A Paladin's Sanctuary
Evereska lay veiled in mist and moonlight, a jewel within the Western Heartlands. To some, it might have seemed a dream, silver birches shimmering in eternal twilight, the faint hum of magic in every breath of wind, the crystalline domes of elven architecture rising from the valleys like the burst of starlight.
To Hadric Cinderglade, paladin of Tyr, it was a refuge.
He stood upon the terrace of the sanctum that is his home, looking out across the valley where moonflowers glowed faintly in the night. His armor hung upon a nearby stand, untouched and dimmed, its once-gleaming surface reflecting nothing of the stars above. In Evereska, he had shed the mantle of Paladin. Here, he was only Hadric, a weary soul trying to remember the man beneath the vow.
Baldur’s Gate felt distant now, a port city of false hopes and gilded lies. Yet it clung to him like a curse. Even here, surrounded by the tranquil wards of Evereska, he could still hear the echo of the city’s politics: the whispers of betrayal, the twisting of honor, the laughter of false friends.
Dayna Greldin’s name rose unbidden. The half-orc artificer and Magistrate, his former colleague in the the Gate, had been ambitious, too ambitious perhaps. Her mind worked like clockwork gears, relentless and precise, and when she turned it toward ambition, nothing stood in her way. He had once admired her conviction; now, he feared her reach, her connections.
But even Dayna’s wretched cleverness paled before the venom of Naeritha Vorn and her father, Melchor, Daynas associates. Melchor, the elder viper, preferred to smile as he strangled, his words always honeyed, his intentions never clear. He was willing to smile as he stole others entire life's savings, their entire life's work. His daughter, however, made no such pretense.
Naeritha had wanted Hadric. His name. His reputation. His place in the order of Tyr’s Paladin's and the authority that came with it. His devotion. She wanted him to hers to control.
When he refused her advances, she found other ways to bind him. Rumors whispered in halls, "harmless gossip" over a glass of wine in taverns. She also included others in her wrath. Threats made clear.
“She is fragile, your little light. Do you think she can survive what the Gate will say of her? How it will spread across the Sword Coast?"
He had tried to keep them apart, to build walls between their worlds, but gossip could slip through stone. Naeritha had made sure of that, smiling at galas, pretending affection while stabbing with words sharp as daggers. She would taunt Dahlia with stories of shared nights and secret kisses, weaving lies with the cruelty of a devil.
Dahlia knew better. But knowing did not spare her heart.
In Evereska’s stillness, Hadric wondered if his exile had been salvation or surrender. He had sworn to protect them, to keep them hidden. To keep them seperate from all of this.
He had made certain no soul in Faerûn knew of their connection.
It was safer that way.
And yet, the weight of it, the deception, the endless vigilance, was wearing through his soul like rusted iron.
He could not serve both justice and secrecy forever.
A single parchment sat upon the desk, sealed with black wax bearing the sigil of House Vorn. The courier had found him even here, beneath the protective wards of Evereska. There was no sanctuary strong enough to keep Naeritha’s reach at bay it would seem.
He had not opened it. He did not need to. He already knew what it demanded.
The last time they had spoken, Naeritha’s words had been sweetly cruel: “The Sword Coast coast believes what I tell them. The acolytes and paladins of Tyr’s temple whisper already that we are bound. Why not make it truth? Think what power we might wield together.”
He had laughed in her face then, a hollow sound that had earned him a death threat hidden behind a smile.
“Refuse me,” she had said, “and I will destroy not only you, but every ghost you think you’ve hidden.”
Now the letter sat there, silent and venomous, like a serpent, waiting for his reply.
Hadric stepped outside again, the Evereskan night quiet and tranquil. The faint song of a distant lyre drifted through the valley. Stars glimmered above like the eyes of celestial beings.
He thought of Dahlia, her weary patience, her faith in him even as the world conspired to tear them apart. He thought of the others he had left in secrecy, whose names he dared not even think too loudly.
He had protected them with lies, with silence, with his own exile. But for how long? How long could one man keep the storm from reaching what he loved most?
His heart whispered an answer he could not bear to hear.
He bowed his head.
“Tyr,” he murmured, voice barely above the rustle of leaves, “forgive me. I have done what justice forbids, but what love demands.”
By JaneCuppa
