The Last Light of Aurathen
Kael had never seen a sky so red. It wasn’t sunset—it was the burning. The Outer Lands flamed again beyond the walls, black smoke curling like serpents over the horizon. From the ramparts, soldiers shouted, and bells clanged through the fortress city of Valenfort. Monsters were near.
Kael wasn’t a soldier. He was a stable boy who’d once run messages for coin and kept his head low enough to be forgotten. But when the beasts came, the forgotten were the first to be remembered—as bait, as fodder, as those who could be spared.
He pulled his cloak tighter, clutching the small iron charm at his neck: a circle etched with the crest of Elyon the Brightborn. His mother had given it to him before she vanished in one of the early raids. “When the light fades,” she’d said, “remember He already won.”
He hadn’t believed her for years. Until last week.
The monsters had come in the night—ash wolves with ember eyes, remnants of Vorrath the Devourer’s curse. Kael had run with a torch and a rusted blade, and somehow, somehow, he’d lived. When dawn broke, he found himself standing in a field of ash and bones, his torch still burning bright.
He should have died. He’d felt claws tear his arm, had seen death closing like a shadow. But a voice had cut through the darkness: “You were dead, and now you live. Not by sword, but by grace.”
Since then, the voice lingered.
Now, as Kael crossed the market square, he saw it again—the corruption spreading. Men and women bartered idols of Vorrath’s head, claiming the dragon’s return would bring power. Priests of the city preached that Elyon’s victory was a myth, that salvation was a dream for cowards.
And yet… weren’t there monsters still? Weren’t the walls still falling?
That night, in the tavern, a group of mercenaries argued loudly at the fire. Kael nursed a bowl of stew, trying not to listen—until he heard the question that had haunted him.
“If the Brightborn defeated Vorrath,” one scoffed, slamming his mug, “then why do we still fight his spawn? Why do the beasts still come?”
The table roared with laughter. “Aye,” another said. “Maybe the Brightborn’s just another story for fools who can’t swing steel.”
Kael felt the fire twist in his chest. The same voice whispered again, quiet but steady: “Speak.”
He stood, trembling. “Because the Brightborn won,” he said, his voice too small at first. “The dragon is fallen, but his poison lingers. The monsters we fight are not to finish his defeat, but to live in the victory already won.”
The tavern stilled.
A scarred veteran spat. “And what are you, preacher boy? Some temple brat with shiny words?”
Kael swallowed. “No. I was dead once. Not in body—but inside. I worshiped shadows. But He raised me.”
Laughter broke out again. But one man—the old blacksmith in the corner—watched Kael with narrowed eyes, as if remembering something.
“You speak like one who’s seen the Brightborn,” the blacksmith said.
Kael hesitated. “I didn’t see Him. I heard Him. The night the ash wolves came.”
More laughter. “Voices in the dark! You’re mad.”
“Maybe,” Kael said. “But madness speaks truer than silence sometimes.”
The blacksmith leaned forward. “If the Brightborn truly won, what’s left for us to do?”
Kael looked down at his scarred hand. “Live as if it’s true. Slay what still crawls—but not to earn victory. To reveal it.”
Word spread fast. By dawn, rumors of the “stable-hand prophet” reached the Citadel. The city council summoned him.
He stood before them—lords in gold, priests with hollow eyes, knights with polished armor.
They asked him what gave him the right to speak.
Kael said, “Nothing. That’s the point.”
He spoke of the Brightborn’s victory, of grace that remade the dead, of repentance and truth. He spoke of how the kingdoms had grown rich from the ruins, how they’d built idols to power while pretending the dragon’s shadow was gone. He told them that to be saved wasn’t to fight harder, but to surrender—to let the light in.
At first, some listened. Then came the mockery.
“Blasphemy,” one cried. “The Brightborn left us centuries ago.”
“Foolishness,” another said. “Your ‘grace’ makes men weak.”
Kael met their eyes. “No. It makes them alive.”
The room erupted. Guards seized him. The blacksmith—who had followed to watch—rose but was struck down.
As they dragged Kael through the square, he saw the people watching from behind iron gates: farmers, beggars, children clutching torches. The city sky glowed red again—the monsters gathering beyond the wall.
He shouted, “The dragon’s fire is dying! His roar is only an echo!”
Stones were thrown.
“Repent,” Kael cried as blood trickled from his lip, “and live—not by sword, but by grace!”
The guards hurled him into the dungeon below the Citadel. The door slammed shut, the air thick with damp stone and torch smoke.
He sat in darkness, breathing hard.
Then he laughed—a small, breathless sound. Because even here, the warmth remained. The same voice whispered, near as heartbeat:
“You were dead in the shadows, and I made you alive in light.
I raised you with Me, not that you might conquer,
but that you might remember the battle is already won.”
Above, the bells tolled. Kael leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, whispering into the dark, “Then let them come. I’ll tell it again.”
And somewhere far beyond the city walls, under the blood-red sky, the monsters howled—not in triumph, but in fear.
By Micah Siemens
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