When the rosy-fingered dawn appeared over Honour, Riggs rose to greet it. It was the first full night of sleep he had enjoyed in a week, despite the constant pain from his many injuries. It also marked the first night he had slept without his armour on, at the insistence of his friends, but he found the numerous, tightly wound bandages on him to be far more restrictive than any chain or plate.

A light knock brought him out of his thoughts. “Lyraal’s pyre is ready,” Noctessa said as she leaned against the door to his room. She wore the same outfit, though someone had washed it for her. The druid’s left arm was tied in a sling to give her shoulder some hope of healing. “Have you given any thought to what comes next?”

“Aye.” Riggs finished cinching the weapon belt over his simple, black tunic and adjusted how his new sword sat at his hip. He finished the sentence he was reading – ...innocents continue to die as warlords feud in the west, but the necromantic and arcane energies I sense coming from the east suggests that killing the Emperor of Neceros did not end their threat entirely.

He closed the small journal and placed it atop Lyraal’s other book: a heavy, leather-bound tome. “But we should wait until you have the strength for more healing rituals, that will also give us time to help Honour get back on its feet... if you’re willing to put up with us for that long.”

“Of course.” Noctessa replied, but she frowned at the tome, consternation on her face. “I left my Glade to spread our knowledge and help others in need, even if they look at my kind with fear.”

“Thank you, and I’m sure they’ll get used to you,” Riggs smiled at her. He looked at his wife’s broken blade, lying atop the bed. Gently, he bundled it up in a spare sheet. “Alright, let’s go.”

The villagers had built the large pyre on the edge of town, where the sun’s first rays shone upon it. It stood next to a large, stone edifice that bore the names of every life lost to the necromancer. Every survivor of Honour was present by the pyre, everyone recognizing that they owed their lives to Lyraal. Most of them greeted the two heroes with tight smiles and thanks.

Riggs limped up to Garen, carrying Andromeda’s bundled blade. The old man glared at him as he approached, eyes flicking down at the bundle as Riggs offered it to him. Furious tears stung Garen’s eyes and he trembled as he took the bundle from Riggs.

“Do you think this fixes anything, boy?” A harsh whisper.

“I’ve done all I can to lay her to rest,” Riggs replied, quiet and morose.

“That’s not good enough!” Garen shouted.

“Maybe not for you.” Riggs, still calm, looked down at the old man.

“You think you’re something special now, do you boy? You think you can go on an adventure with a witch and a mongrel, and it makes up for the past?” Behind Riggs, Noctessa’s eyes narrowed, but the old man barreled on, uncaring. His usual mask of cold rage was gone, broken with fury and pain. “That I can ever forgive you for taking her from me!?”

“I’m done caring about what you think, Garen. I’ve tried everything. What you do or don’t do is not my concern or my problem anymore.” Riggs walked away, leaving the father to his grief. Noctessa’s glare towards Garen softened, and she followed Riggs to the pyre.

Avi and Kirk carried Lyraal’s body to the pyre, as ceremoniously as a small hamlet could manage. Lyraal wore all of their equipment, silver staff in hand, and was wrapped up in their cloak, which was washed and patched back to its original, mottled blue. Avi and Kirk gently placed the body upon the pyre, then stepped away.

Tarley handed Riggs a torch as he approached the pyre, her arm already healed and ready to swing a smith’s hammer. Ritso handed a torch to Noctessa, and then moved away. Riggs and Noctessa stepped forward and lit the pyre, then stepped back, heads bowed in respect.

As the flames touched Lyraal’s body, they burned with a sudden, blinding intensity that rivalled the watching sun overhead. Riggs, Noctessa, and the people of Honour watched in awe as the resulting blaze made short work of the pyre. Within minutes, nothing remained but a pile of glowing cinders that reflected off the silvery staff – now planted in the ground where Lyraal’s body once lay.