Rayven advanced through the shattered nave, the weight of her plate armour both a shield and a shroud, cloak swirling in the smoke-choked air. The battered symbol of Denday still glimmered on her chest plate, dulled by ash and streaks of blood. Her gauntleted fist tightened around the leather-wrapped hilt of her sword, and her shield—once ceremonial, now pitted and scarred—rose before her like the moon in eclipse. Across the clearing, a Paladin of Quintra emerged from the chaos: tall, broad-shouldered, white tabard streaked with crimson, golden sunburst glinting on his breast. His eyes, hard and burning, fixed on Rayven with fanatical resolve.
Steel rang as he lunged, his blade slashing in a wide arc. Rayven met the blow with her shield, the impact jolting up her arm and rattling her teeth. She countered with a low sweep of her sword, forcing him back a step, boots skidding in spilled wax and blood. They circled, breath ragged, prayers and curses mingling in the broken silence. The Paladin pressed forward, each stroke of his blade crackling with pale golden light. Rayven moved with grim determination, deflecting, parrying, feeling every strike echo in her bones.
Their duel became a dance—hammering shield, shuddering steel, bursts of power flaring and failing in the aftermath of the shattered Light. Rayven feinted left, then crashed her shield into the Paladin’s chest, driving him back against a tree. He grunted, pain etched across his face, but refused to yield. He retaliated with a crushing overhand blow, forcing Rayven to drop to one knee, her sword scraping the ground. She twisted, dodged the killing strike by a breath, and slammed her shoulder into his legs, toppling him with a thunder of clanging armour.
Both paladins staggered to their feet, battered and bloodied, faces inches apart. The Paladin of Quintra spat, “You’re no better than the shadows you serve.” Rayven’s eyes blazed with tears and fury. “I serve what the Light cannot save.”
Summoning the last of her strength, Rayven battered his blade aside with her shield and drove her sword down, the point biting into the marble near his shoulder. The Paladin, breathing hard, stared up at her, realising at last that defeat was inevitable. He dropped his weapon, raising his hands in surrender. Rayven stepped back, chest heaving, sword trembling in her hand. For a moment, silence stretched between them—two paladins, broken by the war of gods and hearts.
Rayven’s armour was battered, cloak torn, blood running from a shallow cut above her brow. But she stood victorious, her sword lowered, her heart burning with grief and the bitter taste of triumph.
Without so much as a thought Rayven turned and ran, heart pounding, breath burning in her throat as she crashed through the tangled underbrush. Her heavy paladin armour clanked with every stride, a cruel reminder of the role she’d chosen—and the one she’d abandoned too late. All around her, the woods, usually her sanctuary, pressed close and strange, the scent of burning and blood drifting in from the distant village. Each step was a prayer, a curse, a desperate plea: let her be alive. Let me be in time.
She burst out from the tree line, boots slipping in churned earth and broken branches, and stopped short. The village lay sprawled before her, caught between flame and shadow. A glow flickered at the horizon—torches, perhaps, or houses burning. The once-familiar streets seethed with chaos.
Villagers streamed past her in terror. Some ran, clutching crying children or dragging the wounded behind them; others stumbled as if lost, eyes wide, cheeks streaked with soot and tears. A mother staggered, clutching a child with a bloodied arm. An elderly man hobbled by, muttering, “Not safe, not safe, the gods have fled…”
Rayven caught one by the arm—a young woman in shock, hair wild, eyes glazed with fear. “What happened?” Rayven demanded, voice rough.
The woman only shook her head, voice breaking: “The temple—taken—so much blood—don’t go, you’ll die—” She tore herself free and vanished into the crowd.
As Rayven pushed deeper into the square, the violence sharpened into focus. The air buzzed with panic and angry shouting, the cries of the wounded and the sharp, jeering laughter of those in Denday’s colours. At the edge of the square, she saw a knot of Denday’s followers—some masked, others bare-faced, most flushed with triumph. They waved torches and weapons, boasting of their deeds.
“Did you see how the priest begged?” a boyish voice sneered, waving a dagger crusted with wax and blood.
“Let them pray now!” a woman laughed, kicking a broken censer across the cobbles.
“The Light is dead! Quintra is gone!” a man roared, raising his fist as his fellows cheered.
A few recognised Rayven—her face, her armour, the battered horn at her belt. Some stepped aside in deference; others jeered.
“Rayven, did you miss all the fun?” one mocked, grinning, “Or have you lost your taste for glory?”
Another, a former friend, spat on the ground. “No room for mercy here, Paladin. Not anymore.”
Rayven’s only answer was a glare that made even the boldest falter. Her hands curled tight around the hilt of her sword, but she kept moving. She did not trust her voice; all her anger and horror threatened to spill out as a scream.
She took the temple steps two at a time, metal scraping stone. Her boots slipped on a mix of wax, blood, and shattered glass. The doors hung askew, one torn from its hinges, the other scorched and battered. Inside, the devastation was complete.
The great hall—once a sanctuary—had become a tomb. Benches lay overturned, sacred cloths torn and trampled. The air was thick with smoke, incense, and the iron tang of blood. Pools of candlewax ran like frozen tears across the floor. Blue fire smouldered at the edges, leaving blackened scars on the stone. Acolytes huddled in corners, weeping, some tending the wounded with trembling hands, others rocking in numb silence.
Rayven’s armour felt unbearably heavy as she strode down the central aisle, her every step echoing in the ruined hush. She called out, desperate:
“Neri’Va! Neri’Va!”
No answer. Only the ragged breathing and low moans of the injured.
Rayven pushed through the chaos, searching every face—until at last, her gaze fell on a figure slumped at the foot of the altar, half in shadow, half in the lurid light of the shattered window.
White robe soaked with crimson, platinum hair tangled and matted with blood.
Purple eyes, barely open, searching the smoke-hazed air.
Rayven stumbled, falling to her knees beside Neri’Va, the steel of her greaves clattering on the stone. “Neri’Va!” she gasped, gathering the high elf into her arms, cradling her as if she could hold her together by sheer force of will. She pressed a shaking hand to the wound at Neri’Va’s side, felt the sticky heat of blood—so much blood.
Neri’Va’s lips moved, voice barely a whisper. “Rayven…? What… what have they done? I can’t… I can’t feel Quintra anymore…”
The Night dweller pressed her forehead to Neri’Va’s, her own tears hot on her cheeks. “The Light was shining too brightly, Neri,” she choked. “We… we couldn’t allow that any longer. I’m so sorry—gods, I’m so sorry—”
Neri’Va tried to smile, but her mouth trembled. Her eyes slid toward the altar, shattered and ruined. “The brighter the Light shines… the… deeper the darkness that follows.” She shivered, voice weakening. “Ray… I… I only see darkness… I… I’m scared…”
Rayven’s tears fell freely now, hot and helpless. She brushed a lock of hair from Neri’Va’s face with bloodstained fingers. “I am right here, little priestess. I’m not going anywhere. I love you, Neri’Va. I love you. Please—don’t go. Not yet. I need you.”
Neri’Va’s breathing grew shallow, every breath a struggle. “I’m so cold… will… will you stay with me?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Rayven whispered, her voice raw and broken. “I am here. I will always be here. I’ll stay as long as you want, as long as you need. I promise.”
Neri’Va’s hand found Rayven’s gauntlet, clutching weakly. For a moment—one fragile, shining moment—the world seemed to pause, holding its breath for them alone. Then Neri’Va’s eyes fluttered shut, her lips parted in a sigh, and her hand went limp.
She was gone.
Rayven froze. For a long, impossible moment, she could not move, could not breathe. She pressed a kiss to Neri’Va’s cooling brow, rocking her gently, refusing to let go, as if by will alone she could anchor her spirit to this ruined world.
“Come back,” Rayven pleaded, “please… please, Quintra, Denday, any god—take me instead. Please…”
But the hall was silent, except for the crackle of fire and the distant wailing of the lost.
At last, something inside Rayven shattered. She laid Neri’Va gently on the bloodstained stones, folding her arms over her heart. Her hands moved almost of their own accord—undoing the clasps at her throat, tearing the cloak from her shoulders. She let it fall beside Neri’Va’s still hand. Next went the horn that had once called warriors to battle in Denday’s name. It fell to the ground clattering. Her sword and shield, symbols of faith and vengeance, she laid down at the base of the altar—an offering to gods who would not answer.
“I have given you everything,” she said, her voice ringing through the broken hall, equal parts prayer and curse. “My blood, my oath, my faith, my love. And this is all you offer in return?”
The other survivors watched her with wide, fearful eyes. None dared approach as the towering Night dweller rose, her shadow looming tall against the ruined window. The dark skinned elf tore off the plate armour with Denday her symbol on the chest and threw it at the altar. She stood, swaying with grief and exhaustion, staring at the broken altar, the fragments of coloured glass, the moon peering through storm clouds overhead.
“If this is what the gods demand,” she whispered, voice raw with pain, “then I want nothing of them.”
She discarded what remained of her armour, scattering it all over the floor. When a leg plate wouldn’t let go she screamed in agony and just tore it off, throwing it as far away as she could.
She turned, hesitated, then knelt one final time by Neri’Va’s side. She traced a gentle line down her cheek, tucked a silver strand of hair behind her ear. “I love you,” Rayven said, fierce and trembling. “I will always love you. Forgive me for being too late.”
Rayven stood, every movement heavy. Around her, the temple was a wasteland—candles guttered, prayers silenced, dreams dashed. She left behind everything: armour, weapons, horn, her faith. As she passed through the ruined doorway, the surviving villagers shrank back, uncertain whether to fear or follow her.
She did not look back. The dawn was beginning to break, pale and cold, promising no comfort.
Rayven vanished into the woods, her grief trailing behind like a shadow. The gods were silent, the Light had broken, and only memory remained. All that she had loved was gone, and the only thing that remained was the deep, endless darkness.