Chapter Text
Ash fell like snow across the abandoned city.
Buildings stood like blackened ribs, crumbling into flame-choked skeletons. Smoke slithered through alleyways, swallowing screams that flared and vanished like dying stars. Once a proud trading quarter, this district was now a crucible of ruin—no conquest, no spoils. Only obliteration.
And at the center of the desecration, stood the Warlord.
He loomed like prophecy fulfilled—crimson armor seared with soot, torn banners whispering in the heat-hollow air. His helm bore the face of a beast, mouth forever open in snarl or sermon. Scars laced one side of his chest plate, still glowing faintly with some cursed heat. A flanged blade hung from his hand—not carried, but consecrated, like a dark relic. Once a templar of the Light. Now it's perversion.
High above the ruin, Reynauld dangled from shattered stone, shackled by chains cruel as irony. Armor damaged, ribs bruised, mouth bloodied—left as a warning, a twisted banner of defeat. The Warlord had made his point: This is how the Light’s champions fall.
But the Light was not finished with Reynauld.
The barricade exploded inward with a thunderclap. Barristan led the charge, shield first, tabard aflame, eye glowing with grim fury. The clangor of blades echoed as he forced a blood-bought path through the inferno.
“Make for the gallows!” he roared. “Get Reynauld!”
Junia followed close, her voice hoarse with litany. Her mace flared like starlight, searing smoke aside with every syllable of faith.
Beside her came Alharzed, robes trailing flame, his mouth red with blood. “The veil shudders,” he hissed. “They have fed this place with blood... now it can be unmade.”
He plunged his hands into ash, and the earth screamed. Abyssal tendrils erupted from the ground, writhing and shrieking, dragging frightened soldiers into black pits that had not existed a breath before. Fire met shadow. Sanctity met madness.
And still the Warlord stood, untouched—and laughing.
Dismas moved through the chaos like smoke—fleet, silent, inevitable.
Two shots rang out—one sparked against the Warlord’s pauldron, the other glanced off his helm. Not meant to wound. Just to distract.
He reached Reynauld, whose head slumped against his chest. The lock on the chains turned with a groan as Dismas drove the key home. The crusader collapsed into his arms.
“Still breathin’, preacher?” Dismas muttered, voice low.
Reynauld’s eye cracked open, blood-crusted but defiant. “…Dismas?”
“Don’t sound hopeful yet. We still have a battle to win.”
Almost on cue, the Warlord’s blade howled through the air as he charged—an avalanche of steel and fire.
Barristan met him with a roar, shield raised. The first blow dented iron. The second knocked him to a knee.
Junia cried his name—and the Light answered.
Her mace erupted with celestial fury, casting a sunburst that seared the Warlord’s vision. Alharzed advanced, his body breaking under strain.
“This ends in silence!,” he exclaimed. Unleashing the screaming eldritch horrors in full force “FM'LATGH, GRAH'N!”
It struck the Warlord with a powerful slam—his helm cracked, teeth shone through splintered iron, and for a breath, the heretic faltered.
But it was Reynauld who ended it.
He tore free from Dismas’s grasp, seized a fallen blade—and with a cry that might’ve been a hymn or a curse, drove it through the Warlord’s throat. Steel parted flesh, bone, and legacy.
The Warlord staggered, choking, fire fading from his eyes.
“I…was chosen.” he gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. “Pathetic Lightner…”
Reynauld met his gaze. His voice was jagged iron. “The Light has chosen better. It once allowed you mercy, now it brings forth your end.”
And just like that, the Warlord perished.
The fires still burned, but the war was over. The endless rot, for now, was purged.
•─────⋅☾⊱♰⊰☽⋅─────•
Embers drifted from the sky like the last breath of a dying god, settling on the scorched armor of the fallen. The Warlord’s body smoldered, his blood hissing where it touched the still-burning stones. Around him, the ruin groaned under its own weight—walls cracked, beams sagged, and the cries of the wounded faded into the whispering hush of aftermath.
Barristan slumped against a broken pillar, shield slouched, one gauntleted hand pressed to a gash along his ribs. Junia knelt beside him, murmuring prayers that barely held their shape, the Light flickering weakly in her trembling hands. Alharzed stood in the center of it all, eyes blank and distant, blood still leaking from his nose, hands twitching from channeling power no man was meant to wield for so long.
None of them noticed when Dismas slipped away.
He moved with that same quiet step he’d used on the battlefield—fast and without flourish, silent as smoke. But this time there was no enemy to outflank, no chaos to mask him. Just the broken body of a man he wasn’t ready to lose.
He carried Reynauld himself. Shouldered the crusader’s weight like a penance, each step down the ruined streets back to the caravan. A quiet defiance of the pain singing up his spine. Reynauld barely stirred, breath shallow against Dismas’s neck, the remnants of borrowed strength bleeding out of him with every footstep.
The others never asked why Dismas didn’t return right away. They had their own wounds to tend, their own ghosts to argue with. Some part of them knew Reynauld would be safest where Dismas took him.
After patching up with what little they had left, the party found an inn on the edge of the city—half-standing, half-collapsed, but the rooms upstairs were untouched by flame or blood.
Everyone soon enough split for their own rooms for the night, nobody questioning when Dismas held Reynauld and slipped him upstairs. The highwayman kicked the door open, lit the lantern with practiced hands, and laid Reynauld on the bed like he was setting down something sacred.
He didn’t speak. Just stripped what was left of Reynauld’s gear, cleaned the worst of the grime, dressed the open wounds with trembling fingers and whatever rags he could find. He didn’t stop until the crusader was breathing easier—still shallow, but steady.
Only then did the silence settle in.
But even in that stillness, something stirred.
The kind of healing that didn’t obey natural laws crept in like moonlight through a cracked shutter. It wasn’t grand—no blaze of radiance, no holy whispers echoing through the rafters. Just a quiet, steady unraveling of pain. Wounds that should have festered began to close with unnatural calm. The angry red flush of infection dulled, fevered skin cooled breath by breath, and bruises faded like storm clouds breaking at dawn.
The Light didn’t roar. It endured. It waited. And in those slow, flickering hours before morning, it worked—not with spectacle, but with persistence.
Reynauld twitched in his sleep, jaw clenched. A low murmur escaped him—half-prayers in broken cadence, half-tactical orders spat in the voice of someone still lost in battle. He flinched at shadows only he could see, eyes darting beneath his lids. Once, he tried to sit up with a sudden, sharp gasp.
“Hold—hold the line… flank’s gone, we’ve—” he mumbled, voice hoarse and distant.
Dismas was already at his side, hands catching him before he could topple forward. “Easy now, holy man. You’re not leadin’ the charge. You’re in bed. A miracle, I know.”
Reynauld blinked at him, wild-eyed, sweat-slicked. “Smoke… I heard bells. Couldn't find them. They—were they—?”
“No bells,” Dismas said, soft but clipped. “No screamin’. Everyone made it out fine.”
The lie rolled off his tongue without hesitation. Not for cruelty. Just muscle memory. Reynauld didn’t challenge it.
He slumped, head falling against Dismas’s shoulder, breath shallow. “Thought they’d taken my sword. Thought they’d taken me.”
Dismas let out a slow breath through his nose, adjusting his stance so Reynauld didn’t slide clean off him. “They didn’t. Sword’s still yours. You’re still here. Still the same mad bastard who throws himself in front of blades for folk he barely knows.”
There was a pause—then a ragged chuckle scraped its way out of Reynauld’s chest. Half pain, half worn amusement. “You never did know when to shut it.”
“Yeah, well,” Dismas murmured, eyes flicking to the empty room around them, “the quiet gets bloody dull.”
He eased Reynauld back down carefully, slow like he was afraid the man might shatter. Then the room quieted again, save for the steady patter of rain and the low hum of firelight across the walls.
Hours passed…
Sometime in the dead hours, Reynauld’s eyes opened again—just a sliver. Dull. Haunted. Alive.
He tried to sit up. Again.
“Don’t make me tie you down,” Dismas muttered, hand pressed to his chest like he was keeping something from spilling out.
Reynauld blinked, groggy. “...Dismas?”
“Yeah, still ugly, still breathin’. You’ve been out a few hours. Thought you were gonna stay down longer, if I’m honest.”
Reynauld squinted, dragging thoughts out of the fog. “There was fire. I remember fire.”
“You remember gettin’ your arse kicked,” Dismas said, tone light as old coin. “Then bleedin’ all over my floor like a drama queen. But hey—still breathin’. That’s the bit that matters.”
Reynauld exhaled slow and heavy, letting his head drop back onto the pillow. “Felt like clawing my way out of a grave.”
“You’ve looked worse,” Dismas muttered. Not quite a joke, but he wore it like one.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, like the space between loaded dice.
Eventually, Dismas crossed the room, grabbed something off the battered table—a ration bar—and lobbed it into Reynauld’s lap.
“Eat. You look like death scraped off a boot.”
Reynauld eyed the thing, then him. “You need it more than I do.”
Dismas rolled his eyes like it physically pained him. “If I fancied martyrdom, I’d’ve signed up with your bloody order. Eat the damned thing.”
When Reynauld didn’t move, Dismas dropped into a squat by the bed, jamming the bar into his hand, voice low and steady.
“This ain’t penance, Rey. You’re not payin’ for your mistakes with hunger. You’re still here. So start actin’ like it.”
Reynauld’s fingers curled around the wrapper. He sat quiet for a beat, then muttered, barely above a whisper: “…Thanks.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dismas grunted, waving him off. “Spare me the tears. I’m delicate.”
He stood with a creak of leather and flopped onto the edge of the bed, one leg hooked up, lean frame stretched like a cat in a sunbeam.
“And don’t go tuckin’ it under the floorboards again. I will look.”
Reynauld took a bite. It tasted like salted bark, but it grounded him.
“Harsh,” he said around a chew. “But fair.”
“I am the law,” Dismas deadpanned, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was delivering scripture.
A small huff of breath escaped Reynauld—somewhere between amusement and relief. The weight on his shoulders eased just a touch. But it still hung behind his eyes.
“That warlord…” Dismas said, after a stretch. “He did a number on you.”
Reynauld stared at the ration bar a long moment before setting the wrapper down. “I tried to hold the pass. Thought I could buy the villagers time. Didn’t expect ‘em to flank me so fast. Didn’t realise how far in I was ‘til it was too late.”
He gave a bitter chuckle. “Turns out, no one storms through an army alone. Even if they are blessed by the Light…”
Dismas leaned forward, elbows on his knees, expression unreadable. “So you’re sayin’ you’ve finally worked out you’re not immortal? Well I’ll be damned. Hell must be freezin’ over…”
Reynauld looked over at him and gave the smallest of smiles—cracked but honest. “I’m not alone this time. I’ve got people. Even if they do nick things under the Light’s ever-watchful gaze.”
Dismas snorted. “Allegedly.”
“Right,” Reynauld murmured, eyes closing for a breath. “Just like you’re allegedly a good man.”
That shut Dismas up. For a beat.
Then, quieter, almost sheepish: “Don’t spread that around. Ruins the mystique.”
Reynauld looked down at the floor again, jaw tight. Then, with a laugh that shuddered a little too much, he replied, “I… I missed you, Dismas.”
That hit harder than it should’ve.
Dismas didn’t answer right away. Tilting his head as he watched Reynauld closely in the flickering light. Not as the jaded highwayman, but as someone who’d waited years—not knowing if his friend was alive or already buried in some unmarked field.
He reached out, not dramatically, just a hand laid gently on Reynauld’s back, between his shoulder blades. Warm and steady.
“Yeah,” Dismas mumbled. “Me too.”
And they let the silence settle between them again—not sharp, not hollow. Just full of all the things they never needed to say.
Reynauld didn’t speak for a long time. Just sat there, hunched, eyes lost somewhere between the rain-soaked window and the half-finished ration in his hand. Dismas hadn’t moved either. He remained at his side, hands clasped loosely between his knees now, shoulders drawn in like he wasn’t sure how close was too close anymore.
Eventually, Reynauld broke the silence. “I thought I’d forgotten what your voice sounded like.”
Dismas huffed, a small scoff with no real bite. “Probably hoped you had.”
“I didn’t,” Reynauld said. “Didn’t forget any of it.”
The quiet pressed in again, softer this time. Warmer.
Dismas shifted, just enough that their shoulders brushed. A brief contact, gone in a second—but it lit something sharp and old between them. Reynauld didn’t move away. Didn’t speak. He only glanced at Dismas, eyes rimmed with weariness and something quieter. Something more fragile.
Their gazes caught and held.
Years fell away in the space of a breath. The mud and blood and distance between them vanished like mist. Just two men, sitting side by side in the half-light, carrying too much silence in their chests and not enough time left to keep pretending it didn’t matter.
Dismas opened his mouth. Then shut it. He looked like he wanted to say something real—something weighty, maybe even dangerous. But instead, he said:
“You’ve still got a daft bloody face.”
Reynauld barked out a laugh, sudden and unpolished. “And you’ve still got no idea how to speak like a person.”
“I’m speakin’, ain’t I?” Dismas grumbled. “That’s effort, mate. Don’t go askin’ for a damn miracle.”
Their shoulders touched again. This time, neither of them moved.
The fire crackled low. Rain whispered at the glass. Somewhere between the flicker of the oil lamp and the quiet ache in both their bones, Dismas turned slightly—just enough to face Reynauld.
And for a second—just a second—they both leaned in.
The world didn’t shift. The sky didn’t crack open. But something small and wordless passed between them, sharp as a heartbeat. Closer than they’d been in years. Close enough to kiss, if either of them had been braver.
But they weren’t. Not yet.
Dismas blinked, exhaled through his nose, and leaned back with a faint scoff.
“Hell of a thing,” he muttered, pretending to stare at the ceiling.
Reynauld didn’t ask what he meant. He just nodded, slow and knowing.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
A beat passed. Then Dismas stood, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to chase off the shiver still hanging there.
“Gonna go check inventory. Maybe give the innkeep a bit o’ grief while I’m at it. Try not to smash the place up, yeah?”
Reynauld didn’t crack a smile, but his eyes had the ghost of one. “I’ll do my best. No promises.”
Dismas paused in the doorway. He looked back, one hand braced on the frame, as if weighing something. Then, almost too softly to hear:
“You’re not alone. Not anymore. You’re safe, Rey…”
Then he was gone, boots thudding softly down the corridor.
Reynauld watched the doorway long after he’d disappeared. The silence left behind felt different now—less like absence, more like space. Space for something that might grow back. Slowly. Carefully.
He let himself lean into the warmth still left behind on the mattress beside him.
And this time, when the quiet came, it didn’t hurt.