Chapter 67 The Last Light of Narrin
The storm didn’t return with fury.
It came with precision.
A silence that sliced through the veil like a blade. A whisper that bent the air. A shard of rewritten prophecy—an arrow of voidfire—cut through the sky, aimed not at me, but at Milo.
He stood at the edge of the Flameborn Rift, shielding me as I recovered, unaware of the danger. My flame was flickering, unstable, barely holding shape. I couldn’t move fast enough. I couldn’t speak.
But Narrin saw it.
And chose.
Time slowed.
I remember the way his runes flared—ancient, defiant, beautiful. They lit up his skin like constellations, each one a memory, a promise, a refusal to let fate win.
He stepped between Milo and the voidfire.
I saw the arrow too late.
A shard of rewritten prophecy, voidfire trailing behind it like a comet of consequence. It wasn’t aimed at me. It was aimed at Milo—standing at the edge of the Flameborn Rift, shielding me, unaware.
I tried to move. My flame surged, but my body was still recovering, still fragile. I screamed his name.
And then Narrin moved.
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t shout. He didn’t ask permission.
He stepped between Milo and the voidfire like he’d always known this was how it would end.
His runes flared—ancient, defiant, beautiful. They lit up his body like stars refusing to go quietly. I saw the moment the arrow struck. I saw the light explode. I saw Milo fall to his knees, shadow flaring in panic.
And I saw Narrin collapse.
His body glowed with the last of his magic, runes flickering like dying embers. He looked at Milo—not with fear, not with regret, but with certainty.
“You were never the heir of darkness,” he whispered. “You were the choice.”
Then he was gone.
No final spell. No dramatic farewell. Just silence.
I ran to him, but there was nothing left to save. Just the warmth of his sacrifice and the echo of his belief in us.
In me.
In Milo.
The Rift pulsed once, like it was mourning too.
And I screamed again—not in pain, but in fury. Because the Hollow Crown hadn’t just taken a life.
It had taken our light.
We gathered in silence.
Talon wept openly, his hands clenched into fists. I’d never seen him cry before. It made everything worse.
Yuel carved a memorial rune into the Rift’s wall, his face unreadable. “He was the only one who could make tactical plans and sarcastic remarks at the same time,” he said. “Now I have to do both.”
Thess stood with her blade drawn, unmoving. “I should’ve seen it,” she muttered. “I should’ve stopped it.”
“You couldn’t,” Kael said quietly. “None of us could.”
Lira knelt beside the spot where Narrin fell, planting a single silverleaf. “He was the calm in our chaos.”
Zeke didn’t speak. He just stared at the sky, scanning for something—anything—that could explain why.
I stood beside Milo, my flame flickering with grief.
“He saved me,” Milo said, voice hollow.
I nodded. “He saved all of us.”
The sky darkened.
The clouds twisted into shapes that shouldn’t exist—faces, memories, regrets. And then the voice came.
“One light falls. Many shall follow.”
It echoed through the Rift, through the Vale, through me.
I turned toward the storm.
And my flame surged.
We didn’t speak much after that. What was there to say?
Talon took command, his voice steadier than his hands. “We need to regroup. The Hollow Crown isn’t done.”
“Obviously,” Yuel said. “It’s still monologuing.”
Kael examined the voidfire residue. “This wasn’t just an attack. It was a message.”
Thess paced like a caged wolf. “Then let’s send one back.”
Lira looked at me. “Mo, your flame—”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
“You’re flickering,” she said.
“I’m grieving,” I corrected.
Zeke finally spoke. “Narrin’s runes were shielding more than Milo. They were shielding the Rift itself.”
“What does that mean?” Talon asked.
“It means,” Zeke said, “we’re exposed.”
As if the universe wanted to rub salt in the wound, a courier arrived from Aeloria.
A Raven drop a scroll sealed with gold and glitter. I opened it, already bracing for disappointment.
To the Flameborn Watch, and most notably Mo of the Flickering Flame,
We regret to inform you that your recent activities have caused considerable disruption to the royal gardens, the celestial calendar, and our personal meditation schedule.
The loss of Commander Narrin is unfortunate, though we must remind you that unauthorized prophecy manipulation is strictly prohibited under the Aelorian Accord of Aesthetic Stability. We hope that you understand this was a needless death.
We advise you to cease further reality bending, refrain from engaging with conceptual entities, and kindly return any borrowed relics.
Also, Gerald is still banned from the palace.
Yours in regal concern, The Queen & King of Aeloria
I read it aloud and screamed.
Thess snorted. “They’re more upset about their garden than Narrin.”
Yuel rolled her eyes. “They once declared war over a crooked hedge.”
Kael muttered, “I’m going to enchant their fountain to cry blood.”
Lira sighed. “Gerald didn’t even do anything this time.”
Gerald bleated innocently.
Quacknor pecked the scroll.
“Gerald and Quacknor reject the monarchy,” Zeke said.
That night, I sat alone by the Rift.
The storm had retreated, but the silence it left behind was worse.
Milo joined me, quiet.
“He knew,” I said. “He saw it coming.”
“He always did,” Milo replied. “He saw everything.”
I looked at him. “He saved you.”
“He saved us,” Milo said. “Because he believed in choice.”
I nodded. “Then we honour him by choosing.”
We gathered at dawn.
Kael and Yuel prepared the ritual. Thess stood guard. Lira summoned the Vale’s spirits. Zeke calibrated the runes. Talon held the perimeter.
Milo and I stood at the center.
We spoke the words together.
“Let memory rise. Let light remain.”
The Rift pulsed.
Narrin’s runes flared one last time.
And the storm paused.
I saw him.
Just for a moment.
Standing in the Rift.
Smiling.
Then he was gone.
But the light remained.
And we were not alone.