If that were the case, then it would be best to welcome the end, grateful for having been alive to see the death of a world. Like watching the sun slide below the distant horizon for the last time, knowing that it would never resurface. Never bring back the light from wherever it vanished at the end of each day.

There was beauty in death, too. Ias had reversed the process in many beings. He’d also watched the process, helpless to affect its outcome, in many more. He knew that the death of The Cradle meant the death of the world, but he did not know if this was a natural process. Ias had never been good at letting things die.

Not even himself.

Ias wrapped his body from head to toe, preserving the light of his life so that he might spend his time doing the same for others. Once every hundred years, he would distill root sap from The Cradle and refresh the sigils of his wraps that preserved his immortality. But that should not have accounted for such a drastic loss of energy, Ias told himself.

An element supporting his theory was that The Cradle’s rot was more pronounced as it grew closer to Igris. There was no way that he could understand why that rot was growing from that land while he was here in The Grove. Therefore, Ias left his home and journeyed to a place where war and dark magic had tainted all on a quest to find the source of the world’s dying light.

Ias did not expect to succeed in his pilgrimage and knew that his brethren may be right about the death of their home. Though as he traveled further from The Cradle’s light, he grew more certain that “The Dimming” was not part of the world’s natural cycle.

The first town was nothing but a burnt husk. Though the smoke had long since cleared and the buildings had all but collapsed, blackened and charred bodies still littered the square and alleyways. It took three days, but Ias found and buried them all. The act was solemn and quiet, as there was not another living soul left in the small town, but Ias gave the townsfolk the burial he felt they would have wanted.

The second settlement that Ias came across on his pilgrimage was also abandoned. Instead of burned and scattered corpses, the families here had been strung up and hung together from the eaves of each home. The ropes that bound them creaked and moaned, the bodies swaying in the breeze like some macabre wind chime. On the abdomen of every man, woman and child, a familiar sigil had been carved into their bare flesh. It was a divine sigil of Ias’s order, though corrupted in its writing, changing the meaning of the original, beautiful glyph. Where the true sigil represented “purity” and was often used to denote The Cradle and its influence, the meaning of this warped abomination was clear.

Purify.

Ias felt a deep sense of shame towards the atrocities men were willing to commit if it aligned with their twisted ideology. Igris’ fractious chapter of The Cradle’s faith used the sigil as a way to bar “heretics” from reincarnating, dooming the person’s soul to eternal limbo. Ias wasn’t sure if the altered sigil had served its intended purpose, but he knew that no child could possibly be a heretic.

Spending the next week on the task, Ias cut down each corpse and buried them alongside their families. He took special care as he performed The Cradle’s Rite of Redemption, a ceremony given posthumously for those falsely accused of crimes. Ias hoped that it would give these people back their chance at reincarnation.

It was not until he came across the third town along his road that Ias found the first signs of life.

“What do you want, priest?” spat a bent-back widow, her words dripping with hatred. “Hasn’t The Cradle taken enough from us already?”

“Taken?” Ias replied, confusion clear in his resonant voice. “My child, The Cradle only gives. I believe it to be men who have stolen from you.”

“Damn right,” the woman bit back, spitting on the ground. “Men following your thrice-cursed religion, they were. Bastards stripped our fields, stole our livestock and rounded up all the lads of workin’ age. Called it conscription, they did.”

“Perhaps then I could right some of the wrongs committed by those who would twist The Cradle’s power for their own aims. While I can not bring back your men, I could cure your people’s illnesses, mend any broken bones, and stop your right hip from hurting,” Ias said, shifting his attention to an older, crooked-looking man. The man’s eyes grew wide in awe of the accurate diagnosis from the stranger, though Ias could easily see his ailment at a glance.

As he focused on the man, Ias began to glow beneath his wrappings, the cloth’s sigils illuminating from within. The glyphs lifted from the wraps and began to float and circle him with a warm light, rotating in abstract and divine patterns. Ias simultaneously channeled the man’s own internal light in order to repair some of the damage caused by time.

Aside from a slight glow around the man and Ias, the entire light show was superfluous. Yet when he saw the awestruck expressions of the crowd as the old man straightened to his full height, likely for the first time in over a decade, Ias understood how much his display meant to the townsfolk.

A while later, Ias still stood in the town square, an open palm placed against the forehead of the last sick person. Though he purged the infection from their lungs and restored them to full health, Ias realized that these actions would not lead to much. These people may be in good health now, but within two cycles of the moon, they would all pass from this world.

“Please don’t leave us to die, Mr. Priest.” Ias looked down to see a barefoot child dragging a battered sword behind her. As the child’s big, brown eyes welled with tears, Ias realized he must have shared his thoughts without meaning to. Seemingly, the entire gathered town voiced their pleas all at once. The cacophony rose steadily, each of the townsfolk aiming to have their request heard. The weary priest raised a hand in hopes of quelling the shouting.

“I would never turn my back on those in need,” he began. “Gather only what you can carry. On the morrow, we will travel to Maesfedd. You are now under my protection.”

The words visibly eased the anxious crowd.

Ias sympathized with the plight of the townspeople—forced from their homes and left with no choice but to follow a priest whose religion had been twisted by the “crusaders” who had caused their troubles in the first place.

The townsfolk were clearly unenthusiastic about the idea of abandoning their homes. Their apprehension had to be set aside, though, in the face of imminent death. Ias could have covered the distance to Maesfedd in no more than a few days. But with the addition of thirty-two new souls and their meager belongings, the trip would take weeks.

Regardless, securing the lives of so many was worth the delay.

Maesfedd hadn’t been chosen randomly, either. It was a near-straight line moving away from the influence of The Cradle. Ias could only assume that the source of The Cradle’s waning energy must lay somewhere where its light shone dimmest.

While the townsfolk moved frantically around him, gathering their belongings into packs and carts, Ias sat and projected his consciousness into The Cradle, reaching out to The Grove. Those who were most attuned to it were able to connect to it, and through it, connect to all the world’s living beings.

As soon as his mind connected with his home, he spoke to a fellow priest of his order. Ias conveyed his message through thought and emotion rather than words: The Dimming was in fact not a part of the world’s natural cycle. The terror of the other priest was understandable, considering that The Grove’s residents had no knowledge of any entity capable of restoring the essence of life itself.

Ias returned to his body, his eyes snapping open as someone reached out to rouse him. He rose and, turning from the scared faces of these poor souls, began the first steps of their journey. Travel was slow, but necessary to keep these people safe.

Twelve days into the group’s three-week journey, the caravan crested a grassy knoll only to be greeted by the sounds of pitched battle. In the valley below, another group of travelers did battle against a horde of some forty monsters, emerging from the dense forest beyond. Panic rose amongst his own party until he spoke directly into their minds.

“Calm.”

Although it was the only word conveyed, the frantic townsfolk could feel Ias’ resolve and it soothed their nerves. So long as he was there, they would be safe.

The creatures’ appearance was offensive to the eye, even in Ias’ unique spectrum of vision. Where the surrounding humans were vibrant and filled to the brim with The Cradle’s energy, these creatures were instead twisted, grotesque things, tainted beyond anything Ias had ever seen. They were nothing more than corrupted spirits.

To the humans, they were even worse.

The waves of enemies seemed to be spawned from the forest itself. The largest of the group was a gnarled ash tree with massive, twisted roots for legs that were as thick as a man’s torso. It charged across the battlefield like a raging beast, scattering leaves that blackened and scorched the earth where they landed as if invisibly aflame.

A lupine creature with roots for paws and mossy green fur faced off against one of the fighters, its tongue, a yew branch, coiling around the man’s sword. As the beast tried to pull the blade into its maw of thorny teeth, the soldier could see its eyes, a pair of smoldering coals, staring hungrily at him from within the monstrosity’s throat.

At the head of the human resistance stood a tall, intense-looking woman in full plate armor, sans helm. Recognizing her authority as she marshalled the scrappy men and women around her, Ias sent his consciousness out to link with hers. But before he could reach her, the woman’s voice entered his mind.

“You have great timing, priest,” her voice was stern, but not uninviting. “This battle is nearly won, but not without losing far too many of my people. Care to lend us your light? I have soldiers living on borrowed time here.”

Her preemptive response stunned Ias into silence. When he did finally respond, it was full of suspicion.

“How did—,” he started.

“Do you need to know that right at this moment?” She cut him off before he could finish. “I have people who need your aid!”

It did not escape his notice that she had implied she was not one of those people. Ias’s curiosity and confusion toward the woman only grew.

“We are on our way,” was his only reply.

Breaking their connection, Ias spoke to his own followers.

“I’ve spoken with the leader of the group below. We are going to offer them our aid.” The crowd immediately began to protest until Ias calmly raised his hand. “Were our roles reversed, would you not want their help?”

That single question was enough to give the townsfolk pause as guilt and shame flashed across their faces. No doubt they were thinking of the scorched remains of their old lives, as well as the young men that had been taken by the “crusaders”. Ias seized this moment and continued.

“When it is within our ability to offer aid, The Cradle asks that we give it willingly. That is why I came to yours. Without giving care to those who need it, the world cannot continue to exist. Only by working together can light shine again in this darkness.”

With that, the mood among his followers shifted, his resolve, once again, soothing the tension.

As Ias’s group rushed toward the ongoing battle, he created two shimmering gold barriers at their flanks to protect his under-prepared company. Having extended his mental link to the other group’s fierce leader, he noticed that she had a similar magic affecting her own people.

It was less of a mental ability when compared to Ias’ and was floating through the battlefield as threads of colored light, almost woven out of emotion itself. This woman seemed to be projecting her strength and determination, weaving her own thoughts and emotions into the consciousness of her fighters. Ias allowed her to take control of organizing the formations, amplifying her thoughts to his group, as he began his work.

A golden luster suffused Ias as he channeled The Cradle’s essence into his magic.

One man lay on the ground, blood oozing from a dozen splinters lodged in his gut. As Ias’ spell took hold, the splinters pushed themselves out of the man’s stomach and his flesh knit itself back together, layer by layer.

A woman facing the colossal blow of an ash tree beast was spared a crushing death as the attack was deflected by his amber shield. The spirit’s swing slammed into the ground instead, providing the perfect opening for two mace-wielders to counter, destroying the protective bark of the spirit’s knees with their strikes and crippling the behemoth’s mobility.

Scenes like this took place all across the battlefield while the female commander continually fortified her people. It was as if the power within each person was magnified, then shifted to where it was needed most. The woman began moving her fighters into a tighter formation around the children, the elderly and the supplies that Ias had arrived with. Seeing the coordinated defense as a weakness, the remaining twisted spirits began to charge the gathering.

As the monsters closed in on the much smaller humans, Ias knew what would happen if he hesitated any longer. He had made his decision, and the world slowed as Ias reached into himself, tapping into the pool of divine energy within.

His was certainly much smaller than The Cradle itself, yet it contained more stored potential than most archmages could comfortably wield. Its power flowed freely through him and without effort, overjoyed to be shaped by his will in the defense of others.

Many believed The Cradle and its light came from a God though this was false. Ias understood its true nature. The Cradle was more akin to a volcanic lake; it was raw, potential energy given spiritual form. And those able to harness its power could manipulate how that molten power behaved.

The sheer force of that energy as it poured from such a height could carve stone. Properly harnessed, that same energy had the power to feed crops, heal the sick, regrow limbs, and so much more. This time, Ias just needed its raw destructive power.

Drawing the energy from his center and out to his hands, Ias manifested a small sphere between his palms. The orb was no larger than an orange, yet shone bright enough to make one forget the midday sun overhead. Holding the orb of Radiance, Ias set the ball of light spinning with his will. As it spun, Ias compacted the divine energy until it was the size of a marble. The energy contained within was too much for the small container and, after a precarious instant, the bead of light exploded.

To Ias’ accelerated processing, twin beams of radiant energy erupted from opposite sides of the orb and blanketed the area in light. To the humans, it was a blinding and soundless explosion of light, washing over everything in an instant. Ias watched as the beams swept over enemies and allies, one destroyed the creatures while the other healed the wounded warriors.

In the aftermath of the explosion, the people on the battlefield blinked repeatedly as their eyesight returned. Those who had previously been impaled by splintered wood sat up, their wounds vanishing from where they had been only moments ago. The soldiers whose limbs had been pulverized by the spirits were now unharmed—healthy and whole.

While the people took stock of themselves and looked around for any remaining threat, of which there was none, Ias’s attention returned to the other group’s leader.

“Sister,” he began. “Just how, exactly, did you anticipate my mental communion?”

“My name is Sarah,” she responded.  Exiled princess of Tir Tywyll and leader of the rebellion against The Onyx King.” She looked at him with a sense of recognition and accomplishment, though Ias had never heard of the woman before. “Our paths crossing is no coincidence, but the best possible fate.”

“‘The best possible fate?’” Ias echoed questioningly. “A soldier does not strike me as someone concerned with the oracular arts. What do you know of the threads of fate?”

“I’ve seen more than you could imagine. Now, why don’t you ask the question you really want the answer to, Ias?” She smiled at him, aware that Ias must have been surprised by her knowledge of his name as well. “You’d like to know how much of your mind I was able to parse when we first connected, right?”

“Yes,” he said, and was met with a knowing smile. There was more to this princess than met the eye. Though it was unsettling to have himself seen and known by this stranger, it was not unpleasant. This woman, Sarah, was not putting on a show of her superiority. Rather, it was more akin to demonstrating knowledge for a peer. There was respect behind her intentions, and Ias found himself returning the sentiment.

“I saw enough to know that we’re searching for the same thing—the cause of your home’s decay and the target of my revenge,” her face flashed with anger for the briefest moment before regaining her composure. “I think you saw that in me as well. I believe our goals are one and the same.”

Perhaps with Sarah’s aid, Ias might have a chance at putting an end to the blight that was slowly eating away The Cradle’s energy. The woman who stood before him carried enough light within herself to give him hope. Hope that she might be right. Were they greater in number, their forces might even be enough to begin the healing this world so desperately needed.

“Lead on, Sarah.”