Chapter 23 - Shadows into Light
The chamber was alive with darkness.
Kalo stood firm, the Heatherblade glowing in his grip, its silver edge slicing through the black tendrils that lashed toward him. Sprig hissed from his shoulder, his small body coiling and striking at the living shadows as they surged forward in endless waves. The broom—now sword—cut through them, but it was like trying to carve smoke. Every strike sent them recoiling, only for them to reform, shifting, twisting, growing stronger.
The shadows swallowed the chamber whole, tendrils slithering across the stone like hungry serpents. They coiled around Kalo’s legs, climbing his arms, wrapping around his throat—smothering him.
For the first time in a long while, fear crept into his heart.
The Heatherblade pulsed, but even its ancient magic seemed dim in the face of the encroaching void.
Then, above the chaos, came a laugh—deep, guttural, and defiant.
Windlecrag.
The Duel
The hobgoblin danced.
His bare feet slapped against the stone as he moved with a feral grace, his body twisting, leaping, rolling—alive with magic.
Before him, the Drow stood tall, his face carved in disdain, the Red Lantern glowing in his grasp.
“Pathetic little creature,” the Drow sneered, flicking his wrist. A crimson light pulsed from the lantern’s core, and with it, a bolt of searing energy cut through the air, aimed straight for Windlecrag’s chest.
But the hobgoblin was not there.
He ducked, rolled, sprang onto his hands, flipping effortlessly over the attack. The blast struck the stone behind him, leaving a scorched, smoking crater.
“You,” Windlecrag grinned, landing lightly, “merely steal magic.” He spread his arms, his fingers crackling with his own power. “You will always be a thief. But I?” His eyes gleamed with a wild fire. “I am of the magic. Of the land.”
The Drow snarled and lashed out with the lantern again.
Windlecrag moved.
A blur of motion, a shadow among shadows—he danced between the blasts, skipping, spinning, sliding across the chamber like a leaf in the wind. The Red Lantern flared with frustration, its master unleashing a torrent of cursed magic, but the hobgoblin was untouchable.
He vaulted off a broken pillar, twisting midair, landing behind the Drow with a triumphant snap of his fingers.
A burst of red flame erupted from his palm—his magic, raw and untamed. It struck the Drow full in the chest, sending him staggering back.
The Drow hissed in pain, his robes smoldering. He raised the Red Lantern for another attack—
—but the magic flickered.
A crack formed across the lantern’s surface. A single, thin fracture, glowing with an eerie light.
Windlecrag grinned. “Oh. That’s interesting.”
The Drow’s eyes widened. “No—”
The lantern shattered.
A great, sucking wind tore through the chamber. The Drow screamed as the force ripped him backward, his body distorting, warping, being pulled away. His limbs twisted, his form stretched—
And then—he was gone.
The shadows around Kalo shuddered.
A high-pitched screech echoed through the ruins as the tendrils recoiled, writhing, their form breaking apart. The darkness that had engulfed him, the Heatherblade, and Sprig dissipated, melting away like mist in the morning sun.
Silence fell.
The ruins stood still once more.
Aftermath
Kalo staggered forward, coughing, his skin still tingling from where the shadows had clung to him. The Heatherblade, once brimming with tension, relaxed, and with a shimmer, transformed back into the broom.
Windlecrag stretched, rolling his shoulders as if he had just finished a casual workout. “Well,” he said, dusting off his hands, “that was fun.”
Kalo shot him a glare, but then—after a moment—laughed. A short, breathless chuckle.
The hobgoblin grinned. “Told you, lad. I’m the magic.”
Kalo shook his head, then turned to the now empty space where the Drow had stood.
“Where do you think he went?”
Windlecrag shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” He tapped his temple. “But something tells me… we haven’t seen the last of him.”
Kalo exhaled. Then, after a moment, he glanced up the crumbling stairs—where Lukan still lay.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get our friend.”
Windlecrag clapped him on the back, and together, they ascended the steps—leaving the shadows behind.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 24 - Goodbyes
They buried him at the fork in the road leading to town.
The old koopling had given his life for Grimthorn Hollow. A traveler by nature, it was only fitting that his final rest be at a place where roads met, where paths diverged, where the winds carried the whispers of the wandering.
The mourners stood in a solemn circle, watching as the last shovelfuls of dirt covered the shroud. The air smelled of damp earth and distant rain.
Nessy stepped forward, her cloak shifting with the breeze. She reached into her satchel, pulling free a small, silver coin. With quiet reverence, she pressed it to her lips, then placed it on the grave.
“May your feet find the road unbroken. May your journey be ever onward.”
Then, as travelers had done for generations, she turned her back to the grave and walked three slow steps away—never looking back. It was their way. The road only moved forward.
The Gift of White Heather
Kalo knelt, his hand pressing lightly to the fresh mound of earth.
“For those loyal to the House of White Heather,” he murmured.
Silence stretched. But beneath his palm, unseen tendrils of magic wove into the ground. The mourners gasped softly as green shoots curled upward, pushing through the soil, delicate stems stretching toward the sky.
White heather bloomed.
Pale blossoms unfolded in the morning light, their petals swaying in the wind, a quiet promise of remembrance.
Departures
Later, as the travelers mounted their wagons, Nessy turned to the gathered townspeople.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
A few murmured thanks in return. Some only nodded. They had all lost something.
She turned to Veln. “Come with us,” she offered. “The open road is calling.”
Veln shook his head. “No. I’ve decided to rebuild the Thorn and Thistle,” he said. “And I’ll help the hobgoblin keep watch over the town. I owe it that much.”
Nessy studied him for a moment, then smiled. “Then may your road be strong beneath your feet.”
With that, Kalo and Lukan climbed onto one of the wagons, Sprig curled on Kalo’s shoulder, the broom floating lazily beside them. They were only hitching a ride—home called to them now.
The Lantern Burns Again
Windlecrag stepped from the crowd, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He walked to the fresh grave, kneeling beside the dead lantern that hung from the signpost at the fork.
He opened a hidden panel on its side, then raised one finger.
A green flame flickered to life. It danced at his fingertip for a moment before licking into the lantern’s core. The shattered glass mended. The rusted frame gleamed. The flame inside blossomed, casting a soft, emerald glow across the road.
Windlecrag nodded, satisfied. “What was undone will be returned. The magic of Grimthorn Hollow shall flow again.”
He reached into his coat and withdrew the traveler’s crystal ball. With a touch, its misty depths stirred to life, swirling with light. He grinned.
Everything was as it should be.
The Road Calls
The townsfolk stood at the edge of the wild heath, watching as the caravan wagons rolled away, their wheels creaking softly against the old road. The golden fields stretched endlessly, the sky vast and blue.
A few raised hands in farewell. Others simply watched.
The wagons grew smaller in the distance, the dust of their passage curling in the wind.
And then—just like all travelers do—they disappeared over the horizon.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
