1485 D.R. / Day 57
Neverlight Grove
The final syllables of the restoration ritual lingered. Sloopidoop’s webbed hands hovered over Sarith’s still form, shimmering with a faint glow that matched the blue light thrumming beneath the ground. The six companions remained in a tight ring around the fallen drow warrior, hands touching his shoulders, arms, and armor, each a thread in the fragile web anchoring him to the material plane. Silence followed. It stretched, thick and unbearable, each second dragging out like an eternity.
Sarith’s chest heaved upward like a man pulled from drowning. His eyes shot open wide—wild, dilated, frantic—muscles tense as if he might strike or bolt. He flailed instinctively, but something caught his wrist.
Zelyra let out a choked gasp of relief, half a laugh, half a sob. Beside her, Fraeya exhaled sharply, blinking fast and wiping her cheek. The two women threw an arm around each other in a tight, brief side-hug.
Sarith blinked rapidly, his vision sharpening. The grove swam into view—blurry faces and familiar voices. A strange dampness clung to his skin. He shivered, not from cold, but from something he couldn’t name. His body ached, his head throbbed, but he was alive. His eyes locked onto Fraeya’s, and the rogue pressed something into his hands before he could fully register what had happened. Cold metal, worn smooth by time. He looked down. It was two small emblems. He knew them.
Sarith swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat as he stared at them. “How—?”
“You escaped that day,” Fraeya continued, her voice softer now, but no less resolute. “Imbros Mizzrym did not.”
His breath hitched. He had assumed—
No. He hadn’t allowed himself to assume.
Sarith had let the memory of that doomed mission rot in his mind, convinced that he had failed. He lost more than just a fellow guard that day. He lost his station, his dignity, everything. He had lived with the weight of that sin for what felt like a lifetime. And now, Fraeya had undone it with the simple truth laid bare in his hands.
His lips parted, but before he could voice the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind, Fraeya’s relief turned to fury. “What were you thinking!?” she burst, rounding on Sarith so fast he recoiled on instinct. “Running into the fight like that?! You were already on the brink of—of whatever the Abyss was happening to you, and then you go sliding down the ravine to distract Yestabrod like a damned martyr?!”
Sarith blinked, then let out a tired, long-suffering sigh. He rolled his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face as the rogue continued her tirade.
“You could’ve died! You almost did die! Gods, you are so reckless, I—”
“I did die,” the drow warrior corrected dryly.
“Apparently, you need someone to remind you that you are not expendable!”
“I had it under control.”
Sarith groaned, but there was no real venom behind it.
“I was already infected,” he insisted. “It seemed efficient.”
A vein in Fraeya’s forehead bulged as she pulled her lips back in a snarl. The drow looked like she was two seconds away from sending Sarith straight back to his grave.
Kazimir chuckled lowly before stepping forward, extending a hand to the drow warrior.
“Okay, okay. Let him breathe, Fraeya.”
Sarith eyed the outstretched hand for a long moment before clasping Kazimir’s forearm, allowing the wizard to help pull him to his feet. His limbs still felt strange, like they weren’t entirely his own. He felt different. Not weak. Not broken. Just... different.
. . .
To read more: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61549729/chapters/168784804
