Wicked_Fiction
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Lastlight's Revenant #9
🕑 Added 2025-07-18 14:07:25 +0000 UTCThe air crackled with residual magic, the scent of sulfur and scorched ozone thick in the banquet hall. Garran’s sword still glowed with the sorceress’s golden light, its edge humming as if alive.
Across from them, the Hollow King stood with his head tilted, ichor sizzling on his cheek—amused, unhurried, as though they were nothing more than unruly children testing his patience.
"You chose humans this time," the Hollow King mused, his voice a velvet rasp. "That might be the most unwise decision you’ve ever made, dearest."
The elf sorceress didn’t flinch. Her runes pulsed like embers, her fingers already weaving another spell. "You talk too much for a corpse."
Garran didn’t wait for banter. He lunged, his golden blade carving through the air—
—only for the Hollow King to flick a finger.
The ground beneath Garran warped, stone rippling like water. He barely twisted aside as a spike of blackened rock erupted where he’d stood. The sorceress retaliated, her crimson magic lashing out like a whip.
It struck the Hollow King’s shoulder, searing through his tattered robes. He hissed, but his grin never faded.
"Ah, still so spirited," he crooned. "But you’ve forgotten—I know you. Every spell, every trick. And this?" He gestured to Garran. "A knight with a shiny sword? How quaint."
Garran bared his teeth. "Try me."
He feinted left, then pivoted, his blade aiming for the Hollow King’s ribs. The demon barely sidestepped—but the sorceress was already there, her golden magic flaring.
A searing light erupted between them, and for a heartbeat, the Hollow King’s form flickered, like a reflection disturbed.
Garran’s sword found its mark.
The blade bit deep into the Hollow King’s side, black ichor spraying. The demon laughed, even as his flesh sizzled under the golden light.
"Enough playing," he said, and the air itself screamed.
A force like a tidal wave hurled Garran and the sorceress back. Garran hit the ground rolling, his sword still clenched in his grip. When he looked up, the Hollow King was standing at the center of the hall, his wounds already knitting shut.
"You’ve had your fun," the Hollow King said. "But I grow bored."
Garran surged to his feet. "We’re not done—"
The Hollow King snapped his fingers.
A vision slammed into Garran’s mind—
—The walls of Vaeldrith, swarmed by duskhounds, their lidless eyes gleaming as they scaled the stone like spiders. Beyond them, the horizon writhed with the Maw’s legions, a tide of claws and teeth marching inexorably toward the city.
The vision vanished as suddenly as it came, leaving Garran gasping.
"You can continue this fruitless battle," the Hollow King said, "or you can try to save them. Choose wisely."
Garran’s grip on his sword tightened. Every instinct screamed to cut the demon down—but the image of those duskhounds crawling over the walls burned behind his eyes.
The sorceress placed a hand on his arm. "Let him go," she said, her voice low. "This is only a clone. Killing it would mean nothing."
The Hollow King’s grin widened. "She always was the clever one, no matter where she stored or with whom..."
With a final, mocking bow, he dissolved into black vapor—leaving behind only the stench of sulfur and the echoing whisper of his laughter.
Garran turned to the sorceress, his breath ragged. "You know him."
She didn’t deny it. "And he knows me. That’s why we’re out of time."
Outside, the first screams began to rise from the city.
"We need to hurry," the elf sorceress said, already striding toward the shattered doors of the banquet hall.
Garran hesitated only a moment before following, his golden-lit sword still clenched in his fist. "What was that thing?" he demanded. "And what are you?"
The sorceress didn’t slow. "That was the Hollow King," she said, her voice edged with something darker than disdain. "An ancient elf who was lured into the Maw’s service by the Putrid Mother centuries ago." She glanced back, her black eyes glinting. "As for me… my name is Sylrithiel. But we can discuss my sins later."
Garran’s jaw tightened. The name meant nothing to him—but the weight behind it did.
"Right now," Sylrithiel continued, "we save as many as we can before the city falls. You’ll need soldiers to fight the Maw, after all."
Garran’s steps faltered. The memory of their conversation in the library flashed through his mind—her mocking words, his own arrogance. "That will not happen," he had told her, as if sheer will could hold back the tide.
Back then, they had stood a chance.
Now?
The Duke was dead. The nobles had scattered like rats. The army was leaderless.
And the Maw was here.
They burst onto the streets—
—and hell unfolded before them.
The city of Vaeldrith burned.
Duskhounds skittered along the walls, their spindly limbs scuttling over stone like spiders. Civilians screamed as blackened spine-spears punched through their chests, their bodies collapsing only to be dragged away by chittering, many-legged things—vermin-touched, corpses puppeteered by corpse ticks.
But worse than the duskhounds were the others.
A fleshforged abomination lumbered through the chaos, its body a grotesque patchwork of stitched-together limbs, its gaping mouth lined with rows of human teeth. It seized a fleeing merchant and pulled, tearing the man apart like bread crust.
And at the center of the square, standing over a pulsating magic circle of blackened blood, was the Faceless.
Tall, slender, its featureless visage smooth as polished bone, the demon raised its hands as if conducting a symphony. With every gesture, another rift split the air, disgorging more horrors—vermin-touched, duskhounds, even another lumbering fleshforged.
Garran’s grip tightened over his sword, his knuckles paling under the strain. "Gods above..." The words came out as a breath, half-prayer, half-curse.
Sylrithiel’s voice cut through the chaos, steady as a blade’s edge. "Do not lose hope. The demon army has yet to breach the gates." She gestured toward the carnage unfolding before them.
"What you see is the work of the Faceless—infiltrators who slipped into the city before the assault. They summon more of their kind from the shadows." Her lips thinned. "I’ve already slain three of them before the Hollow King revealed himself. But there will be others."
Garran’s jaw set. "Then we hunt the Faceless down before they drown the city in demons. But first—" His gaze snapped toward the crumbling walls, where the distant shouts of panicked soldiers rang out. "—someone needs to take command of the defenses."
He raised his sword, its edge still flickering with Sylrithiel’s fading golden light. "Find Edric. The Duke’s son. Drag him to the walls if you have to. The men need a leader, even a reluctant one."
Sylrithiel studied him for a moment, her black eyes unreadable. Then, with a slow nod, she lifted her hands. Runes flared along her arms as she wove another spell, her fingers moving with practiced precision.
A pulse of golden energy surged from her fingertips, wrapping around Garran’s blade like liquid sunlight. The steel hummed, its edge now gleaming with renewed intensity.
"This will last longer than the first," she said. "Use it well."
Before Garran could respond, she stepped back—and the air around her rippled. Shadows curled like living things, swallowing her form whole. In the span of a breath, she was gone like a forgotten memory.
Garran exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The weight of the enchanted blade in his hand was a comfort.
A scream tore through the night.
Garran turned.
The Faceless stood at the center of its macabre ritual, its blank face turned toward the sky as another rift tore open beside it. Demons poured forth—duskhounds skittering on too-long limbs, vermin-touched corpses twitching to life, their hollow eyes fixed on the slaughter to come. Too many. Far too many between him and his prey.
Garran adjusted his grip on the sword. The golden light along its edge pulsed, as if sensing his intent.
Then he sprinted.
A duskhound lunged to intercept him, its spine-spear flashing toward his ribs. Garran didn’t slow. Didn’t strategize. He swung.
The blade met the spear—and sheared straight through it.
No resistance. No spark of clashing steel. Just clean, effortless severance, as if the weapon were made of smoke.
The sword’s momentum didn’t falter. It carved through the duskhound’s torso, black ichor sizzling where the golden edge touched. The demon collapsed, its body split neatly in two, the wound cauterized by the magic’s heat.
Garran barely paused.
The enchantment was too powerful.
That thought lodged in his mind like a splinter. Magic had a price. Always. Even the Radiant Knights’ blessings had demanded oaths, focus, sacrifice.
But Sylrithiel had woven this enchantment without strain, without hesitation.
As if the power came as naturally as breath.
Almost like it wasn’t hers to begin with.
His expression hardened.
Later. He’d unravel her secrets later.
A vermin-touched corpse lurched into his path, its jaw unhinging to reveal a writhing nest of corpse ticks. Garran’s sword flashed again. The thing’s head toppled, its body crumpling, the ticks inside shriveling to ash before they could escape.
Ahead, the Faceless finally noticed him.
Its blank face turned. Its hands stilled mid-gesture.
Garran bared his teeth.
"Repentant business first and foremost," he growled, and charged.
