The flight back to the Aerie was a blur of pain and exhaustion. Aldric barely remembered the ascent, only the rhythmic beating of Dralore's wings and the way the wind lashed against his skin. Lysara lay limp in the Dragle's grasp, too drained to even curse at their situation. The blood loss, the broken bones, the raw strain of divine magic surging through his body—it all merged into a single, numbing haze. When the Aerie finally came into view, he barely felt the moment Dralore landed, his talons scraping against the stone.
Sight-Rider was already waiting for them.
The Lunari Seer stood near the entrance, her large eyes studying them as they stumbled from their mounts. She didn't rush forward or call for a healer. She simply watched, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but undeniably weary.
"Not the best outcome," she said at last, tilting her head. "But also not the worst."
Aldric barely managed to stay upright. The pain gnawed at him, deep and unrelenting. He swallowed past the coppery taste in his mouth and forced out the words, his voice hoarse. "Did you… see this happening?"
Sight-Rider exhaled through her nose, almost amused. "We see many possible futures, Paladin. Which one becomes reality depends on the choices you make."
She turned slightly, gazing out past them, as if looking at something beyond the mountains. "In the best future I saw, you returned to Astradan for reinforcements, engaged in a surprise attack, and closed the Tear without issue."
Aldric's gut twisted at the implication. If he hadn't charged in, if he had just thought for a moment instead of letting his emotions drive him, this could have gone differently. He could have avoided… all of this.
Sight-Rider's gaze flicked back to him, her voice turning colder. "And in the worst future, you died, and Lysara was corrupted by force."
Lysara let out a low, pained breath beside him, her silver eyes narrowing. "Lovely."
Sight-Rider wasn't finished.
She stepped closer, her presence pressing down on them like an unshakable weight. "Tell me, Aldric. What did charging in like a fool gain you?"
Aldric stiffened. His jaw tightened, fingers curling into his palms. "I—"
"You let your emotions rule you," she cut in, her tone sharp. "And for what? A misplaced sense of duty? A thirst for vengeance? Did you truly think fury would serve you better than patience?"
Aldric's throat burned with the need to argue, but the truth clawed at him too violently to ignore. He had lost control. His anger had blinded him to the bigger picture, had led him to believe he could fight his way through sheer force of will alone. And because of that, he had nearly died. Lysara had nearly died.
Sight-Rider turned her gaze to Lysara next. "And you."
Lysara, who had been slumped slightly against the Dragle, slowly straightened, her expression hardening.
Sight-Rider's tone didn't soften. "You ignored years of battle experience. You knew better, yet you let your feelings for him cloud your judgment."
Aldric blinked. His exhaustion-hazed mind barely had time to process the words before Lysara's scales darkened, her silver eyes flashing dangerously. "I wasn't thinking with my feelings."
"No?" Sight-Rider arched an eyebrow. "You had a way out, Lysara. You could have called for reinforcements. You could have stopped him. You could have made him see reason."
Aldric felt the way Lysara's shoulders tensed beside him.
Sight-Rider continued, unrelenting. "But you didn't. You let him go, because you couldn't bring yourself to be the one who held him back." She exhaled, shaking her head. "You weren't just his ally down there. You were his enabler."
Lysara's expression was unreadable for a long moment, her gaze unreadable. Then, she looked away, her jaw tightening.
Sight-Rider let the silence settle before finally stepping back. "Your choices define your future and ours. Remember that."
Aldric didn't have the strength to argue. Not now. Not when every word struck as deep as any wound he had taken. He had fought battle after battle, survived impossible odds, but he had never felt this exposed.
He looked toward Lysara, expecting anger, expecting some sharp remark to cut through the tension.
But she said nothing.
And that, more than anything, told him just how much Sight-Rider's words had hit home.
The next week passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion. Aldric had fought through broken ribs before, but there was something about the forced stillness that made it worse. Every moment stretched, every breath reminded him of the cost of his recklessness. Lysara wasn't faring much better. Though her injuries weren't as severe as his, the backlash from overusing her divine reserves had left her drained, sluggish, and prone to splitting headaches whenever she tried to push herself too soon.
Sight-Rider had made it very clear from the beginning—Lysara would not be healing either of them.
The Lunari Seer's decree had been final, and for once, Lysara hadn't argued. She had glared, cursed under her breath, but she had obeyed.
"This isn't punishment," Sight-Rider had said when Aldric had dared to question it. "This is a lesson. One that needs to hurt."
Neither of them had openly questioned what authority she held over them. They weren't Caelites, Lunari, or Solari. They didn't owe her obedience.
But deep down, they both knew she was right.
The pain was a reminder.
They had charged in thinking themselves invincible, and they had barely crawled back alive. That was not a mistake they could afford to repeat.
Aldric channelled his frustration into something productive.
He spent his days recovering and bonding with Dralore. The massive Dragle was still gruff and temperamental, but he was impossibly intelligent. Aldric learned quickly that Dralore would never be a beast to command—he was a partner. Trust had to be earned.
He groomed him, learned the subtle shifts in his movements, the signs of mood and irritation, how to approach him without disrespecting his pride.
It took time, but slowly, the bond settled between them.
Lysara spent her time with Syn, the sleek silver-feathered Dragle she had ridden before. Syn had a very different temperament from Dralore—playful but discerning, quick but deliberate in her choices.
Unlike Dralore, she didn't require earning trust—she gave it freely. But with that trust came expectation.
Lysara adapted.
By the time the week had passed, both of them had recovered enough to move freely—and both Dralore and Syn had come to recognise them as theirs. They had wondered if that had been the Seer's plan all along. Information disparity made it difficult to judge her motives.
Even in their weakened states, they had not been idle.
Aldric and Lysara had spent the week not just recovering, but planning.
Every waking moment had been spent going over strategies, counter-strategies, revisiting everything they had done wrong and how they would do it right this time. The Zerloc had taken them by surprise before. That would not happen again.
It wasn't as strong as a Dark Templar—they both knew that now. They had faced something worse before and survived. The problem had never been its raw power. The problem had been their arrogance.
This time, they wouldn't rely on brute strength.
This time, there was no mother barrier to contain it, no Tear to keep it tethered to the Veil.
This time, they weren't going to fight it head-on like fools.
--
The hunting grounds were quiet, eerily so. Aldric stood in the open clearing, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other gripping the straps of his shield. The night air was crisp, but beneath it, he could feel the tension coiled in his muscles. The plan was set. The traps were laid.
Now, it was just a matter of patience.
He exhaled slowly, then flared his divine presence.
The golden pulse of holy power surged outward like a beacon, lighting the darkened forest in an unnatural glow before flickering out. It was a challenge, a call to battle, and the Zerloc would not ignore it.
Aldric didn't have to wait long.
From the shadows of the treeline, he saw it—a massive, hulking form shifting between the trees, the plated ridges of its body catching the moonlight. The Zerloc had been watching, waiting to strike the moment it saw weakness.
That was its first mistake.
It lunged, tearing across the clearing, its unnatural speed distorting the air around it. Aldric held his ground, watching its movements carefully. The last time they fought, he had been caught off guard. This time, he had control.
At the last second, he sidestepped, raising his shield and bracing for impact. The Zerloc's claws smashed against reinforced metal, the force rattling through his bones, but he had already angled the shield to redirect the momentum. The beast stumbled forward, momentarily off balance.
And then—Lysara struck.
She had been invisible to the creature the entire time.
Her Imperceivable Prayer had shrouded her presence, cloaking her in divine energy, making her nothing more than a flicker in the night, an absence the Zerloc's corrupted senses could not track.
It never saw her coming.
She exploded from the darkness, her staff swinging with a burst of divine force, slamming into the Zerloc's exposed flank. The impact sent ripples of golden light cracking through its corrupted hide, and the beast let out a shriek of frustration, its limbs jerking as it tried to track the unseen attacker.
But Lysara was already gone.
The Zerloc twisted, snapping its head toward Aldric, its instincts forcing it to focus on what it could see. Aldric took a measured step back, deliberately mimicking the movements of a fighter losing ground.
A feint.
The Zerloc lunged again—directly into their first trap.
The ground buckled beneath it, Caelite rope snapping taut around its back leg. The moment it faltered, Lysara struck again, her voice rising in a commanding invocation. Lightbearer surged forward, divine power rippling through the air.
The Zerloc shuddered violently, its movements slowing for just a heartbeat—a crucial misstep.
Aldric was already in motion, swinging his sword in a calculated arc, aiming for the exposed tendons along its hind legs. His blade bit deep, severing muscle and throwing the Zerloc's balance completely off.
The beast let out a rage-filled snarl, its body jerking in raw fury. It lashed out wildly, its massive claws tearing through the dirt, narrowly missing Lysara as she twisted away.
But it wasn't done fighting.
It still had its monstrous speed, even injured.
Aldric didn't give it the chance to use it.
Instead, he baited it again, taking another deliberate step back, making himself appear vulnerable. The Zerloc saw an opening and lunged for the kill—
—only to have its own momentum used against it.
Lysara's staff slammed into a hidden trigger buried beneath the dirt.
The second trap sprung into place.
Massive stone slabs, set up in advance, sprung out of the ground, forcing the Zerloc's escape path into a single direction. Right where Aldric had positioned himself.
He didn't hesitate.
With the beast's movements completely predictable, he surged forward, his blade cutting upward in a lethal arc—piercing deep into the exposed joint of its plated neck.
The Zerloc screamed, thrashing violently, but Aldric wrenched the blade deeper, twisting sharply before tearing it free.
Lysara sealed the fight with a final prayer, golden flames surging through the open wound, divine energy consuming the corruption from the inside out.
The Zerloc let out one last choked howl.
Then it collapsed, motionless.
Aldric exhaled heavily, gripping his sword tightly as the last remnants of its corrupted energy flickered out. Lysara stood beside him, panting, sweat glistening against her blue skin.
They had done it.
Not with strength.
But with wit.
With the Zerloc finally dead, they wasted no time. There was no celebration, no relief—just the grim necessity of finishing what they had started.
Lysara took the lead, her silver eyes sharp, her nostrils flaring as she searched for the lingering traces of corruption. She didn't speak much, her expression tense, focused. Aldric followed, blade in hand, his shield still slick with dark ichor.
The hunting grounds were still tainted. The Zerloc had been the worst of it, but there were smaller horrors lurking in the undergrowth, remnants of whatever had unleashed the corruption in the first place.
They worked methodically.
Lysara tracked, leading them from one infected creature to the next. Arlocs, their rotted maws still foaming with unnatural disease, lurked in the brush, waiting for prey that would never come. Borlocs, their massive bear-like forms shuddering under the weight of their own corruption, stumbled mindlessly through the trees.
One by one, they cut them down.
Lysara would weaken them with her divine commands, forcing them to kneel, to falter, to slow. Aldric would move in with unwavering precision, his sword striking true, severing their cursed existence before they could spread the rot further.
Hours passed in exhausting repetition. Track, hunt, purge.
Only when the last corrupted beast fell did they allow themselves a moment to breathe.
But there was one last task to complete.
They returned to the site of the Tear, where the bodies of the fallen lay in broken ruin.
It was hard to tell how many had perished. Some bodies were half-dissolved, others mangled beyond recognition. Armor and weapons lay scattered like discarded relics of a war long lost.
And there was something else.
Aldric crouched over one of the corpses, brow furrowing. Deep, jagged wounds lined the flesh—but it wasn't just from beasts.
Lysara knelt beside him, her gaze tracing over the injuries. Her silver eyes darkened, her fingers running lightly over the edges of the wounds.
"Human bite marks," she muttered.
Aldric felt something cold settle in his chest.
The corruption wasn't just warping beasts.
It had turned these men into something else entirely or maybe they were always like that.
The burial took time.
Aldric and Lysara worked in silence, their exhaustion forgotten in the weight of the task before them. The land here had seen too much death, too much suffering. It had to be made right.
They gathered the bodies with care, separating knights from civilians, friend from foe. There was no way to tell how long some had suffered before death claimed them, but they had all met the same end—consumed, twisted, discarded like carrion. They had died unjustly, caught in something far beyond them.
The dead deserved more than this.
So they gave them what they could.
Aldric dug until his hands bled. The ground was stubborn, reluctant to part, but he refused to stop until the graves were deep enough, wide enough, enough for all of them. Lysara helped, her silence saying more than words ever could. She didn't need to ask why. She understood.
They wrapped the bodies in cloth where they could, laid them side by side beneath the open sky. The corrupted knights. The civilians who had been slaughtered at the Tear. The ones who had no one left to mourn them.
There was no family here to weep for them. No comrades left to return them home. Only Aldric and Lysara.
And so, they mourned for them.
When the last body was covered, when the earth had been returned and no more corpses lay forgotten in the dirt, Aldric took his place at the side of the graves that held the fallen knights. He removed his gauntlets, resting them on the pommel of his sword, and spoke.
His voice was raw, hoarse, but steady.
"You were called to stand. You were given steel, given faith, given oaths to uphold. You were led astray. You were undone. Your swords turned against you. Your bodies twisted by forces not of your will. But you were men before you were lost, and for that, you will be honored.
"The sins of your final days cannot be undone. The horror that took you cannot be washed away. But let it end here, with earth upon your bones and prayer upon your names. Let the gods hear this and know: you are not forgotten. The corruption that stole your minds does not own your souls. You have fallen, but you will not linger.
"Rest now beneath the sky you once swore to protect. Rest as men, not monsters. The path is closed to you, but your stain upon this land is cleansed. In faith, in steel, and in the quiet of the grave, your battle has ended."
He stood up and moved across to where the innocent victim lay beneath his feet.
"You were taken without cause, without reason, without mercy. Not by war, nor by sickness, but by a darkness that stole your will and made ruin of your final moments. What was done to you was not your choice, nor your fault. You were innocent."
"You were never meant to lie here, in this forgotten place. This was not your home, not the end you should have met. But now, this ground shall keep you, not as lost souls, but as those remembered. If there is no justice in your passing, let there at least be peace in your rest."
He paused for a moment before continuing.
" Whatever was taken from you—your names, your dignity, your future—let it be returned in remembrance. The gods will know the truth. They will know this: you did not walk willingly into the abyss. You were not lost by choice. And for that, I release you from what was forced upon you."
"Let the land reclaim you as its own, let the sky watch over you as a witness. Let your souls find the path denied to you, beyond suffering, beyond grief, beyond the cruel hands that took you. Let this be your peace."
It was done.