That afternoon, the group prepared to depart back to Blackstone Outpost. They were battered, yes, Erik's body screamed for a hot bath and a sleep in a real bed, but they were victorious. The mood on the journey home was a mix of relief at having survived and a somber undertone, knowing now that darker events were in motion beyond just this one village. Erik walked alongside the wagon where Finn was stretched out resting, recovering from his ordeal. Every so often, Finn would crack open an eye and grumble about the bumps in the road jostling his bruises, which only made Erik chuckle and roll his eyes. If Finn was complaining, he would be alright.
Darius rode ahead on a borrowed horse, conversing quietly with Zara and Holt. Erik caught snippets, talk of forming a more formal alliance if more incidents like Graystone occur. It struck Erik that this might be how bigger adventuring companies or even militias form: small bands banding together against a looming threat. The idea made him uneasy but determined; if the cult was as widespread as it seemed, they would need all the help they could get.
Lyra eventually drifted back to walk beside Erik. She looked utterly spent, dark circles under her eyes, her robe still stained with ash and blood despite attempts to clean it. Yet she offered him a gentle smile. "How are you holding up, Erik?" she asked. The way her voice lilted in concern caused an unexpected flutter in Erik's chest.
"Tired. Sore in a few places I didn't know I had," he joked softly. After a beat, he added in a more serious tone, "But… I'm glad it's over. And I'm glad we all made it." He hesitated, then admitted in a quieter voice, "When I saw Finn go down… I was afraid, Lyra. More afraid than I've ever been." Saying it aloud felt like a release. In that moment he allowed himself to feel the sheer terror he'd pushed aside: the fear of losing one of his new family.
Lyra's eyes softened. Without thinking, she reached out and took Erik's hand as they walked. "Me too," she confessed. "That fear… it's a constant companion in our line of work. We can't banish it. We can only accept it, act despite it, and trust each other." Her hand gave his a squeeze. "Tonight, we all did just that."
Erik nodded, the lump in his throat returning. He realized these people, Darius, Lyra, Finn, they had likely lost comrades before. This world was unforgiving. And it will only get more dangerous if this 'Dungeon Lord' threat is real, he thought, recalling the necromancer's dying prophecy. The idea of facing something powerful enough to be called a lord of dungeons… a chill ran through him. But then Lyra's hand on his arm anchored him in the present.
"You were very brave," Lyra said softly. "Rushing that necromancer like that… I'm certain you saved Finn's life by preventing a second attack." There was admiration in her voice that made Erik flush.
"I just… reacted," Erik mumbled, a little embarrassed. "I couldn't let him hurt anyone else."
"That protectiveness is part of what makes you who you are… or who you've become," Lyra replied, a curious note in her voice. Erik glanced at her, slightly startled by the phrasing. Does she suspect…? he wondered for a heartbeat if Lyra sensed how different he was from the man he'd been before waking up in that dungeon. But Lyra simply continued, eyes forward on the road, "I've seen you grow so much stronger and bolder in just a short time, Erik. It's inspiring."
Warmth bloomed in Erik's cheeks. He cleared his throat and tried to play it off, looking away so she wouldn't see how much her words affected him. "I have good people to fight for," he said quietly.
Lyra's only answer was a radiant smile and a slight leaning of her shoulder into his. They walked on in companionable silence, hand in hand for a few moments more before propriety made Lyra blush and withdraw hers with a polite cough. But the closeness remained, an unspoken bond that gave Erik hope even amid all the darkness they had witnessed.
By sunset, the wooden walls of Blackstone Outpost rose from the horizon like a promise. The Iron Wolves arrived bruised, bloodied, but unbroken. They had faced the dark at Graystone, and pushed it back.
Erik said nothing as the guards hailed their return. His thoughts lingered on the cultist's dying words, on the journal's whispers of a "Herald" and a rising Master. The storm was only beginning.
He looked back once, toward the horizon where Graystone lay. Safe, for now. But beyond that?
Something waited. Watching. Rising.
His hand tightened around Erythrael's haft. The axe hummed faintly, like it understood.
We're coming, Erik thought. Whatever you are, we're not running.
That night, Blackstone Outpost celebrated its returning heroes. Word of the Graystone rescue spread quickly, and the tavern was livelier than Erik had ever seen. Rough mercenaries raised mugs in salute as Darius's Iron Wolves and their allies entered The Gilded Tankard. Even Edward of the Brave Blades gave a curt nod of respect (though he muttered something about "lucky break" under his breath).
Erik found himself hoisted onto a bench with Finn by some jubilant patrons, insisting on buying them rounds of ale. Finn, now fully recovered after rest and a dose of potion, basked in the attention, regaling the crowd with an exaggerated recount of how he "leapt from shadow to shadow, slitting undead throats" and dramatically miming how Erik "brought down his axe like the wrath of the gods". Erik laughed, a bit embarrassed but enjoying the camaraderie and cheer. For once, the gloom of the world felt at bay.
Lyra and Zara were treated like heroines as well; Lyra blushed at the praise from villagers who had come from Graystone to give thanks in person. One elderly woman even pressed a knitted shawl into Lyra's hands as gratitude for saving her grandson's life. Darius was perhaps the most celebrated, a group of younger adventurers raised a toast "to Sir Ironheart!" and the whole hall echoed it. Darius bore it with humility, though Erik noticed a tiny, contented smile on the stoic man's face as he sipped his drink.
Holt got spectacularly drunk in short order, arm-wrestling anyone foolish enough to challenge him. And Lady Marienne herself visited their table to shake each of their hands and collect the necromancer's journal for further investigation. "You've all done a great service. Blackstone and the guild thank you," she said. To Erik specifically, she added, "Your name is on many lips tonight, young man. Keep your heart strong. Fame can be as dangerous as any monster." It was a friendly warning, which he took to heart with a nod.
Late into the night, the festivities wound down. Erik stepped outside the tavern for some fresh air, his head pleasantly buzzing from a couple of ales. The streets were quiet now, only a few lanterns glimmering. He looked up. The sky was clear, stars brilliant across the canvas of night. One of the moons was setting, a sliver of silver.
So much had happened in such a short time. And yet, he realized, he felt… at home. More than he ever did on Earth. Is it wrong? he wondered, thinking about his past life. Should I feel guilty for embracing this one so eagerly? Perhaps some would, but he didn't. This world, harsh as it was, had given him purpose and bonds he'd never trade away.
The door creaked open and Lyra stepped out, wrapping the gifted shawl around her shoulders against the chill. "There you are," she said softly. "I was looking for you."
Erik smiled. "Just needed a bit of air."
She moved to stand beside him, both of them gazing at the night sky and the silhouettes of distant dungeon pillars faintly glowing on the horizon. For a while, they were quiet, content in each other's presence.
Eventually, Lyra spoke, voice low. "What do you think the future holds for us, Erik? After everything we learned… it feels like a storm is coming."
Erik inhaled deeply, the crisp air sobering his thoughts. "I think you're right. This might be the calm before something big." He tilted his head toward her. "Does it scare you?"
Her gray eyes reflected the starlight as she looked back at him. "Yes. But knowing I'll face it with all of you… that makes it bearable." She offered a tentative smile. "We will endure, whatever comes. The Light watches over us, I believe."
He admired her faith, even if he didn't fully share its form. Her power was a tangible, undeniable force, yet its source was a mystery to his analytical mind. How did it work? He had to know.
"We'll make sure of it," he said firmly, his gaze steady. He chose his next words carefully, probing for understanding without revealing his own strange reality. "When you were in the goblin tunnels, the bolt of light you summoned… when you do that, what is it like? Do you have a name for it, from your training?"
Lyra seemed a little surprised by the specific question but answered readily. "Oh, yes. The Church teaches us the sacred words. That one is called 'Purge,' a simple cantrip to smite the unclean. There are others, like 'Mend' for healing or 'Bulwark' for a shield of light. The words and the faith behind them give form to the Light's will."
Erik simply nodded, the conversation having given him a crucial piece of the puzzle. Her power wasn't so different from his after all, he realized. She used names, 'Purge,' 'Mend', sacred words taught by the Church to give form to her intent. He had names for his abilities, too. Only his weren't learned from a book; they were branded onto his soul, known without a single lesson.
What if they were drawing from the same deep well of power? What if her faith and prayers were simply a structured, disciplined method to call upon the same fundamental magic that his runes accessed raw and untamed? He looked at her, this gentle woman who wielded the power of a star, and a new, startling question took hold. He focused, trying to see her the way he saw himself, trying to perceive the shimmering glyphs of power he imagined must be there. But there was nothing. Only Lyra. Her skin, her simple robes, the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed. His sight showed him nothing more. The theory crumbled as soon as it formed, leaving him with a deeper, more chilling loneliness. But then, what would she see, he wondered, if she could look through his eyes for just a moment?
"So the name is important?" he pressed, trying to sound merely curious.
"It is," Lyra affirmed, nodding. "It's a way to focus intent. Without the proper focus, channeling the Light can be… unpredictable. Dangerous, even." She looked at him, her expression earnest. "Your own abilities, Erik… that fury you unleashed. It's a powerful gift, but you must be careful it doesn't consume you."
"I will," he said, his voice quiet but resolute, a direct answer to her earlier, unspoken warning to be careful. "We'll protect each other. No matter what."
Lyra nodded, a grateful smile warming her features. In a gesture of simple, trusting friendship, she gently rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. Erik stood still, accepting the gesture for what it was, a quiet acknowledgment of their shared burden, a moment of solace between two soldiers on the eve of a long war.
At length, Lyra lifted her head as a shooting star streaked across the heavens. "A good omen, perhaps," she whispered.
"Let's hope so," Erik replied, his gaze not on the star, but on the dark horizon where he knew their path would lead. The night felt colder now, filled with looming threats and unanswered questions.
"Come," she said softly. "We should rest. Tomorrow is a new day."
Erik gave one last glance at the horizon. "Yes," he agreed, turning to walk with her. "A new dawn awaits."
Later, alone in the quiet of his room (Finn had found a beautiful floor at the tavern that would double as a bed), Erik sat on the edge of his cot, the weight of their conversation settling upon him. He replayed Lyra's words in his mind. The Church teaches us the sacred words... 'Purge'... 'Mend'...
Her power was structured, learned, passed down through tradition. She spoke names for her abilities as if reciting lessons from a book. She had faith, and her faith gave form to her power. But she had given no indication that she saw anything. There was no flicker of recognition in her eyes when he'd asked, no hint that she perceived the world through the same strange, runic lens that he did.
He closed his eyes, focusing inward. He called upon his own Sight, and the familiar, faint silver glyphs bloomed into view before him, hanging in the air of the dim room.
The name, the understanding of it, had been instantaneous for him. It hadn't been taught; it had been imprinted, branded onto his new consciousness. He had never spoken its name aloud, yet he knew it as well as his own.
He thought of Finn, of Darius. They were skilled, powerful in their own right, but they had never mentioned seeing the world this way. They spoke of instincts, of practice, of battle-honed reflexes. They did not speak of glowing runes that defined their very capabilities.
The conversation with Lyra hadn't just given him insight into her power; it had confirmed a terrifying, isolating truth about his own. This Runic Sight, this "System"... it was his alone. He was the only one who could see the fundamental rules that governed this world.
The realization was a cold weight in his gut. It made him an outsider in a way he hadn't fully appreciated until now. But it also made him… essential. If he was the only one who could perceive this hidden layer of reality, then the responsibility to understand it, and to use that understanding to protect the people who had taken him in, fell squarely on his shoulders.
He let the Runic Sight fade, the glyphs dissolving back into the quiet air. As the last silver mote vanished, another word surfaced from the deepest part of his memory, a single, chilling echo from the void between his two lives.
...Anomaly...
That's what the voices had called him. Not a soul, not a man. An anomaly. An error in the system. Was this Runic Sight the evidence of that? Was he not just seeing the world differently, but fundamentally wrong? The word carried a weight far heavier than any axe. It was the weight of not belonging, not just to a place, but to reality itself. He pushed the thought down, burying it deep.