Chapter 87: The Dust Settles
The lich crumbled into a gust of ash, its dark, corporeal form dispersing into nothingness. Above, the oppressive black sky began to fracture, revealing faint streaks of pale afternoon light that seeped through the widening fissures, like water escaping through a cracked dam.
The initial slivers expanded into broad, shimmering golden beams that poured over the ruined cityscape below, illuminating shattered spires and collapsed edifices. The unnatural cold that had lingered in the air receded, replaced by a gentle warmth. The relentless wind fell silent, and the entire world, which had seemed to hold its breath in anticipation, finally exhaled a long, collective sigh.
Dominic lay sprawled on his back within the crater’s depths, his eyes fixed on the dazzling light streaming above.
He was immobilized, unable to move.
The empowering energy that had sustained him was now depleted, burned out of his body. What remained was an overwhelming, bone-deep exhaustion, sapping his strength with every breath. His body felt foreign, disconnected, his skin damp with blood, bruises blooming across his ribs, muscles aching from the strain. Yet, he was alive.
"You’re not allowed to do that again," Theresa’s voice whispered through the bond, trembling with exhaustion and relief.
"Which part?" Dominic thought back, fighting to speak.
"Any of it."
The others descended into the crater slowly, carefully picking their way over the fractured, uneven stones scattered across the ground. Florence reached him first, the Ghost Horse standing behind her like a translucent, spectral shadow, its form flickering faintly in the dim light. She was limping, her left leg slightly swollen, her halberd had been reclaimed from the crater where it had fallen. Despite her injuries, her eyes shone with resolve.
"You look terrible," she said softly.
"You are the one who threw me at it," he replied, voice strained.
"And you asked to be thrown. Nice work, Master," she said with a hint of amusement. She crouched beside him, wincing as her own wounds pulled at her muscles. "Can you stand?"
"Maybe. Not yet."
"Good. Stay there. Theresa will fuss."
Theresa was already at his side, the grimoire closed but still humming with residual arcane energy. She knelt gracefully, her hands already glowing with a soft golden light. It wasn’t healing, she was too exhausted for that, but she was checking and stabilizing. Her face was pale, lips pressed into a tight line, her golden eyes shadowed with fatigue and concern.
"Nothing’s broken, thankfully," she said quietly, her tone steady. "Strained muscles, torn tendons, but nothing broken."
"Told you I’d be fine," Dominic murmured.
"You didn’t tell us anything," Theresa’s voice was sharp but her touch remained gentle. "You just said ’Florence get ready to throw me’ and let her throw you into the sky."
"It worked though," he responded, grim but relieved.
"It worked," Florence repeated, managing a grin despite the blood smeared across her teeth. "That’s the part that matters."
Lysandra slid down the edge of the crater, her rods already sheathed at her belt, her eyes sweeping the ruins for any lingering threats. Frank followed more slowly, his sword still in hand, his face a mask of disbelief and exhaustion.
"Is it over?" Lysandra asked, voice cautious.
Dominic turned his head toward the spot where the lich had once stood. All that remained was a dark stain smeared across the weathered stone, already beginning to fade in the late afternoon sunlight. The risen dead had crumbled to dust, the vortex was gone, and the Church’s forces were broken and scattered.
"Yeah, It’s over," he said, voice final.
Frank exhaled a long, shaky breath. "Good. I wasn’t looking forward to round two."
Wobbly chose that moment to stir, lying silent and motionless on Dominic’s chest. Now it quivered, its glow shifting, deeper, more violet, pulsing with an unfamiliar rhythm. It emitted a soft, satisfied burble and pressed against Dominic’s jaw, the glow flickering faintly.
"Good job," Dominic thought at it.
Wobbly burbled again, its form brightening as it responded.
They made their cautious way back to the surface slowly, each step deliberate and tense.
The streets beyond the crater stretched out in eerie silence, the aftermath of chaos lingering. The fighting had ceased for awhile, and now soldiers and civilians alike emerged from shelters, and strong holds, their eyes adjusting to the bright, unfamiliar sunlight filtering through a haze of dust and smoke.
Bodies, many mangled and bloodstained, lay scattered across the cobblestones. Their dark blood seeped into the white stones, creating grim patterns of loss.
Florence and Theresa supported Dominic, their hands firm on his shoulders as they helped him walk. Lysandra led ahead, her sharp eyes darting from shadowed alleyways to rooftops, ever vigilant. Frank brought up the rear, his calm presence a quiet reassurance amid the tense silence.
As they navigated past the battered storefronts with shattered windows and the broken houses of the city, early signs of recognition flickered in the eyes of bystanders.
Initially, they only stared, mouths agape. Gradually, that veiled curiosity grew into something more palpable. A soldier, his uniform torn and dirt-streaked from digging through debris, paused, brushing soot from his face before standing tall.
A woman clutching a trembling child pressed her hand to her chest, her eyes glistening with tears. An elderly man, his face etched with worry, lifted his cap and held it over his heart in silent tribute.
Then, from the edge of the street, a single, resonant sound broke the quiet.
"Kane."
The name rippled through the throng like a crashing wave, echoed by others whose voices broke with raw emotion, smoke, grief, and relief tangled together.
"Kane!"
"It was Kane!"
"The Kane boy killed it!"
Florence’s grip on Dominic tightened instinctively. "You hear that?"
"Yeah," Dominic managed, voice strained and tentative.
"They’re not going to forget this. Not ever," Florence said.
Dominic didn’t respond.
The imperial soldiers arrived an hour later, their long, weary columns trudging through the city’s ruins. Armor dented, colors stained with smoke and blood, they bore the scars of relentless battles fought outside the city walls, holding back Church reinforcements and rooting out traitors within. They had emerged victorious from many fights, yet the most crucial victory still eluded them.
At the head of the column, a grizzled captain halted abruptly upon catching sight of the crater. His gaze swept over the shattered Tribunal and burning wreckage, lingering on the smoke that still curled into the sky. His eyes then settled on Dominic, seated calmly on a broken pillar, Theresa and Florence nearby.
The captain’s eyes widened in surprise, then he lifted his sword in a slow, deliberate gesture, a salute heavy with meaning. The soldiers behind him, one by one, lowered their blades, standing shoulder to shoulder to honor the man who had fought in their stead.
Dominic met the captain’s gaze and nodded solemnly.
With a quiet command, the captain lowered his sword. "Form up!" he called out sharply, as the soldiers began to organize, their boots crunching on shards of broken glass amid the ruins.
***
As the sun dipped below the horizon, they finally reached the manor. Despite the ravages of time and turmoil, it still stood proud. Wards shimmered faintly around it; windows bore cracks, and the front gate hung crookedly on its hinges. Yet, the house remained untouched at its core. Wobbly let out a joyful burble, almost celebrating as they crossed the threshold.
Florence and Theresa carefully guided Dominic to the couch, while Lysandra moved swiftly to inspect the damage. Frank lingered in the doorway, gazing back at the distant city skyline.
"I should go," he said softly. "The guild needs me. The city needs everyone."
Dominic fixed his gaze on him. "Thank you—for everything, things might gone much differently without you."
Frank shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. "No need to thank me. Today, you did the impossible. All we did was try to keep up." He paused thoughtfully. "Your father would be proud."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away into the dusk.
Florence had disappeared to tend to her wounds, mumbling about needing to brush the horse. Theresa retreated into her study, clutching the grimoire tightly against her chest. Lysandra positioned herself by the window, her gaze fixed on the busy street below, observing the busy streets.
Meanwhile, Dominic lay stretched out on the sturdy leather couch, Wobbly curled comfortably on his chest, both of them silent as they stared up at the ceiling adorned with faded frescoes.
The day played out in fractured moments: the Tribunal convening in a grand hall, the witness trembling, the curse, the explosion echoing through the city streets, the lich’s sinister laugh, the beam, the fall, the lightning tearing the sky apart, the swirling dust, each event blending into a haunting mosaic of chaos.
And now, this—this strange, delicate silence, filled with unspoken fears and lingering exhaustion.
He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle heavily on him, his muscles aching from the day’s ordeal.
The capital was safe now. The Church of the Eternal Will, with its dark secrets exposed, had been broken.
But somewhere, the Church’s shadowy masters were still plotting in the darkness.
This battle was over.
But the war—the war was only just beginning.