The Wake of Light

28th of Reaping, 977 A.D.

Twelve years. That was how long the light had burned. It was not warm, not cruel. It simply was. There were no shadows there, not even the ones cast by memory. There were no days and no nights. There was only illumination.

Aelthar had not aged. Not truly. But time had worn on his thoughts like water on stone. He spoke to himself now, and to walls that gave no answer. Sometimes, he sang. Other times, he wept. But mostly, he waited. There were no dreams in the prison of light, but he made them anyway, shaped them from the scraps of a mind unraveling at the edges. He dreamed of candlelit halls and velvet dark. Of quiet voices in the shadows. Of Shar. But she never came. Not there. Not in that light. Not even she could reach him there.

Sometimes, he saw the others - Arani, Thalia, Alexei, Mika - in flickers, like faces drawn on the inside of his eyelids. He forgot who died, who left, who stayed. Sometimes, he forgot his own name. And sometimes, he screamed, not in pain, but in refusal. In defiance of light that could not be touched, of silence that could not be broken. Until that day.

The light shivered. Didn’t flicker, didn’t dim - no, it shivered. Aelthar blinked, and as he opened his eyes again, a new shape existed. A figure, robed and calm, standing in the heart of the chamber. His cloak was layered, black as void on red as blood. His face was serene, almost kind. But his eyes shimmered like oil on water, and something in his shadow curled the wrong way.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Aelthar rasped, his voice like dried leaves.

“Neither are you,” the man replied.

Aelthar swayed forward. “Who are you?”

The stranger tilted his head, the way a man might when looking at a puzzle missing just one piece.

“I have many names,” he said. “But the one you need is this - I walk in Cyric’s wake. I carry his words. I shape his will.” He smiled. “I am his aspect.”

Aelthar frowned faintly. “Cyric… That name. It sounds familiar.”

The aspect said nothing.

Aelthar recoiled. “Why would he send anyone for me?”

“Because it’s time.”

The aspect stepped towards the edge of the sphere. The light shivered around him, much like it did when the stranger had appeared. His hand touched the wall of the sphere, and cracks bloomed like frost beneath his palm. And just like that, the prison broke. Aelthar fell to his knees, gasping. The light peeled away, and with it, something returned. A warmth that wasn’t warmth. A presence behind his thoughts. She did not speak in words, but her presence coiled around him like a coat pulled tight in winter. After twelve years, the darkness finally breathed again.

They did not speak much as they traveled. There were no roads where they went, only paths those who did not wish to be seen walked. The aspect moved with quiet purpose. Aelthar followed, the feel of shadow returning slowly to his skin. It was a while before Aelthar broke the silence.

“Why now?”

The aspect glanced back. “Because the world is changing. Threads long dormant have begun to stir. The Weave stirs in its sleep. And our gods are watching.”

He gestured toward a spire of silver-veined stone, its surface glowing faintly with magic, rising high enough to pierce the clouds.

“We’re taking something from one of the gods who caged you. In that tower, Azuth left his Staff.”

They did not take the spire by storm. They slipped between the shadows, past the sentinels who forgot to look the right way. Aelthar was not whole, not yet, but the shadows answered him again. And the aspect - Cyric’s agent - moved like a man who was never meant to be seen.

In the heart of the spire was the reliquary. Guarded by arcane wards, wrapped in runes with whispered warnings. Floating at the center was a staff - simple at first glance, but unmistakable. It had a shaft of polished obsidian, etched with a spiraling script that seemed to rewrite itself when not looked at directly. At its head, a blue flame sat suspended in crystal, flickering not with fire, but with pure magic.

The Staff of Azuth.

Aelthar stepped forward and closed his hand around the staff. Shar’s voice, cold and clear, blossomed in his mind.

She told him everything.

Of Antael, and the journey they shared. Of Cyric’s betrayal—how he turned on his brother and left him for dead. Of Ghazan’tor. Of the Cyrinishad. Of Kerelan, keeping Antael safe and bringing him back. Of Agnese. Of the mad god whispering scripture to himself atop a silent throne. Of Twilight. And of what was to come.

Aelthar did not move. He did not scream. He simply breathed. Once. Twice.

“Do not strike yet,” Shar told him. “Let the game play out. Let the pieces fall. Finish this task. Deliver the staff. And when the time is right…”

The shadows curled around his fingers, threading around the stolen artifact.

“Then you may have your revenge.”