The morning sun cast long shadows across Silverlake City's cobblestone streets as the group made final preparations for their journey. Hythesion stood at the edge of the gate, his eyes fixed on the very spot where, in his nightmare, he'd seen his friends hanging dead. The memory clung to him like a cold mist, making his skin prickle even in the warm light. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to push away the haunting images, but the feeling of dread lingered.
"Sir Hythesion, ready to go?"
Geth's voice pulled him back to the present. Hythesion turned to find his companion standing by the cart, already loaded with supplies and packed bags.
"Ye—yeah," Hythesion replied, forcing steadiness into his tone as he walked toward the waiting vehicle.
Bayron, who'd been brought up to speed on their detour to the Northern Mountains and had readily agreed to the change in plans, stood ready at the front of the cart. The centaur patted the massive silver carp he'd grilled the day before—now wrapped carefully for the road—with a broad smile. "Good thing I saved some for the journey!"
Soon, everyone was mounted and settled: Geth and Akmenos perched on the bench at the back, Ethan and Maitara beside Hythesion near the front, and Arkar sitting calmly with his book secured to his lap. Bayron took his place at the lead, his powerful hooves finding solid ground as he guided two strong draft horses alongside him. With a nod to the group, he set off, the cart rumbling steadily toward the city gates.
But just as they passed through the archway and onto the road leading north, a line of mounted soldiers stepped into their path, blocking the way completely.
"Hold!" came a clear command.
The group jolted as Bayron reined in the horses, the cart coming to an abrupt stop. Ethan's hand moved instinctively to his sword hilt; Akmenos tensed, while Maitara leaned forward, her eyes sharp with caution.
"Apologies," a voice called out from among the soldiers, "but before leaving Silverlake City, we must check your cart for any stolen goods. If you are innocent, allow us to inspect peacefully, and you will be free to go."
Hythesion's brow furrowed. The voice was familiar—too familiar. He leaned out of the cart, squinting at the soldier who'd spoken, and his breath caught in his throat.
The leader of the patrol was no human, but a tabaxi with sleek black fur that gleamed like polished obsidian in the sun. He wore an elaborate outfit that blended steampunk precision with Victorian elegance: a long double-breasted coat trimmed in gold, with intricate buttons and tailored trousers that fit perfectly to his agile frame. A gold-adorned cuff caught the light on one wrist, and the coat swirled around him as if stirred by an unseen wind. He rode a powerful black horse fitted with dark leather armor, every detail as meticulous as his own attire.
Hythesion stared, his mind reeling from the nightmare's vision just days before. Then, without thinking, he called out—
"Dale?"
The tabaxi's eyes lit up with recognition the moment Hythesion spoke his name. "Hythesion!" he exclaimed, quickly dismounting from his horse and striding toward the cart. Hythesion climbed down immediately, and the two embraced like brothers separated for far too long—strong, warm, and full of relief.
"It's been years, old friend!" Dale said, pulling back to look at Hythesion with bright, golden eyes. "What in the world are you doing here in Silverlake?"
"We were just heading to the Northern Mountain," Hythesion replied, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
The words had barely left his mouth when a wave of discomfort washed over the soldiers—and Dale himself, who quickly raised a hand to cover his nose. "The Northern Mountain? That place of the plague?"
"Plague?" Hythesion repeated, his brow furrowing. Inside the cart, the others leaned forward, their faces pale with shock. Even Arkar looked stunned.
"What do you mean?" Hythesion pressed.
Dale's expression grew somber. "I see you truly don't know. Two years ago, that place was famous for its beautiful temple—pilgrims traveled from all over to pray to Vanessa, the White Order Dragon Lord. But then a strange sickness swept through the mountain settlements. It spread fast, and no one could stop it." He paused, his voice catching slightly. "Including Janna."
Hythesion grabbed Dale's arm, cutting him off. "Janna? I just saw her last night—she was warning me about a plague too!"
Dale fell silent, then gently placed a hand on Hythesion's shoulder. His golden eyes were filled with sympathy. "Hythesion… Janna is dead. She contracted the illness while trying to help the sick in the mountain villages. She died alongside the very people she was trying to save."
Hythesion staggered back, his mind reeling. The others in the cart were deathly quiet—Geth's jaw was tight, Akmenos had gone still, and Ethan's hand was clenched around his sword hilt.
"No… you must be joking," Hythesion whispered. "I spoke to her—we sat at a table, she held my hand…"
"Last night," Dale said softly, "when you were with her—could you feel her elven core?"
Hythesion's breath hitched. He closed his eyes, trying to recall—and realized with a crushing wave of grief that he couldn't. There had been no warmth, no familiar pulse of life he'd known since they were young mercenaries together. A tear traced a path down his cheek.
"She's gone," Dale confirmed quietly. "Taken by that mountain's plague."
Hythesion spun around, his gaze locking on Arkar. Anger burned in his eyes, hot and sharp. "What place are you trying to lead us into?"
Dale followed his stare, his expression hardening as he recognized the dragonborn. "Wait—you were one of the priests of the White Order Church?"
Arkar nodded, his head bowed. "Yes… I was."
In an instant, Dale moved—leaping onto the cart with feline grace, pinning Arkar to the floorboards before anyone could react. His claws extended, sharp as knives, pressing against the dragonborn's throat. "You were supposed to protect them!" he snarled, his voice raw with pain. "You priests betrayed us all! Janna is dead because of you!"
His claw was mere inches from Arkar's skin, ready to strike—when Maitara's hand shot out, gripping Dale's wrist with surprising strength. She struggled to hold him back, her face strained with effort.
"Please," she gasped, "let him explain first!"
Hythesion stepped into the cart, placing a firm hand on Dale's shoulder. "That's enough, Dale. Let him speak."
Dale's claws slowly retracted, though his grip on Arkar didn't loosen entirely until Hythesion gave a gentle nod. Hythesion stood over the dragonborn, his expression serious and unyielding.
"Why did you hide this from us?" he asked, his voice steady but heavy with emotion.
Geth, still on edge, drew his sword and pointed its tip just inches from Arkar's neck. "Answer the question. No lies."
Arkar met their gazes without flinching, his golden eyes clear and calm. "All I am about to say is nothing but the truth. You can even use your mystique eyes to verify it, elf," he said, looking directly at Hythesion.
"Yes… I was there when the plague struck," he began, his voice carrying the weight of memory. "I watched people sicken and die, watched families torn apart by a sickness we could have helped with. We dragonborn are immune to such plagues, but the other priests… they did not care to act. They locked themselves in the temple and let the people suffer."
He paused, his gaze distant for a moment. "I couldn't stand by. I used the Spell of Resurrection—one that Vanessa herself created, in her book. I was shocked when it worked. I managed to bring back a handful of people before the other priests found me. They captured me immediately."
Arkar's jaw tightened. "The elders said I'd disobeyed sacred church law—claimed resurrection was an abomination against the natural order. They stripped me of my title and cast me out." He turned his eyes to Dale, his expression filled with genuine regret. "I saw your friend Janna. I watched her tend to the sick, even as she grew weak herself. By the time I could reach her, it was too late. And then the priests dragged me away before I could try to save her… or anyone else."
Silence fell over the cart—so heavy that even the soldiers standing outside had gone quiet, listening intently to every word.
"If this plague is so dangerous," Ethan finally broke the stillness, "why would you lead us there? It would kill us all, wouldn't it?"
Arkar shook his head. "My magic can create protective wards—spells passed down from Vanessa that shield against the sickness. But more than that… I do not believe the plague was natural." His voice grew sharp with conviction. "I believe the priests themselves started it. Why they would do such a thing… that I do not know."
"I wish to tell you now—once we arrive at the mountain, my magic will shield you all from harm," Arkar said, his voice carrying a note of apology. "I didn't speak of it at first because I feared it might scare you away from this path."
Akmenos let out a short, dry laugh. "Well, it worked… a little bit, anyway."
Arkar's gaze shifted back to Hythesion and Dale, his expression earnest. "I cannot make any guarantees, but I believe there may be a way to bring your friend back."
The words hit them like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Both Hythesion and Dale's eyes widened, the heavy grief in their faces giving way to a flicker of hope.
"How?" Dale demanded, leaning forward eagerly.
"I can perform the full Resurrection Ritual in the temple—one far more powerful than the small spells I used before," Arkar explained. "As I said, this plague was not natural. It was staged, crafted by magic. That means its lethal effects are not bound by the true laws of life and death. Those who 'died' from it… they are not truly gone. Their souls remain tied to their bodies in a way that natural death would not allow."
He paused, looking between the two friends. "And have any of you seen their bodies? I do not believe they were buried or burned. From what I know of the priests' actions, I suspect they've kept all the fallen inside the temple itself—preserved in some way, waiting for… something."
"So you're saying Janna and the others are only partially dead?" Hythesion whispered, barely daring to believe it.
"That is correct," Arkar confirmed. "Their bodies still hold the spark that can be reignited."
Dale stood up straight, his black fur bristling with resolve. "Then I'm coming with you. I was too late to save her when the plague struck—I won't be too late now. If there's even the smallest chance to bring Janna back, I'll put my life on the line for it."
Hythesion placed a hand on Dale's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. He nodded slowly, his own determination hardening. The grief was still there, but now it was tempered with purpose.
Hythesion's eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his voice steady as stone. "All answers I need to know—about the pendant, about Janna, about what's coming for us—are in that mountain." He looked at Arkar, a quiet understanding passing between them. "All answers I need are there."
"Mine too," Arkar replied simply, his gaze meeting Hythesion's. The weight of their shared mission, their shared need for truth, hung in the air between them.
Akmenos leaned in close, his voice low enough that only Hythesion could hear. "Just tell me the word, sir. One nod, and I'll kick this lying dragonborn's ass clear to the next valley."
Hythesion couldn't help but crack a small smile, even as his heart remained heavy with purpose. "Relax," he said quietly. "I checked with my mystique eyes—he's telling the truth. Every word."
He turned his gaze back to the northern horizon, where the dark peaks of the mountains rose like sleeping giants against the sky. A quiet resolve settled over him, and he spoke in a voice barely more than a whisper—but one filled with unshakeable faith.
"We're coming… Janna."
*AT DEEPEST DUNGEON OF THE WHITE ORDER CHURCH*
Beneath the gleaming white spires of the White Order Church, far below the temple floors and hidden behind walls of solid rock, lies a dungeon carved into the mountain's very core. The air here is cold and still, thick with the scent of iron and decay. Torches cast flickering orange light across stone walls stained with age and something darker.
Rows upon rows of stone slabs line the cavernous space—each one holding a body preserved in unnatural stillness. Among them, Janna's form rests on a slab near the far wall, her features peaceful as if in sleep. Hundreds of other bodies fill the chamber, all kept in the same suspended state between life and death.
From the shadows at the chamber's edge, an old voice rasps—thin as dry parchment, yet carrying absolute authority.
"We need a couple more bodies," it said, echoing through the hollow space. "Once we have them, we can finally starts the White Lord's ritual"
Another ancient voice, equally weathered by time, responded from a nearby alcove where candlelight danced across scales the color of dull bronze.
"Don't worry," this second elder said, a cold smile playing at the corners of his draconic maw. "Arkar thinks he's leading them here out of his own will—He believes he's bringing answers to his questions…" The elder paused, letting out a low chuckle that rumbled like shifting rock. "…but he's really bringing us exactly what we need."