I’d only found out after arriving, but the first order of business in enacting the Prosperity Conduit had been to use it to remove Alpha as the Settlement Leader. Now Saban was in charge. Which I think would be the best choice overall. He’d really played that well. Furthermore, there was still…a few weeks left for the Prosperity Conduit to fully develop, and it had an interesting extra property that made it oh-so-worthwhile to me to have stepped into the radius of its guiding light. It turned out that anything physical entering the dome of its influence would be repaired. Everything. Which meant my body, my busted-as-hell wand, and…my phone.

The night wore on, filled with merriment and laughter. As the hours ticked by, the celebration began to wind down, the fires casting long shadows on the ground.

I decided to take a little hike up the hill. It only took me a few minutes to find a good spot, but when I did, it sure was something. Sitting on a log overseeing the camp—now tiny hamlet—I looked up at the night sky, a blanket of stars stretching endlessly. It felt surreal, as if the universe itself was celebrating with us.

Alone with my thoughts, I was afloat amidst the stars, sailing on memories and sentiments of the past. I pulled the black rectangle from my pack. With the Prosperity Conduit’s magic revitalizing everything, I had an intact portal to another life—a life that seemed galaxies away.

The light from the phone cast a soft, blue glow on my face, contrasting sharply with the warm orange flames from the distant bonfires. The album art for Gojira’s Magma was beautifully displayed, almost as if tempting me to hit Play and lose myself in the thrashing riffs and pounding drums. However, right now, I wasn’t seeking solace in music.

Hesitatingly, my fingers hovered over the camera app. The weight of nostalgia threatened to crash over me, yet curiosity and longing pushed me forward. Opening it, I was instantly transported. The grid of thumbnails flashed moments from what felt like a lifetime before—trips, gatherings, parties, and mundane everyday shots that now held monumental significance.

Roger’s face, captured in stillness, stared back at me. Those mischievous eyes that always seemed to know a secret joke, that wide grin which could light up any room. Every swipe brought another wave of memories. Each photo was like a stitch in the tapestry of our relationship—a bond that transcended the constraints of time and the tragedies of life.

Pictures of family dinners, hiking trips, birthdays, and so many candid moments of Roger making goofy faces or caught mid-laughter. There was one of us on a rollercoaster, both our expressions a comical mix of excitement and sheer terror. Another was during a particularly snowy winter, where—far too old to engage in such antics—we’d built a snowman with a carrot nose so long, it looked more like a snow-unicorn. And then there were the quiet moments—Roger engrossed in a book, or the neighbor’s cat that used to sit in our window swishing its orange tail.

My mother too graced many of these pictures. Her kind eyes, radiant smile, and that ever-present aura of warmth and love. There were photos of her baking, her face covered in flour, or posing like she thought she was some model—I remember that used to make me laugh.

The grief, which I had tried so hard to bury, now came pouring out. It wasn’t sharp or painful as before; it was a gentle sadness—a quiet acceptance of the impermanence of life. These memories no longer tore at my heart but caressed it, reminding me of the love and the joy that Roger and my mother had brought into my life. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I let them, not bothering to wipe them away. I was alone up here, after all.

A particular video thumbnail caught my attention. The last video I ever took of Roger.

Taking a deep breath, I tapped on it.

The scene unfolded. We were at a park, and Roger was trying to balance on a skateboard. Every time he almost got it right, he’d tumble off, laughing hysterically. After several attempts, he finally managed a few seconds of balance before spotting me filming him. He charged at me, both of us laughing uncontrollably. The video ended with a close-up of Roger’s face, slightly out of breath but beaming with happiness.

“Gotcha!” he shouted, his laughter echoing in my ears.

A chuckle escaped my lips, surprising me. Even in his absence, Roger had the power to make me smile. It was such a mundane moment, but really, those were the moments I think people wanted to remember. The simple, normal, everyday experiences—how you best remember a person who is gone. I replayed the video, letting the sound of our laughter fill the silent night around me. It felt therapeutic, like a balm on a long-festering wound.

Time seemed to stand still as I revisited those cherished memories, each one adding another layer to the rich tapestry of our shared life. The night deepened, the stars shimmering brighter, and the ambient sounds of the forest grew louder.

Suddenly, the hoot of an owl nearby startled me. Snapping back to reality, I realized hours had passed. The fires had dwindled, most of the crew had retired, and the once-lively settlement was blanketed in a peaceful silence.

I took a deep breath, the cool air filling my lungs. The weight of grief was still there, but it felt different now. It was a companion rather than an enemy, reminding me of the depth of love I had felt and the bond that could never truly be broken.

A sudden snap, like the breaking of a twig underfoot, tore me from my contemplation. Instinctively, I whipped out my haladie and held it poised for defense, scanning the perimeter with my Darkvision.

A familiar silhouette met my gaze—a bulky, multi-mouthed creature, with yellow, scarred skin. My tension instantly deflated.

“Stinky!” I shouted, the surprise evident in my voice. My stance relaxed, but the haladie remained in my grip, just in case.

The matau remained still for a moment. There was an odd hesitance in his posture, quite unlike the usual brazen demeanor. Without the usual cheeky retort or snide comment, he simply stared back.

“Missed my charming company, did ya?” I taunted.

This was fucking weird. What is he doing here?

But Stinky just shook his head and pointed to my phone, which still radiated a soft blue light.

“Who was that in the Arcane portrait?” His gruff voice cut through the stillness of the night.

I smiled, cradling the phone gently.

“That’s Roger, my brother.”

Stinky’s three mouths curled slightly, unsure how to react. The heavy pause between us hung in the air before I added, “He died.”

Stinky’s signature growl emerged, not out of anger, but maybe just his usual diplomatic approach to all situations? He looked past me, toward the distant, quiet settlement, perhaps seeking a distraction from the gravity of our conversation.

As I pocketed my phone, I shot him a quizzical look.

“So, what brings you to this part of Regaia? Been fuckin’ . . . ages since we’ve crossed paths. Come here to drag me out into the woods and slit my throat?”

Stinky scowled, the way he often did when caught off guard or slightly embarrassed.

“Was passing through, saw some dumb fuckin’ piss-for-brains orc shining lights up at the stars, and thought I’d come see if you were trying to get fuckin’ stabbed in the gods-damned dark.”

I laughed.

“You already know, buddy! Ain’t nobody sneaking up on me on my own turf!”

“I fuckin’ did,” Stinky scoffed. “Woulda been easier than shitting your breeches to stalk up and slide a blade behind your skull.”

“Great small talk as always, Stinkster,” I said. “Whatcha doing here, anyways? Thinking about sticking around?”

“Don’t fuckin’ plan on it. Got places to be.”

We stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the surrounding wilderness the only thing making any noise at all. Then, because I couldn’t handle it, I decided to break the silence.

“So . . . why’re you here, Stinky? It’s not like you to just wander through unfamiliar places.”

He spat on the ground.

“Wanted to see it for myself,” he admitted, nodding toward the village. “But mainly came to give you a warning.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“A warning? What about? You bathing regularly again?”

“Fuck off, orc. It’s the Redmark,” he rumbled, the word heavy with warning. “They’ve set their sights on this camp. Don’t know when they’ll make their move, but when they do, they won’t come in peace.”

I let out a low whistle.

“Redmark, here? Sounds scary.”

Stinky nodded, his eyes dark with concern.

“Aye, and they’re not ones to be underestimated.”

“Aww, Stinky,” I teased. “Warning me of dangers? You’ve always had a soft spot for me, haven’t you?”

Stinky glared.

“Fuck you, orc,” he growled, but there was no real menace behind it.

Seeing his genuine concern made me more serious.

“We’ll prepare, Stinky. Let them come. We won’t let them tear this place apart. We’ll be ready.”

A heavy silence fell between us again, the weight of memories and shared history pressing down. Stinky’s rough voice broke the quiet.

“I had a brother, you know.”

The revelation surprised me.

“You did?”

His gaze dropped to the ground.

“Aye, he . . . died as well.”

Understanding washed over me, and I nodded. Something had clicked into place.

“Does that have something to do with why you never use a spear?” I ventured, recalling the countless battles where Stinky always favored a dagger over the weapon he was clearly more suited to—being a Spearmaster Class and all.

Stinky was silent for a long beat, then finally, he nodded.

“Aye. Might be, orc,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Might be.”

I looked away, giving him a moment. Memories, grief, and pain were things we both carried, reminders of a world that had dealt us unfair hands.

Looking to change the topic, I pulled out my phone again, lighting up the area with its glow.

“Hey, Stinky, how would you like to hear badass, fuckin’ dick-thumpin’ music from the best band ever to grace any plane of existence? They’re called Amon Amarth, and they beat all kinds of ass on the reg.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly uninterested.

“Sounds like a waste of fuckin’ time, orc.”

“Perfect.” I grinned, finding the playlist. “Listen to this.”

I hit Play.