Chapter III — The Shadow of Life
She remembered sunlight.
It had warmth once — not the pale, cold imitation that filtered through Husk's frozen skies, but real sunlight, alive and breathing. It poured through the stained-glass dome of Solareth's grand hall, scattering colors across marble floors and polished gold.
Alfara sat beside her mother on the dais of gods, watching as mortals and spirits alike filled the chamber. The court of Ell and Mordus was a living symphony — birds roosting among the rafters, flowers blooming along the pillars, laughter and prayer interwoven into the same sound.
Her mother smiled faintly, fingers brushing Alfara's hair as the petitioners spoke. "Do you hear it?" she had said once. "Every voice, every breath — it's all part of the same rhythm. Life itself singing."
That was before the song ended.
The first sign came not as thunder or flame but a silence so sudden it felt like the world had forgotten to breathe. Then, from beyond the golden doors, came a sound like stone cracking under pressure — deep, resonant, wrong.
The doors shattered inward, and Althoran entered.
He was a god, once. Now he was something else entirely. His armor looked forged from grief — jagged, black, drinking the light that touched it. Shadows clung to his frame like smoke that refused to rise. Where his eyes should have been burned two pale lights, steady and cold.
And behind him came an army.
Warriors Alfara once knew by name, heroes of the mortal realms, even gods whose laughter had filled these halls — all of them walking corpses now, their flesh gray and their glory stripped away. Their weapons dripped with the residue of divine ichor.
Ell rose first, her fury blazing bright. "You desecrate my children!" she cried. "You twist what was born to grow, to fade, to be reborn! What madness drives you to this, Althoran?"
His voice echoed through the chamber, deep and calm, every word like a bell tolling for the dead. "There is no madness. Only truth. Life breeds sorrow. Death ends it. I have freed them from both."
"You've killed them!"
"I've healed them."
The argument ended when the first blade struck.
One of Ell's divine knights charged, spear blazing with sunlight. Althoran moved almost lazily, his black sword carving through the god's weapon — and then through the god himself. The air rippled. Blood, bright and divine, painted the marble.
Screams erupted. The court broke into chaos.
Ell moved like a storm, her voice a cry that shook the rafters. Vines burst from the floor, piercing undead flesh, dragging bodies down. Golden sap and black ichor mixed on the stones.
But the dead did not stop. They did not bleed. They did not die.
Through it all, Mordus sat still upon his throne, eyes burning with the white light of prophecy. His expression was not anger, nor fear — only grim knowing. He rose at last, his staff glowing faintly.
"This is the moment I saw," he whispered. "The end of the song."
He turned to his wife. "Ell — take her."
Ell clutched Alfara's hand, unwilling. "We can fight—"
"You will die," Mordus said. "And the world with you."
He glanced at the advancing Althoran — the god he had once called brother. "This cannot be stopped. Only outlasted."
The world shook as Althoran raised his sword again. The light in the hall began to fade, devoured by his shadow.
Ell dragged Alfara toward a side passage, divine blood staining her robes. "Don't look back," she said. "Do not give him your fear."
"Mother—"
"Go!"
Behind them, Mordus struck his staff to the ground. The sound it made was the sound of endings — the cry of time breaking. The hall filled with light, then nothing.
And in that nothingness, Alfara fell forward through centuries.
When she opened her eyes again, the warmth was gone.
---
The streets of Bastion stretched before her, wrapped in twilight.
It wasn't death — not exactly. The city moved, in its strange half-life way. She watched a man in fractured armor walk down the street carrying a tray of candles that never melted. Two children — thin, hollow-eyed — chased shadows that drifted away from them like smoke. At a fountain long frozen, a woman traced shapes in the frost, perhaps remembering water.
It was the reflection of a civilization that refused to end, a stubborn imitation of what once was.
Grimm walked a few paces ahead, his steps heavy, his voice quiet. "They don't live," he said, "but they don't stop either. The sane ones hold onto what they can — work, habit, ritual. Anything that makes the days feel separate."
"And the others?"
"The ones outside the walls?" He shook his head. "They lost the thread. Couldn't bear the in-between. Either too much memory, or too little."
They passed the silent Guardians by the gates, motionless in their ranks. Their armor gleamed faintly under the frozen sky, their weapons lowered but never abandoned.
"They were once the city's guards," Grimm said. "When they felt their minds slipping, they bound themselves to duty. They don't think anymore, but they serve. The Keepers made that possible."
"The Keepers?"
He nodded toward a distant spire, its blue glow faint but steady. "The old mages from the Age of Life. What's left of their order. They built the bindings that hold the Guardians and keep the city from crumbling. Every bastion has its Keepers — not rulers, exactly, but anchors. Without them, Husk would scatter into ash and madness."
Alfara gazed up at the spire, her heart aching. "They keep the cities alive," she said softly. "Even in death."
Grimm looked at her, a faint ember of irony in his tone. "Alive enough."
They reached a quiet square at the city's heart — a place of statues and broken fountains. At its center, under a canopy of withered ivy, an old man waited. His cloak was patchwork, his eyes too sharp for comfort.
Aethoron smiled when he saw them. "So the goddess walks among corpses," he said, voice cracked like dry parchment. "You've chosen strange company, little light."
Alfara's eyes narrowed slightly. "You know who I am?"
He laughed, soft and strange. "No one knows who anyone is anymore. But you shine, and that's rare here. It hurts the eyes."
Grimm folded his arms. "You said you could help."
"I said I might," Aethoron corrected. "But help with what? Finding hope in a graveyard?"
Alfara met his gaze, her voice steady. "We're looking for the heroes of the old world. Those who fought against Althoran. Some of them must still wander these ruins."
"Heroes," the old man repeated, his smile fading. "Yes. Some wander still. Some even remember why."
He turned away, his voice almost wistful. "But if you go looking for ghosts, child, don't be surprised if they look back."