DROKHAR
Isit in the darkness, watching the flames, listening to the stillness that has fallen over this corner of the Veillands. No whispers. No demands. No dead screaming for attention that will never come.
Peace. This is what peace feels like.
The message arrives with a courier who’s been tracking us for days—a young man from the Death Warden Guild, sweating despite the cool evening air, clearly uncomfortable being this far from civilization with nothing but a pair of notorious fugitives for company.
“Commander Stoneveil.” He hands over a sealed scroll with the Guild’s crest pressed into the wax. “From the offices in Blackreach. They said you’d want to see this immediately.”
I take the scroll. Don’t correct him on the title—I haven’t been a commander since we walked out of the Ash Pits, and the Guild has officially stripped me of rank for “dereliction of duty and consorting with forbidden practitioners.” The courier probably doesn’t know any of that. Or doesn’t care.
“Wait here.” I gesture toward the fire. “There’s food if you’re hungry. Water in the skins by the boulder.”
He retreats to the fire with visible relief. I move to the edge of the firelight, break the seal on the scroll, and read by the dying glow of the flames.
The message is from Captain Varn.
“Drokhar—
The Council has declared you dead. Official story is that you perished destroying theGravetideKing, along with the mourning witch who was instrumental in stopping the revenant uprising. There’s a memorial plaque in the Hall of the Honored. I’ve been promoted to Commander of the Ash Pits.
Unofficially: I know you’re alive. Half the Guild knows you’re alive. We’ve been getting reports from settlements across the easternVeillandsabout a death warden traveling with a witch, tending graves and giving the dead voice instead of burning them.
The reports are mixed. Some people think you’re heretics. Others think you’re saints. Most aren’t sure what to make of a world where death wardens and mourning witches work together instead of against each other.
I’m forwarding this message because I thought you’d want to know aboutIronreach.
The mining town to the north had a collapse three weeks ago. Shaft gave way into what the survivors are calling ‘the catacombs beneath the catacombs’—burial chambers so old the local historians can’t identify the civilization that built them. The dead there are... active. Voices in the dark, the reports say. Languages no one recognizes. Miners refusing to go back underground.
The town council has requested death warden assistance. I’m supposed to send a team to burn whatever’s down there and seal the chambers.
But I remember what you said before you left. About listening first. About giving the dead what they need instead of what we find convenient.
I’m delaying the burn order for thirty days. After that, I have to send someone.
If you get there first, maybe we can avoid another Gravetide King.
P.S. Arbiter Thorne moved for posthumous commendation. Meren objected; she was overruled three to one. The paperwork is filed. The matter is closed—officially. Arbiter Kess has quietly aligned herself with the reform faction; expect her to be useful if you ever need a voice on the Council.
—Varn
P.P.S. There’s a formal request from theIronreachcouncil attached. Mass burial site discovered beneath collapsed mine shaft. Estimated dead: unknown, possibly thousands. Voices reported by all who approach. Request immediate death warden response. Consider this your official assignment, even if no one at the Guild is supposed to know you’re still breathing.”
I fold the message. Look at the woman sleeping beside me—her dark hair spread across our shared bedroll, her face peaceful in a way it never was when I first met her. The mark on her collarbone catches the firelight, a scar that matches the one on my sternum.
Mates. Partners. Whatever we are to each other now.
Ironreach. Ancient catacombs. Dead so old they predate recorded history.
I’ve heard of the mining town—every death warden has. It sits at the northern edge of the Veillands, built over a network of tunnels and chambers that have been causing trouble for generations. The local death wardens have always taken thestandard approach: seal what you can’t burn, burn what you can’t seal, don’t ask questions about what’s below.
Apparently, that approach has stopped working.
A year ago, I would have burned that site without hesitation. Sealed the chambers, scattered the ashes, walked away before the voices could catch up to me. That’s what death wardens do. That’s what I was trained for. Lighting pyres had taught me that the dead are problems to be solved, not people to be heard.
But I’m not the man I was a year ago.
Torval’s dog tags press against my ribcage, beneath my armor. Their weight registers with every breath—not a burden anymore, but a reminder. My brother forgave me for an argument I spent decades torturing myself over. The dead in the Gravetide King’s realm found peace when someone finally let them speak. The soldiers in this valley rested at last because Aradya and I stopped to listen instead of marching on.