Chapter 80: Reunion

Lucas walked through the dark forest, cold and exhausted. His left eye was completely blind, leaving only his right with any vision. He had to use his old companion to support himself, for without it, his weakened left leg would make him fall. Limping along, running was now out of the question; he had no strength left for it.

But at last, he had shaken off the Icelanders and the deathless servants. When he raised his head, he no longer saw the night owls tracking him—the necromancer, it seemed, had encountered trouble and could no longer pursue him. He had escaped his hunters, but the road ahead was still long. He now found himself behind Alvador’s lines; to return to the ravine where York and Baldur waited, he would have to make a great detour—across mountains and through hills.

He longed to lie down somewhere and sleep, but it was not yet time to rest. Before his blood ran dry, he must press on. That single conviction sustained him, yet his head was heavy with fatigue, and he forced himself to think of something to stay awake.

He remembered a story once told to him by an elf.

It was said that long ago, when one kingdom warred against another, a messenger, desperate to deliver intelligence of the enemy invasion to his king, rode seven horses to death and then traveled on foot for three days and nights. After he handed the letter to the king, he died of exhaustion. Because the message had arrived in time, his country won the war. In gratitude, the king and his people held a long-distance race every year to commemorate the messenger, and cast his likeness in bronze, setting the statue in the victory square of the realm.

Lucas felt he now understood that messenger’s feelings. If the message was not delivered, his people would be plunged into despair, and his sacrifice would be meaningless.

The only fair thing in this world is death. Everyone must face it; that cannot be changed. But at least, he still had the chance to choose how he would die—was that not something?

His body felt as heavy as stone, yet his mind was as calm as a still lake, his spirit light as a bird on the wing. He thought, once he delivered the Mist Stone, he could finally rest.

Just as he felt he might soar away, suddenly a song echoed through the forest.

The long, lingering melody cleared his mind, eased his pain, and even healed his wounds somewhat, pulling him sharply back to reality.

He saw a silver-haired elf with a lute slung across her back, standing at the edge of a cliff beneath the moon, gazing up at the drifting starlight in the night sky.

That lute—Lucas recognized it. The lute was telling him of that gentle spring day, the memory etched into its wood.

He knew, then, who the elf was. And through the lute’s song, he learned something more.

So, the elf was a woman.

When she had come to Lucas’s village, she had disguised herself as a man. It made sense; a woman wandering alone always attracted trouble. In the Fortress of the Purple Thorn, you could find vagrant men, but rarely women, for their fates were often tragic—they would disappear from the streets in a matter of days.

The elf, wishing to avoid unnecessary trouble, had disguised herself as a man. It was understandable.

But why was the elf here now, alone in the forest?

“Moen?” Lucas called softly the name the elf had once given him.

“Porter, it’s been a long time,” the elf replied, turning to look at Lucas and closing the deerskin notebook with its feather quill.

“The prophet’s prediction was true: when starlight rises in the north, I would meet an old friend. My wandering is coming to an end.”

“Prediction? What prediction?” Lucas did not understand.

“Go forward, Porter,” the elf said. “There is nothing to hinder you now. This is the front line of the Icelanders. You can cross the Praga River and reach the safety of the Fortress of the Purple Thorn.”

“But the age of chaos and darkness is coming. The shadow world is uniting once more; the demons no longer plot alone. A great evil is drawing the shadows together—and now, they begin to reach beyond their realm.”

“Demons...” Lucas pressed his lips together. “Moen, is it for these demons that you’ve come?”

As a child, Lucas had not understood, but now he could sense some of the elf’s power. The “time” gathered around her was like the tip of an iceberg—he could see only a tiny glimmer, yet could feel the vast, silent mass beneath the surface.

The elf was at least a gold-ranked professional—no, perhaps even higher, a realm Lucas had never even heard of.

Maybe only someone like that could stand against the demons.

“I am here for the prophecy, Porter,” the elf replied. “Forgive me. I cannot alter the course of fate, nor can I hinder the Icelanders’ advance. To do so would cause me to lose my way again.”

“You’re leaving then, Moen?” Lucas saw the elf’s figure grow translucent.

“Go forward, Porter,” the elf said. “It’s good to see you again. You’ve grown up.”

The elf, who never smiled and whose eyes were always tinged with sorrow, bade Lucas farewell once more. But this time, Lucas received a parting gift.

He stood straighter; his exhaustion and pain vanished as if he’d rested for many days. His wounds had scabbed over, and even the necromancer’s poison had been purged.

The effect was far greater than any potion York had ever given him—even that fifty-silver healing elixir was nothing compared to the elf’s song.

His left eye remained blind, but he had never felt better.

“Thank you, Moen,” Lucas said to the place where the elf had vanished.

He remembered her words—the Fortress of the Purple Thorn was still safe. For now, that was the best news he could hope for.

Clutching the Mist Stone tightly, he pressed on into the depths of the mountains and forest, the starlight drifting above him on the wind.

After a while, suddenly, starlight appeared beside him as well.

He saw a figure he could scarcely believe.

It was Lord Vade. Somehow, Vade had appeared before him—Lucas did not know by what means.

Vade was just as surprised. The elf had used some kind of “magic” to send him out of the square. One moment, he had been in the square; the next, he found himself at the foot of the mountains, in the forest, facing Lucas.

The elf had said she would meet an old friend. So Lucas was the one she meant?

“Lord Vade, it’s so good to see you again,” Lucas greeted him with a smile and a bow.

There was much he did not understand, but seeing the wandering knight safe filled him with joy.

But Vade could not return with Lucas to the ravine—his incarnation was about to fade. The time had come to return to the wasteland.

Vade wished to release the souls who had fought at his side—the necromancer was dead, and though the sorcerer’s soul had been taken by a demon archduke, ghosts and the living were not the same, let alone those things that had been shaped into new demons, which were at best fragments of the old mage’s memories reborn as evil.

But some souls refused to leave. They were still bound by desire, unable to let go of the misery they had endured, unwilling to see others suffer as they had.

A few noble souls still clung to such purpose.

“Then stay with me,” Vade welcomed those souls who wished to follow him.

The rest of the starlight left his side, transforming into transparent phantoms in the forest—some soared into the sky, others circled around Lucas.

“Aunt Susan... Uncle Blenk... Little Harry, is that you?”

Lucas recognized the souls gathering about him—they were his friends, those who had once helped him, those who had laughed with him.

Through their presence, Lucas saw scenes from the battle between Vade and the necromancer.

There was one small, frost-like soul that hovered before Lucas—the most familiar of them all.

Lucas stood frozen. He reached out, and the little ghost settled in his palm, smiling up at him.

He remembered little Isha, the lonely child who, like Lucas himself in his youth, lived alone.

Isha was always quiet, rarely smiling. Even when Lucas shared his bread with her, she would not take it. Only when Lucas took the children hunting in the forest would Isha follow along.

Only when talking about hunting—how to use one’s own hands to win food and sheepswool—would she sit quietly and listen to Lucas’s lessons.

He was always patient with Isha, even giving her the key to his little cabin, saying she could come clean it for pay, but really so she might handle the hunting bow and skinning knives.

That was how Lucas had grown up—learning to hunt and skin game by doing odd jobs for others. He hoped Isha would learn the same skills.

But after that night, he found Isha’s body in the hunter’s hut. Someone had come—her body had been laid out, and the bow, cloak, and curved blade had all been taken.

That morning, he and the villagers buried Isha and the other dead in the earth.

He had thought it a final farewell, but never imagined he would see Isha’s soul again.

“Mia... Is that your name now?”

The little spirit smiled at Lucas. The living and the dead had met once more.