Light sparkled above the Silvervein, and the fish visible through its crystal clear waters seemed utterly unaware of the corruption of the Scarlet Benediction and its reversal. Even the cut line above the Silvervein had been restored by Dahlia’s magic. Thus, when bleary-eyed villagers stumbled out to meet the day after a night of drinking feywine and hearing stories told by Tarik, it was face after face of open awe and disbelief.

  Even in a world of magic, events like this were the stuff of legend that happened in far away places.

  Still, when the survivors assembled behind Dahlia, she half expected a stone or two to be thrown at her or someone to brandish iron. Instead, they looked at her with hope, which greatly disquieted the fairy.

  Lord Graystone’s steward, Bilal, spoke for the survivors. He bowed deeply, hands trembling while they clutched his hat.

  “Keeper Dahlia, we owe you a debt beyond measure,” the steward said hoarsely. “You’ve given us back our homes, but… it is not safe for us to stay here. The Inquisition will come again, and with so few of us left, the monsters will overrun Riverwatch in weeks, long before outsiders could bring us trouble again. C-could we f-f-ollow you?”

  Dahlia turned her eyes upon the old man and the survivors behind him.

  “Why do you call me Keeper?” Sincere curiosity drove the question, and her answer to his plea would wait until she was satisfied with an answer.

  Bilal nervously tightened his grip on his hat, eyes darting briefly to Tarik, who gave him a reassuring nod. Bilal swallowed nervously, then mustered his courage to meet Dahlai’s eyes while he answered.

  “Forgive me if I am overstepping, Lady Dahlia,” Bilal began softly, his old voice wavering with age and anxiety, but he had no lack of earnestness. “But those consecrated to Amun-Ra can sense the bestowal of the title upon you. Yours is a title whispered amongst the flock of Amun-Ra, a name given only to those whom preserve hope when all else is lost.”

  The old man’s voice grew in strength and confidence when no one rebuffed or questioned his claims.

  “We watched you reverse a judgment of Horus himself, and you restored our homes, our belongings, as if time itself had been respun. If you are not the Keeper of Last Light, no one will ever be,” Bilal finished with a prideful declaration.

  You have gained 5 Glimmer points.

  Dahlia’s smile widened. She suspected this little group would be a decent wellspring of Glimmer if she waited for them to tap their spigots.

  “Well, Keeper it is then,” Dahlia declared softly. The tidbit about the true faithful of Amon-Ra being able to identify her was a handy tidbit of knowledge that she hadn’t possessed. Knowing it, she might avoid a fatal pitfall that could have caught her unaware. For that alone, she took a liking to the old man. Considering how effortlessly she embraced the role, she might well have transformed the title into a scarf.

  “It is the duty of a Keeper to protect those under her wings,” Dahlia mused, careful of her choice of words. “But know that my city is no safe haven. It is built of twilight, raised from shadows—reborn from the ruins of the legendary city of Aelwyth Morghaine. You would be the first mortal citizens. You will face challenges different, but not lesser, than those you would here.”

  Bilal bowed again, more spryly this time. His voice continued to grow in strength through determination. “Keeper, we understand. The people of Riverwatch have known hardship. We will embrace any trial that comes, so long as we face it under your protection.”

  A murmur of agreement spread through the villagers behind him. How many would come to rue this decision? None seemed to fight it yet. Had all the mortals with any sense been killed in the raids of Snarf and the Inquisitors? Yet, they might be helpful to her in the future. Their will might have been nearly broken, but fractures healed stronger.

  “Then prepare yourselves. At noon, I will open the way to Vesperis Morghaine, your new home—though I suspect neither of us knows what we’ve just agreed to.” Dahlia grinned. She certainly didn’t. She was playing fast and loose with her words, but she had indicated at least some responsibility for their safety.

  “You heard the Keeper, folks. Go, gather your things. We’ve only a few hours! Leave nothing behind for the bandits or the inquisitors!” Bilal ordered, and the survivors scattered to gather things.

  The humans' retreat coincided with the arrival of her newest followers. Mourningveil stood tall and fierce, wrapped in twilight armor and chains that shifted like serpents. The same serpentine chains slithered around the long haft of her Warhammer, which peeked above her shoulders. Beside her, almost invisible despite the warm light of morning, stood Sablethistle. Shadows slithered to and from her, and she looked like she’d heard a good joke she was dying to share. Behind them, Thryssavane etched names into the shafts of arrows with one of her talons.

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  Before Dahlia could address the Trinity, Tarik stepped up beside her.

  “So you’ve done it, I see. No divine punishment yet?” Tarik muttered. The way he periodically looked at the sky revealed the comment to be a proper expectation rather than the base suspicion Dahlia treated it as. “Anything left of them?”

  “Echoes,” Dahlia answered. She ran her purple eyes over the trio. In truth, Dahlia hadn’t known the three women that well. The most significant factor in favor of their mortal selves had been their willingness to give her their True Names. Idiocy at it’s finest, but it led them here, so the fairy would not complain or besmirch it. Much.

  “You control them?” Tarik asked.

  “They are the result of mortal lives, death, a Soul Shaper, divine judgment, and Fey Magic intertwined. They are more powerful than any mere Wight. Revenants—driven by justice and revenge.” Dahlia didn’t add ‘loyalty to me.’ Anyone who thought any of the Ebon Chorus had the free will to defy her hadn’t looked very hard. “They’re not who they were; they’re who I’ve made them to be.”

  “That doesn’t exactly fill me with comfort,” Tarik grumbled, looking away from Dahlia and the Unhallowed Trinity.

  “Nor should it,” Dahlia laughed. “They aren’t meant to comfort. They’re meant to bring ruin.”

  “Malzareth has fled to Riverguard Keep,” Dahlia announced. Not just to Tarik, whose jaw clenched and who swore, but to the Trinity.

  “Then I’m coming too,” Tarik declared. “I owe that bastard.”

  Dahlia glanced at Tarik, then looked at the Unhallowed Trinity, whom she willed to speak.

  Mourningveil responded first. “Your enemies shall fall, Keeper. Chains forged by their own cruelty await the Inquisition.”

  Sablethistle, forever a showoff, flickered. She faded from view but reappeared behind Tarik. Her voice was a playful purr, but it was edged with lethal intent when she poked him with an elbow, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. “A Justicar who flees judgment deserves my special attention. I’ll make sure he never outruns anyone again.”

  Thryssavane slipped a finished arrow into her quiver. Her reptilian eyes were cold and calculating. “Point the way, Keeper. My arrows hunger for the hearts of cowards.”

  “See, Tarik? Malzareth’s judgment awaits us in Riverguard Keep. Isn’t it wonderful when joyous reunions can be facilitated so swiftly?” Dahlia smiled wickedly.

  “How do you know he’s there?” Tarik asked. The druid’s brown eyes stared through space, as if he could burn a hole through the intervening distance between Riverwatch and Riverguard Keep through sheer hatred.

  “He used a boon from Horus to escape. Only a High Justicar and above can access the ability. It takes them to the nearest Inquisition cathedral. Perhaps, if you’re lucky, he bled to death, or your poison finished him off before his fellows could save him,” Dahlia said.

  “We both know my luck doesn’t run that way,” Tarik growled, clearly unhappy.

  “If only you knew someone who could change the odds for you,” Dahlia replied. Her eyes sparkled with a fleeting hint of golden light as she teased him. “Fey luck is so much more dependable."

  "Dependably troublesome,” Tarik snapped. Their playful banter had shifted to him glaring at her, suspicion creeping into his expression.

  “Tarik, you wound me! Me? Troublesome?” Dahlia brushed her black nails against her skirt, then smiled brightly at how the dark nails gleamed in the sun. She showed him, as if her nails were a thing of beauty. Tarik merely stared at her.

  “Yes, you. Next time I see a strange fairy in the forest, I will fly the other way.” Tarik muttered under his breath, but Dahlia couldn’t understand him. Perhaps he spoke in the language of animals?

  “You would not. You crave adventure, and even more than adventure, you crave revenge. You and my Trinity shall make a grand end to Malzareth.” Dahlia offered a balm to his anxiety. Or what she thought would soothe his troubles.

  “I would. A life without trouble doesn’t have to be boring. It’d certainly be easier,” Tarik murmured.

  “Easy lives don’t make for good stories, druid. Ours is making to be an unforgettable tale. How will you pen the climactic end to the vile Malzareth? With drama and panache? Or with practicality and finality?” Dahlia grinned, and waved her hand—conjuring a minor illusion of Riverguard Keep under siege.

  “I truly worry about the day you run out of enemies to torment,” Tarik groaned.

  “I assure you, the world will never be that kind,” Dahlia rejoined.

  “You mean to attack a fortress with… what, twenty undead, myself, the tree-man, and your dog?” Tarik asked skeptically.

  “Oh, no. I’ve been told it’s a full seven-day trek to Riverguard Keep. That’s plenty of time to flesh out my forces. And I found this in the wreckage!” Dahlia exclaimed excitedly, pulling a scroll from the Feywoven Satchel.

  Tarik narrowed his eyes at the yellowed paper but shook his head. “I can’t read the arcane squiggles of wizards. What is it?”

  “It summons Bandit, the Gravebound Scoundrel. It seems quite well cared for, as if someone cherished this scroll dearly. Its magic is also quite potent. No doubt they will be an amazing addition to the Ebon Chorus,” Dahlia bragged.

  “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Tarik practically cursed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Hungover?” Dahlia asked, a brief flicker of concern before she pushed on. “And your bad feeling is from your lack of vision. With a name like Gravebound Scoundrel, this could be the spirit of a master thief, a blade in the dark, maybe even a legendary undead assassin. Someone with class and finesse.”

  “Perhaps, or perhaps it is some cursed horror that will turn on us the moment it appears.”

  “Oh, as if,” Dahlia stuck her tongue out and blew air, and tiny droplets of prismatic spittle.

  “Behold,” Dahlia unfurled the scroll, and chanted—as Tarik called it—arcane gibberish. The scroll ignited in a soft, violet flame. Wisps of necrotic energy curled into the air with the smoke. The ground in front of Dahlia shuddered as a summoning circle manifested itself, a blocky thing of black stone, red candles, and ancient dried blood.

  Thick, dense miasma drifted from the very Pits of Duat to form a small figure.

  Dahlia clapped her hands. “Oh, a Halfling? Maybe a Gnome? Oh, no, obviously a Red ca—”

  Tarik fell over laughing.

  “Errm. Excuse me. Are you Bandit, the Gravebound Scoundrel?” Dahlia asked the skeletal raccoon.