sound rises — not the shattering scream from before, but a low harmony, almost… human.
For a heartbeat, her face clears, and she looks almost alive.
Then something inside her breaks.
Miravelle (whisper): “He promised… never to stop singing.”
She spreads her hands and the chapel shudders.
Her voice surges into another verse — this one rawer, more dangerous, the air trembling with empathic power.
Sereth’s eyes fill with tears again — but this time not from the spell. She’s seeing something else: a glimpse of her village, her family, the faces she failed to save.
She staggers back, clutching her bow.
Borin drops to one knee, murmuring a name none of you recognize.
Gorruk goes very still, jaw tight, eyes unfocused.
Arden glances at Elaris, seeing the faint tremor in his own hand though he resists the magic.
She murmurs, barely audible,
Arden: “She’s feeding on it… on love turned to grief.”
Fenn is wavering — his grip on the lute uncertain, his gaze darting between Miravelle and Elaris.
Miravelle is no longer a mindless wraith; she’s awake, aware, and dangerous — her song twisting between sorrow and rage.
She whispers, voice both tender and venomous:
Miravelle: “Then sing with me, my love… or I will take their voices instead.”
The chapel hums as ghostlight flares again.
Her focus drifts toward Sereth, sensing her exposed heart and the echoes of her feelings for Elaris — the perfect fuel for her song.
A tendril of spectral mist curls toward Sereth, brushing against her chest like an icy caress.
She gasps, knees buckling.
Elaris: “No—!”
The banshee’s scream is no longer just sound — it’s feeling.
The chapel trembles; the shattered glass still hanging in the air hums like tuning forks.
Sereth stands in the midst of it, tears carving clean lines through dust on her cheeks. Her bow lifts, slow and graceful, the string trembling like her heartbeat.
Her eyes — wide, glassy — lock on Elaris.
Sereth (two voices overlapping):
“You took them from me. I can take yours.”
Elaris steps forward through the spectral wind, one hand raised, palm open — no spell, no threat, just the quiet steadiness that defines him.
Elaris: “Sereth, listen to me. You’re not her. And I’m not your ghost.”
The arrow’s head glimmers with the same pale light as Miravelle’s aura — a conduit for her possession.
Elaris stretches his fingers, murmuring a single word under his breath — not a spell, but a name:
“Sereth.”
The sound vibrates through the air like a chord finding its true pitch. The spectral light around her arrow sputters, the banshee’s tether flickering.
Sereth’s arms shake violently. The arrow still points at his chest, but her lips move, whispering back something broken and terrified.
“I can’t… stop…”
Elaris closes the distance. His hand touches her wrist — cold, trembling — and the world narrows to just them and the whisper of the song trying to force her will.
Elaris: “Then let me.”
He channels not a spell but his necrotic mastery reversed: energy drawn outward, draining the possession’s anchor. The skeletal tendrils of his magic unfurl, wrapping around Sereth’s hands, pulling the ghostlight away from her heart.
The banshee shrieks — mirrored by a deep crack in the floor as one of the quartz stars explodes into dust.
Sereth gasps, eyes snapping clear.
The arrow clatters to the ground. She stumbles into Elaris, shaking, breath hitching against his chest.
Sereth (hoarse whisper): “You came back.”
Elaris: “Always.”
While Elaris anchors Sereth, Arden strides toward Fenn, the storm of sound swirling around her like divine light caught in a hurricane.
Her holy symbol burns against her chest; her eyes blaze with gold.
Arden: “Fenn! Look at her. Look at what your love is doing!
If you truly want to be with her — I can send you both beyond this torment.”
Her voice is layered — human and celestial. For a moment, even the banshee falters mid-note, recognizing something familiar in that tone: compassion that doesn’t ask for obedience.
Fenn’s hands tremble on his lute.
He looks at Arden, then at Miravelle — luminous, trembling, reaching.
Fenn (voice breaking): “Can you? Truly?”
Arden: “Yes. But only if you let go.”
He hesitates — then nods once, closing his eyes.
The lute falls from his grasp, strings snapping with a sound like a last sigh.
The banshee lets out a scream that shakes the very air — part rage, part release.
Her body flickers, torn between two realities.
She reaches toward Fenn — her fingers ghost through him, then curl in on themselves as light tears her apart from within.
Miravelle: “You promised me forever…”
Arden: “And now you’ll have it.”
Arden raises her hand. A column of radiant energy bursts from the altar, flooding the chapel.
Elaris shields Sereth; Kael braces against the shockwave; Borin and the Twins hold the doorway.
When the light fades, the banshee and Fenn are gone.
Only the sound of wind remains — gentle, like the aftertone of a song finished at last.
The quartz stars around the altar glow faintly — no longer in pain, but in peace.
Elaris still holds Sereth, steadying her as she catches her breath. Her hand tightens briefly on his sleeve before she pulls away, cheeks flushed with exhaustion and something unspoken.
Sereth: “Guess I owe you one.”
Elaris (quiet smile): “Just one?”
Borin: “Aye, and she nearly put an arrow through ye, lad.”
Gorruk (rubbing his head): “Group hug fixed that right up, eh?”
Kael: “If you say so.”
Vex: “Ten silver says he didn’t even flinch.”
Laz: “Ten says she meant to miss.”
Arden exhales deeply, the divine glow fading from her hands.
Arden: “They’re together now. Properly.”
Elaris: “Peace bought at last.”
The chapel is quiet now — the night outside warm and calm, moonlight filtering through the ruined window.
The Thornmere Company stands together in the silence that follows a storm, bruised but unbroken.
Borin: “So… what’s next?”
Gorruk: “A drink.”
Arden: “A prayer.”
Sereth: “Sleep.”
Elaris: “All of the above.”
Campfire Aftermath – The Vale Beneath the Pale Star
The Company made camp a short walk from the chapel.
They built a small fire under an old ash tree where the wind couldn’t find them. The valley above still glowed faintly from the sanctified light spilling out of the ruin; it painted the mist in bands of silver and gold.
No one spoke for a while. The crackle of the fire and the chirp of crickets were the only sounds brave enough to return.
Borin was the first to break the silence. He uncorked a flask, took a long swig, and sighed through his beard.
Borin: “To the dead who sing no more.”
He passed the flask to Gorruk, who raised it skyward.
Gorruk: “And to the living who can’t carry a tune!”
Laughter flickered around the fire—small, shaky, but real.
Arden sat a little apart, cleaning her holy symbol, watching the last motes of light drift off her fingers. Elaris was beside her, examining a quartz shard from the chapel, the faint divine aura still humming against his glove.
Arden: “That was… a good ending, all things considered.”
Elaris: “If endings can be good. They’re just pauses between verses.”
Arden (smiling faintly): “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
Elaris: “No. I find the metaphors keep the grief at bay.”
They shared a silence that was more companionable than awkward. In the firelight, the lines of exhaustion around her eyes softened; his expression, for once, wasn’t haunted.
At the other side of the flames, Sereth sat cross-legged, a blanket around her shoulders, bow across her knees. She was staring into the fire when Laz slid a mug into her hands.
Laz: “Here. Warm, not poisoned. Probably.”
Vex: “If it is poisoned, at least it’ll numb the trauma.”
Sereth (smiling faintly): “Thanks. I’ll take my chances.”
A pause, then quieter:
Sereth: “Did I hurt anyone?”
Vex: “Only his feelings.” (tilting her head toward Elaris)
Sereth: “Then he’ll survive.”
They all chuckled. But when she thought no one was looking, her eyes found Elaris through the smoke. He caught her glance, gave a small nod—understanding without words.
Kael was on watch, polishing his sword by the firelight, but even he looked less carved from stone than usual.
Kael: “For what it’s worth, that song’s been stuck in my head.”
Borin: “Better than your usual snoring.”
Gorruk: “Careful, lad. Compliment like that might make him smile again.”
Kael: “Don’t push your luck.”
The twins giggled; Arden rolled her eyes. It felt like normal life creeping back in.
When the talk and laughter finally faded into the sound of the fire, Elaris looked up. The others were dozing, sprawled across bedrolls and packs. The chapel’s light had dimmed completely now; above them, the stars were clear.
Sereth wasn’t asleep. She shifted closer to the fire, voice soft:
Sereth: “When she sang… I saw them. My family. It hurt.”
Elaris: “Pain is proof that memory lives. It’s the cost of not forgetting.”
Sereth: “And you? What did you see?”
He hesitated, eyes on the flame.
Elaris: “A promise I failed to keep. But perhaps… not forever.”
She nodded, the two of them sitting in quiet understanding as the fire settled into embers.
From the other side of the camp came Gorruk’s voice, half-asleep and content:
Gorruk: “Group hug… in the morning…”
Borin snorted. Arden smiled in her sleep. The twins mumbled something about stealing his boots.
Elaris looked around the circle—his strange, mismatched company—and allowed himself, just for the night, to feel at peace.
The camp had gone still.
Only the faint crackle of embers and the distant whisper of wind around the chapel filled the night. Above, the stars looked like tiny fragments of the quartz that once lined the altar.
Elaris stood apart from the circle of bedrolls, the pale light of the ruin washing over his silver hair. When soft footsteps approached behind him, he didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Sereth: “Can’t sleep either?”
He glanced sideways. She was hugging her blanket around her, eyes glimmering in the divine glow.
Elaris: “Something like that.”
They walked together up the short rise until they could see the chapel clearly. The sanctified aura shimmered like moonlight through water—quiet, alive, peaceful.
Sereth’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Sereth: “I could have killed you.”
Elaris: “I know you wouldn’t.”
She blinked, caught between relief and indignation.
Sereth: “Wouldn’t I?”
He turned then, meeting her eyes head-on. The look was steady, unreadable, and somehow gentle.
Elaris: “You wouldn’t.”
Her breath hitched; the color crept up her cheeks before she looked away quickly.
He allowed himself a small, amused smile and turned back toward the chapel.
Sereth: “…You know?”
He bowed his head slightly, that same wry curve to his lips.
Elaris: “I do. It’s been a very long time since anyone flirted with me.”
Sereth (gasping): “Flirting? What flirting? I don’t— I mean, I wasn’t—”
Elaris chuckled, a low, dry sound that seemed to ripple right through her.
Elaris: “All right. Enough of that. Just—don’t shoot me again.”
He cleared his throat, still half-smiling. She laughed, the sound small and bright in the cool air.
Elaris: “You’d better get some sleep.”
Sereth (turning away, hiding her grin): “Whatever you say… boss.”
She meant it like a title, but it lingered in the air like a pet name. He heard it. He just let it sit there, warm in the silence.
They walked back toward the firelight. The camp looked asleep, but as they passed, there was the faintest sound of a snore starting a fraction too late, a twin’s muffled giggle, the scrape of Borin’s tankard lid closing. Five pairs of eyes squeezed tight shut, pretending innocence.
Arden, eyes barely open, smiled into her blanket.
A quiet, triumphant “Yes.”
Then she drifted back to sleep.
Elaris paused by his bedroll, fingers brushing the arrow she’d dropped earlier.
He turned it slowly between his fingers, the shaft catching the firelight, then slipped it into his journal.
“You struck warmth in a cold heart—harder than any arrow could.”
He closed the book, lay back, and let the night carry him toward rest.
The last thing he saw before sleep took him was the chapel’s soft glow, no longer sorrowful, but serene.
Morning in the Vale of the Pale Star
Dawn came soft and gold, slipping down the valley like honey.
The sanctified chapel stood silent behind the camp, its aura faded to a gentle glow; even the birds seemed to sing more sweetly here now.
The Thornmere Company stirred to life one by one, an orchestra of groans, yawns, and clattering cookware.
Borin was already up, hunched over a pan of something that looked suspiciously like stew and smelled aggressively like onions.
Gorruk was trying to light another fire with far too much enthusiasm.
The twins had commandeered Kael’s bedroll as a blanket fort.
Kael (flatly): “Get. Off.”
Vex: “Shh, you’ll scare the breakfast away.”
Kael: “I’ll scare you away.”
Laz: “See? He’s getting better at jokes!”
Arden was kneeling by the stream, washing her face, humming a melody that faintly echoed last night’s song—but now it sounded like peace instead of grief.
Sereth emerged last, hair tangled from sleep, bow slung lazily across her shoulder.
She caught sight of Elaris sitting on a fallen log, writing in his journal with one hand and holding a cup of steaming tea in the other.
When he looked up, she froze, then muttered something that might’ve been “morning” before retreating to help Arden with the packs.
Borin elbowed Gorruk and grinned.
Borin: “See that, big lad? ‘Morning.’ That’s practically a love sonnet from her.”
Gorruk: “Give it a week, she’ll be serenadin’ him with arrows again.”
Arden (not looking up): “Behave, both of you.”
Borin: “Aye aye”
The twins giggled, parroting, until Arden threw a small pebble in their direction.
Breakfast was rough but hearty. Gorruk burned the edge of the bread again, claiming it added “texture.”
Elaris quietly corrected a line in his journal while the group ate, the faintest smile still hidden behind his cup.
Kael, stoic as ever, broke the calm.
Kael: “Once we’re back in Thornmere, we report to Halden, collect our pay, and restock.”
Borin: “And the tavern?”
Kael: “...Optional.”
Gorruk: “You heard the man! Mandatory tavern stop.”
Arden: “You’ll need a bath first.”
Gorruk: “Ruins my natural musk.”
Vex: “Your what now—”
Laz: “Don’t encourage him!”
Laughter followed them as they packed up camp.
The Road Back
By midmorning, the group was moving again. The valley spread behind them—green and bright now, no trace of last night’s shadows. The chapel’s spire caught the sunlight like a blessing.
Sereth rode near the back. When Elaris glanced over, she met his gaze just long enough to smile before pretending to study the road.
Arden noticed and hid a grin behind her reins.
Arden (softly to herself): “Maybe there’s hope for him yet.”
Ahead, Gorruk and Borin had resumed their never-ending argument about livestock.
The twins trailed them, chiming in with terrible animal impressions that somehow managed to make everyone laugh all over again.
The Thornmere Company rode on—bruised, exhausted, hearts lighter than they had been in weeks—toward the promise of food, drink, and a well-earned celebration.
By late afternoon, the dirt road bent through the trees and opened out onto a view that never failed to stir something in the chest.
Thornmere spread out before them — a town cradled between green hills and silver rivers, its rooftops catching the sunlight like a scatter of coins. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys; the smell of bread, oil, and salt drifted on the wind.
The sound of life hit them next — the clang of smiths’ hammers, the chatter of merchants, and somewhere, faintly, a lute playing a tune that wasn’t cursed.
Gorruk stretched his arms above his head and grinned wide enough to scare crows.
Gorruk: “Smell that? Civilization. And possibly cheese.”
Borin: “That’s not cheese, that’s your armor.”
Gorruk: “Armor smells like victory, lad.”
Vex: “Victory apparently smells like feet.”
The guards at the gate spotted the group approaching. Recognition rippled through the ranks — and relief. One called out:
“The Thornmere Company’s back! They’ve done it!”
Within minutes, word spread faster than wildfire.
Townsfolk paused their work to watch the party ride through — dusty, tired, but smiling. Children pointed; an old woman tossed a few flower petals from a window.
Sereth pulled her hood up to hide her blush. Elaris didn’t. He just nodded politely to the guards, as if returning from exorcising an undead love story was all in a day’s work.
At the gate stood Mayor Halden — short, red-faced, and perpetually sweating in his oversized coat. He bustled forward with an entourage of clerks, his voice booming over the crowd.
Halden: “By the Light! You live! I heard half a dozen different endings for you already — one involving fire, another with goats, and one with all of you eloping with a banshee!”
Borin (deadpan): “Two outta three ain’t bad.”
Halden: “Well, what matters is you returned! And I see no banshee following you, so that’s good!”
He adjusted his spectacles, beaming.
“Tell me it’s done. The haunting?”
Elaris: “The spirit’s at peace. The chapel sanctified. And the bard laid to rest beside her.”
Halden blinked rapidly, impressed and a bit unnerved.
“Good heavens… you actually fixed it. Well then — payment will be prepared immediately, and I insist you take lodgings at the Ember Inn, all on the town’s purse!”
Gorruk: “Music to my ears.”
Arden: “Let’s make sure the church gets the report first.”
Vex: “And then drinks?”
Arden: “And then drinks.”
Laz: “You heard the saint, it’s divine decree!”
Halden laughed nervously as they passed through, the crowd parting for them like a river. Someone cheered. Then another. Soon the whole street was clapping — not the raucous roar of a battlefield victory, but a genuine, grateful welcome home.
Sereth glanced sideways at Elaris, whispering just loud enough for him to hear:
“They’re clapping for you, you know.”
Elaris: “For us.”
Sereth: “Still… looks good on you.”
He shook his head, a small, private smile flickering and fading just as quickly.
The Company made its way up the main street toward the heart of Thornmere — the bell tower, the market square, and beyond that, the familiar wooden sign swaying in the evening wind
The smell of roasting meat and spiced cider spilled out through the open doors.
Borin: “Home sweet temporary home.”
Gorruk: “First round’s mine.”
Vex: “Translation: he’s broke.”
Laz: “Second round’s on me!”
Arden: “Not if you burn the place down.”
The laughter carried them through the door.
The Chapel Report & Confession
The Ember Inn was alive with noise: tankards clattering, Gorruk’s booming laugh, the twins trying to teach Borin how to dance and almost succeeding. But upstairs, past the hall of creaking floorboards and flickering sconces, a smaller room glowed with candlelight.
Arden had just finished her audience with Father Belric, the priest of Thornmere’s temple.
She stood at the narrow window, untying the ribbon from her hair, when the door creaked open.
Sereth: “Am I interrupting?”
Arden: “No. Just finishing the report. They’re sending acolytes to the chapel tomorrow—seal the grounds properly.”
Sereth stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The candlelight caught her features; for once, she looked almost shy.
Sereth: “You told them everything?”
Arden: “Everything that mattered. I left out the part where someone nearly shot a necromancer through the heart.”
Sereth groaned softly and leaned against the door.
Sereth: “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
Arden (smiling): “Not until you do.”
They shared a laugh that came out half-sigh, half-relief.
Sereth sat on the edge of the bed, twisting her fingers together.
Sereth: “Arden… when she—when the banshee touched my mind—she didn’t just show me pain. She showed me every face I’ve ever lost. I think that’s why she reached me so easily.”
Arden crossed the room and sat beside her.
Arden: “Because you still feel it. That’s not weakness, Sereth. It’s proof you haven’t turned cold.”
Sereth nodded, eyes fixed on the candle flame.
Sereth: “And Elaris… he pulled me back like it was nothing. Like he already knew what I was seeing.”
Arden didn’t answer at once. She just studied Sereth with that steady, knowing gaze clerics seem born with.
Arden: “He knows grief. It’s what makes him human. Or half, at least.”
Sereth gave a soft laugh at that, but her cheeks colored.
Sereth: “I made a fool of myself again, didn’t I?”
Arden: “No. You made him smile. That’s rarer than a miracle these days.”
Silence lingered. Outside, the laughter from below drifted up like the muffled heartbeat of the town.
Arden (gentle): “You care for him.”
Sereth: “I do.”
Arden: “Then don’t rush it. The dead aren’t the only ones who need time to come back to life.”
Sereth smiled then—small, genuine, full of gratitude.
Sereth: “You’re annoyingly wise sometimes.”
Arden: “Occupational hazard.”
They sat like that for a while, two friends and warriors in the quiet between chaos and dawn.
When Sereth finally stood to leave, Arden reached out and squeezed her hand.
Arden: “You did well, you know. The chapel, the song, all of it.”
Sereth: “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Arden: “That’s what family’s for.”
Sereth blinked, caught off guard by the word family, then smiled softly and slipped out, closing the door behind her.
Arden blew out the candle. The light vanished, but the warmth stayed.
Downstairs, the music started again.
Sereth paused at the top of the stairs, listening. The tune was bright, hopeful — nothing like the banshee’s melody.
She allowed herself one deep breath before heading back to join the others, the faintest spring returning to her step.
The Balcony Above the Noise
The tavern below had bloomed into noise and warmth; the smell of roasting meat and spiced ale drifted through the rafters. Laughter rolled up like waves—Gorruk’s booming voice leading another round of the twins’ “questionably” traditional song.
Sereth lingered on the stairs a moment, half lost between the quiet upstairs and the chaos below. She spotted him easily—Elaris, sitting apart from the din at one of the balcony tables that overlooked the square. A half-finished glass of something dark rested by his hand, and his journal lay open, the ink still wet.
He didn’t look up right away. He just said, softly:
Elaris: “You walk lighter than the rest of them.”
Sereth smiled, moving closer. The balcony’s lamplight painted her hair in gold edges.
Sereth: “Comes with years of sneaking out of trouble.”
Elaris: “And into it, if last night was any measure.”
That drew a laugh—quiet, genuine. She leaned on the railing beside him, eyes down on the crowd below.
Sereth: “I… uh, wanted to say—about last night—”
He closed the journal with a soft snap before she could finish. His tone stayed calm, but the warmth in it left no room for self-doubt.
Elaris: “Don’t.”
Sereth (blinking): “Don’t?”
Elaris: “Don’t apologise. You never should.”
He turned to face her fully, the candlelight catching the faint smile at the corner of his mouth.
“You are who you are, Sereth. Fire and all. Never apologise for feeling too much, or for saying what the rest of us are too afraid to.”
The noise of the tavern faded for a heartbeat, replaced by the simple rhythm of breath and warmth.
Sereth: “You make it sound almost admirable.”
Elaris: “It is. And between us…”
He leaned in slightly, the ghost of a grin pulling at his mouth.
“…I rather enjoy the awkwardness. Keeps me guessing.”
A blush bloomed across her cheeks; she tried to glare, but it dissolved into a laugh.
Sereth: “You really shouldn’t wink like that when I’m trying to be serious.”
Elaris: “I’ll try to remember that next time.”
She exhaled, half a sigh, half a chuckle. Down below, the rest of the Company cheered as Gorruk attempted to balance three mugs at once.
Sereth: “We should go before they burn the place down.”
Elaris: “In a moment. Let them have the stage first.”
She nodded, turning to watch the others from the railing, shoulder brushing against his. Neither moved away.
For a while they simply stood there—two quiet figures above a riot of laughter, the world spinning on, the grief of the past night fading like smoke into the lantern-lit air.
The laughter below rose and fell in bursts — the twins had apparently started a contest that involved balancing spoons on their horns while Borin sang something vaguely about goats. Arden’s laughter cut through the chaos, bright and clean.
Up on the balcony, everything was slower. Softer.
Sereth leaned her arms on the railing, eyes half-lidded as the lamplight painted the square in bronze and amber. Elaris sat beside her, elbows on his knees, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass.
Sereth: “You don’t really fit down there, do you?”
He smiled faintly without looking up.
Elaris: “What gives me away?”
Sereth: “You’re quiet. And you listen too much. They’re all noise and chaos and ale; you’re… something else.”
He glanced at her sideways, a glimmer of teasing in his tone.
Elaris: “Careful. That almost sounded like admiration.”
Sereth (smirking): “Almost.”
They both chuckled quietly, letting the sound mingle with the muffled music below. The candle on their table flickered as a breeze passed, carrying the scent of baked bread and woodsmoke.
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Elaris set down his glass and looked out over the town.
Elaris: “You asked me once if I knew what it was like — to love someone so much that forgetting felt like dying.”
Sereth (softly): “And you said yes.”
Elaris: “I did. I still do. But tonight… watching them—” (he nodded toward the chaos below) “—I’m reminded that there’s still something worth coming back for.”
Sereth turned to study him — the sharp profile softened by the glow, the faint shadows under his eyes, the subtle exhaustion of someone who’s fought ghosts too long.
Sereth: “You make that sound like a confession.”
Elaris: “Maybe it is.”
The pause that followed wasn’t awkward this time. It was full — of air, warmth, something unspoken but understood.
Sereth’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
Sereth: “You really do know how to ruin a perfectly good moment, don’t you?”
Elaris laughed quietly — a low, rough sound that still managed to feel kind.
Elaris: “Only the ones worth keeping.”
Her fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve — not by accident. He didn’t move away.
Below, the music changed — slower now, gentler, someone striking a tune on a lute that sounded like sunrise.
Sereth: “Maybe one day you’ll tell me her name.”
Elaris: “Maybe one day you won’t need to ask.”
They looked at each other then — not long, not dramatic, just long enough for the noise below to blur into something distant and the candle between them to gutter out.
Elaris finally stood, offering a hand.
Elaris: “Come on, before Gorruk decides to demonstrate interpretive dance.”
Sereth (taking his hand, smiling): “You mean again?”
Together they turned back toward the stairs, laughter from below spilling up to meet them like a tide. The door closed behind them, leaving the balcony empty but for the faint warmth still clinging to the air.
The tavern was in full bloom by the time Elaris and Sereth came down the stairs.
The main room had transformed into something between a festival and a siege: tables pushed aside for dancing, mugs stacked like fortifications, and Borin standing on a chair conducting an off-key chorus of “The Ballad o’ the Goat and the Garrison.”
Gorruk had somehow acquired a wreath of flowers around his horns.
The twins were responsible.
Kael was in a corner trying, and failing, to appear invisible.
Arden had found herself surrounded by a half-dozen locals, earnestly explaining the theological implications of resurrection while sipping quietly at a cider that never seemed to empty.
Then the door at the top of the stairs creaked, and in stepped Elaris and Sereth, side by side, the glow of lamplight turning their arrival into something almost staged.
For a heartbeat, the noise softened. The twins noticed first.
Vex elbowed Laz, whispering not nearly as quietly as she thought.
Vex: “Look who’s come back from the balcony.”
Laz: “Bet they weren’t talking about the weather.”
Arden glanced over the rim of her glass, a small, secret smile tugging at her lips.
Arden (quietly): “Took them long enough.”
Kael, sitting nearby, didn’t look up from his drink but muttered just loud enough for her to hear.
Kael: “You’re all insufferable romantics.”
Arden: “And you’re outnumbered.”
Borin, mid-song, spotted them too. He grinned wide enough to split his beard.
Borin: “Oi! Lovers’ lane’s that way! We’re celebratin’!”
Sereth turned a spectacular shade of crimson.
Elaris, unbothered, simply arched an eyebrow and found a seat at the bar.
Elaris: “Carry on, Borin. You were just about to miss that note again.”
Laughter rippled through the room, and just like that, the attention shifted back to ale, music, and terrible dancing.
Gorruk thumped down beside Elaris, sloshing half his mug over the table.
Gorruk: “About time you two showed up. We were takin’ bets.”
Elaris: “On what?”
Gorruk: “Whether you’d talk her to sleep or she’d shoot you again.”
Elaris: “And who won?”
Gorruk: “No one yet. Keepin’ the pot open.”
Sereth buried her face in her hands, laughing despite herself.
At the far end of the bar, Arden watched the exchange, her expression soft and content. She caught Elaris’s glance for a moment and lifted her glass in a quiet toast — the kind shared between friends who’ve seen each other survive another day.
Later in the Night
The noise built until the rafters shook.
Gorruk tried to dance.
Borin tried to stop him and failed.
The twins juggled knives for applause until Arden confiscated them mid-spin, muttering something about divine patience.
Even Kael cracked a half-smile when Vex and Laz dramatically declared victory in a drinking contest no one else had agreed to.
And through it all, Elaris and Sereth remained near the fire — not apart, just quietly present. Every now and then she leaned closer to say something, he’d murmur a dry remark back, and both would laugh like it was the first time they’d done so in years.
For the first time since Grayhollow, Elaris didn’t look haunted. Just human.
By the time the tavern lamps burned low, half the Company was asleep at the tables, the other half arguing softly about who’d pay for damages. Outside, Thornmere slept easy, its ghosts finally quiet.
The Morning Hangover
The morning begins not with birdsong… but with groaning.
A mug rolls across the floorboards, sloshing with the remnants of something definitely not water.
Gorruk stirs first — or rather, erupts awake — when a rooster outside crows. He groans like a dying mammoth, clutching his head.
“Why’s the sun so LOUD?!”
Across the room, Borin is snoring inside a barrel. Not next to it. Inside it. His beard pokes out the top like foam, and the faint smell of ale emanates from every pore.
Vex is hanging upside down from one of the rafters by her tail, still clutching a deck of cards.
Lazlo, sprawled beneath her, is muttering,
“Double or nothing… five more minutes…”
At the bar, Kaer sits in the same position he was last night — perfectly upright, armor on, cloak immaculate. The only clue he even drank is the faint twitch at the corner of his eye whenever Gorruk moves too loudly.
Kaer (flatly): “If anyone breathes too loudly, I’ll smite them.”
Arden, looking impossibly composed, sits with her cloak neatly folded, sipping a cup of herbal tea.
Arden: “Good morning, everyone.”
(pause)
“...or afternoon, depending on your definition of regret.”
Sereth, wrapped in a blanket, hair a mess, sits slumped beside Elaris, glaring at the tea as if it personally betrayed her.
Sereth: “Arden, whatever that is, it smells like judgment.”
Elaris, the picture of quiet suffering, has a quill in hand, trying to record last night’s events in his journal — though his handwriting is more squiggle than script.
Elaris (dryly): “Noted… never let Borin mix the drinks again.”
From inside the barrel:
Borin (muffled): “It was a recipe!”
Gorruk groans and gestures toward him.
“Aye, a recipe for pain!”
He tries to stand, promptly trips over Lazlo’s tail, and crashes into a chair.
“...Chair started it.”
Arden sighs and channels Lesser Restoration over the group. A faint golden glow pulses, hangovers easing instantly.
Everyone collectively exhales in relief — except Borin, who shouts from the barrel:
“HEY! Put it back! I wasn’t finished regrettin’ yet!”
The laughter spreads. Even Kaer allows the faintest smirk.
As the group begins gathering their things, Elaris closes his journal and looks around the table.
“We may be heroes… but we are terrible drinkers.”
Sereth smirks. “Speak for yourself, Boss Bones. I can still see straight.”
(pause)
“Mostly.”
Arden shakes her head with a fond smile.
“So, what’s our next move, everyone? Thornmere’s quiet again — but I suspect we won’t stay that way for long.”