Laren was among the first to feel it. He’d just finished washing up after his evening meal and was standing in his garden. Sunset was always his favourite time of day – winding down after a busy one always felt like a reward. The sound of carpenters repairing the roof had faded some time ago as they finished up. He would have offered them room and board, but still feared that he might not be here come the morning.
He also feared what his still being among living come the dawn might also mean. The voice in the dark had been so insistent that his return to life was reliant on the the tiefling surrendering to it. Two days had passed since then.
His younger days, serving in the army, had made death no stranger to him. He had fought in the Last War for his country. He had served alongside the glorious undead raised to fight again against the elves. He had signed a will leaving his remains when the time came to civic service.
His brief moments in the dark had shaken him to the core. His faith taught that this life was all that there was. It taught that the divine lay in everyone to manifest through actions and example. He had been taught that death would be the rest at the end as his spirit returned to the void. Being caught in the dark and sent back had tested that faith. He remembered Derroghast’s hunger, vividly.
A twinge in his chest drew him from his reverie. Is this it? The twinge came again, stronger, and he sank to his knees as searing fire seemed to ignite in his veins. Somewhere, someone was screaming.
He wasn’t to know it, but the same scene was playing out across the continent of Khorvaire. Priests of the Hearthsflame cult found their prayers suddenly unanswered. Undead raised by Derroghast’s followers crumbled to dust. Warlocks had the connection of their pacts ripped out of them. As Derroghast fell, and her realm collapsed, so too did the web of shadows and deceit she had spun.
Laren’s vision blurred and darkened as the breath caught in his chest, tighter and tighter. A small part of him found time to rejoice – that Hope had resisted – even as his life was forfeit. He would hold that victory with him as he fell into the night.
The dawn arrived, and dew covered him. Old Dahlia continued to shuffle around the garden, sweeping and tidying. She didn’t feel the morning cold and damp, that ability had faded decades ago, before even the birth of Hope and the arrival of the refugees. Old Dahlia wanted for nothing, and was curious about less. She had skirted around the still form a couple of times in the night, leaving it undisturbed as her orders had made no mention of it.
The morning dew and lightening sky, by contrast, did bother Laren. He wasn’t expecting to ever be bothered by anything again, but here he was. Muscles protesting, and head pounding, he stirred. He rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes and saw clouds. The fire behind his eyes and in his veins was gone. There was no sense of Derroghast. No whisper in his ear, no grip on his heart.
The pact was broken. He was free. He began to dare to believe in Hope