I took a deep breath and turned back toward the stairs. Each step upward felt lighter, though the heat that now lived inside me never dimmed. It wasn’t oppressive—just a constant, quiet presence. Malithar didn’t speak. Didn’t press. I could feel him there, though. Watching, waiting. Listening to every thought.

I probed carefully at my own mind, testing where my boundaries lay. The lines between myself and the wrath weren’t blurred—not yet. I was still me. But now I shared the quiet.

By the time I reached the top of the spiral, the air had changed. It felt lighter, cleaner. The weight of Malithar’s presence wasn’t gone—it simply no longer clung to the walls. The altar chamber above seemed smaller somehow, less overwhelming. The fractured runes on the floor were dark now, their once-burning glow gone. The altar sat silent and cold.

No sign of Nualia. No sign of Lucian or Shalelu. Just the long shadows cast by dying torchlight.

A faint rustle of leather, soft footfalls from the corridor to my right. I turned just as Lucian emerged from the shadows, his sword lowered but ready. His expression tightened when he saw me, then relaxed. Barely.

“You’re alive,” he said flatly. Then, after a pause, “You’re not on fire. That’s something.”

I stepped forward into the light, and he squinted just slightly, looking me over.

“But you’re different,” he added, his tone cautious.

Behind him, Shalelu appeared. Her bow was lowered, her sharp gaze sweeping the room before settling on me.

“The air’s changed,” she said quietly. “Like a storm passed while we weren’t watching.”

And then there she was—Nualia.

She stood behind them, her golden hair catching faint light. When her gaze met mine, she didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. She studied me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Then, after a moment, she nodded.

Uncertain. Reluctant. But a nod nonetheless.

“This place is free for the moment,” I said. “We can discuss how I did that later. Right now, I don’t want to fight goblins, so we need to go. There’s nothing more the goblins can use here—nothing to hold their alliance together anymore. I think we’ve been pretty successful and… nobody died. That’s a bonus.”

Lucian blinked, pausing mid-step. “Wait, nobody died?” He slid his rapier into its sheath with a slow, impressed shake of his head. “I mean, I almost died of boredom while you were down there, but still—remarkable. Proud of you, cousin. Terrified, but proud.”

Shalelu gave me a long, unreadable look. She didn’t ask what I meant by how the place was freed. Not now. She only nodded once, her voice quiet but certain. “Then we move.”

Nualia stepped forward. She looked tired—truly tired—but there was something else now. Something unburdened behind her pale eyes.

“I’ll follow your lead,” she said. There was no fire in her voice. Just resolve.

We retraced our steps through the ruined halls of Thistletop. The crimson glow that had painted its walls had faded to ash. There were no goblin alarms, no shouts, no marching feet. Whatever scattered warbands remained were leaderless, confused, or dead.

When we emerged into the open air, the mist had thinned. The wind off the sea carried the sharp scent of salt and something clean. It wasn’t the scent of victory.

It was a morning wind.

The road into Sandpoint had never seemed so clean, so quiet.

A few birds darted overhead, and the scent of salt hung in the air, but the town was still. Watchful. Almost reverent. As the four of you—Cassian, Lucian, Shalelu, and Nualia—passed under the gate, it was as if the entire town drew a breath together.

And held it.

A guard near the gate called out as if to test reality: “They’re back!”

Then came motion—townsfolk emerging from doorways and alleys, merchants setting down their goods, children pausing mid-game. Word spread fast. Faces turned. Whispers rose.

Cassian Valerius had returned.

And Nualia Tobyn was with him.

Lucian leaned in with a muttered chuckle. “Now would be a bad time to trip on your robe.”

Shalelu gave him a warning look but said nothing. She scanned the crowd like a hawk, her hand near her bow—not hostile, but cautious. She’d seen how easily celebration could turn to fear.

Nualia walked quietly, hood drawn low. Her monstrous arm was still wrapped and hidden, but her posture had changed. No longer the burdened priestess of wrath—now, something rawer. Tentative. Real.

As you reached the square in front of the town hall, the door opened—and out stepped Mayor Deverin, flanked by Father Zantus and Sheriff Hemlock.

The square grew silent.

Kendra’s face was composed, but her eyes searched Cassian’s and held there.

“Well?” she said. “Is it done?”

All eyes turned to you.

“Yes,” I said, pitching my voice so it could carry. “There are still goblins out there, but they no longer have a central leader to hold them together. My opinion is that they will likely disintegrate into their natural squabbling over a pretty short time. I wouldn’t completely let down our guard, but Sandpoint is significantly safer today than it was yesterday.”

The crowd let out a collective exhale, the weight of days of fear finally breaking. Relief washed over the square like a warm breeze, applause rippling through the gathered townsfolk. It wasn’t raucous cheering—just quiet, grateful clapping, the sound of a town slowly waking from a nightmare.

Lucian gave a theatrical bow to a cluster of children who giggled and pointed. Shalelu moved to the edge of the square, her sharp eyes still scanning for any sign of trouble. She wasn’t one to celebrate until she was certain.

Nualia stood quietly beside me. Her hood shaded her face, her head low, but she didn’t shy away. I could feel the tension in her—unsure, out of place—but she stood there just the same.

I stepped forward and lowered my voice, directing my next words to the Mayor and her closest advisors. “There are details that are better discussed in private, if we can?”

Kendra gave a small nod of understanding, her posture relaxing—not fully, but enough to let the crowd know the danger had passed. Her voice rang clear:

“You heard him. Sandpoint is safe.”

A ripple passed through the crowd—relief first, then applause. Not the roaring celebration of victory, but something quieter. Grateful. Earnest. A murmur of people who had slept with knives near their beds and could now breathe again.

Lucian gave a theatrical bow to a cluster of children who giggled and pointed. Shalelu moved to the edge of the square, eyes still scanning, more comfortable in the role of observer than honored guest.

Nualia stood quietly at my side, face partially obscured by her hood. She didn’t look down, but she didn’t meet anyone’s eyes either.

Mayor Deverin gestured toward the town hall. “Of course. Come.”

Sheriff Hemlock grunted in agreement, already turning toward the steps. Father Zantus lingered just long enough to look directly at Nualia. His expression was complex—a swirl of pain, recognition, and something resembling hope. He said nothing, only gave her a single nod before following the others inside.

The door shut behind me, muting the hum of Sandpoint’s bustling streets. Mayor Deverin led the way into the council chamber, where maps, militia rosters, and half-drained cups of tea cluttered the room. Sheriff Hemlock leaned on the edge of the central table, arms crossed, his gaze steady but unreadable. Father Zantus stood a step back, hands folded before him, his expression both heavy and searching.

“Alright, Cassian,” the mayor said quietly, her eyes meeting mine. “Tell us everything.”

I pulled out a chair for Nualia and then sank into one myself, allowing my shoulders to relax for the first time since we’d reached town. “My apologies,” I began. “We’ve walked a long way, and I’m tired.” I gave Nualia a reassuring pat on the arm before continuing. “I’m sure you recognize Nualia.”

She sat silently, her hood drawn low. Her monstrous arm remained hidden beneath her cloak, but she did not shrink away or avoid their gazes.

“She was the female leader that held the goblins together. While she isn’t completely innocent of everything, I can personally attest that much—if not most—of the crimes committed are not her fault. At Thistletop, we uncovered the real power behind the events that have plagued this town.”

I leaned forward slightly, letting my words carry the weight of what we had seen.

“It was a spiritual being of wrath. Primal. Terrible. It had possessed Nualia and was using her to fulfill its own agenda. She stumbled upon it when she was hurt, scared, and weak, and it consumed her.”

I looked from Zantus to Hemlock, then to the mayor. “While on some level she had to give assent to the possession, we’ve all had moments in our lives when we were at our weakest. I doubt any of us are proud of every decision we made in those moments. If I have earned any favor from Sandpoint during my time here, I ask that this woman be shown mercy. That she be given the opportunity for redemption and atonement. I ask nothing else.”

The room stilled.

Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just still.

Zantus’s hands tightened slightly where they were folded. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, the memory of years weighing on it. “She was my charge,” he said. “I taught her. I loved her like a daughter. And I failed her.”

He turned to Nualia. “I should have seen her pain. I should have... been better.”

Nualia said nothing. But she turned toward him—not fully, but enough. The silence that followed was her answer.

Mayor Deverin broke it with a slow, measured breath. She looked at me again.

“She burned a church, Cassian,” she said softly. “She stole from the dead. She nearly led an army against this town. That’s not easily set aside.”

“But,” she continued, “I see what’s in front of me. And I see a man we owe our lives to asking for mercy.”

Her gaze shifted to Hemlock.

The Sheriff exhaled heavily, rubbing his beard. “You vouch for her?”

I nodded. Once. Firmly.

He grunted, then gave a small shrug. “Fine. Then here’s what I suggest. She stays in Sandpoint. Under light guard. Free to walk, but not to leave. No shackles, but no disappearing either. If she proves herself willing to help the town, we let the rest follow.”

Hemlock turned to Nualia, his voice level. “You’ll earn what you want. Or you won’t.”

Mayor Deverin nodded, her tone final. “Agreed.”

She glanced at me and smiled faintly—small, but genuine. “You keep surprising us, Valerius.”

And from Zantus, softly: “You may have just saved two souls.”

Nualia finally looked up.

“…Thank you,” she whispered.

“I do vouch for her,” I said, leaning forward slightly. “And if you want, I will act as the light guard. If she’s willing, she can become my ward during her period of redemption.”

I paused, measuring their expressions. “The crimes that were committed can’t just be set aside, I agree. There does need to be atonement or there is no justice. I appreciate your willingness to act with mercy, however. It fosters hope when mistakes made in weakness aren’t always irredeemable.”

I leaned back in the chair, letting my shoulders relax for the first time in what felt like hours. “I’m sure you have many questions. Feel free to ask. I’ll answer the best I can, and I’m sure Shalelu and Lucian can fill in anything I miss.”

Mayor Deverin gave me a long, thoughtful look. It wasn’t skepticism. It was calculation—not of mistrust, but of weight. Of just how much trust was now resting on my shoulders.

“Very well,” she said at last. “She’ll be your ward, and your responsibility. But know that if anything happens—if she breaks this town’s peace again—you will be the one I call in to answer for it.”

There was no edge to her voice, just quiet conviction. A contract written in trust and consequence.

Sheriff Hemlock nodded, his arms folded. “I’ll make it official. Quietly. We’ll talk to the guards. She won’t be followed, but people will keep eyes on her—for now.”

Father Zantus hesitated, as if weighing his words. Then he smiled faintly, nodding once at me. A subtle gesture of gratitude.

The mayor folded her hands on the table. “Now,” she said. “Let’s hear it all. From the beginning.”

Lucian leaned back, arms crossed with a smirk. “Oh, this will be good.”

I took a deep breath and began. The story unfolded like a slowly opening scroll. Lucian, sitting on the table’s edge, filled in the color—goblin dogs, narrow escapes, and his own dashing heroism (embellished only slightly). Shalelu added her sharp, precise accounts of goblin movements, warband collapses, and the strange topography of Thistletop. And I explained the binding runes, the ancient presence beneath the island, and the encounter with the Warden—without, for now, mentioning Malithar’s pact directly.

By the time we finished, the sun had shifted outside, casting long, slanting rays of light through the council chamber’s tall windows. The maps and militia rosters on the table were painted in gold, the remnants of untouched tea cups gleaming faintly in the soft glow.

Mayor Deverin sat back in her chair, her eyes distant, her mind clearly weighing the weight of what we had said.

“Thassilonian ruins beneath a goblin fort,” she murmured. “A fallen celestial. An ancient power sealed away.”

Her gaze found mine.

“You realize, don’t you, that if word of this gets out, scholars and opportunists will come crawling over this place like ants on honey?”

Zantus looked uncomfortable. Hemlock snorted softly.

“But I also know you didn’t walk into that darkness to keep it a secret,” she said.

Her voice softened, not unkindly.

“So tell me, Cassian Valerius. What do you think we should do with what’s under Thistletop?”

“I wouldn’t do anything for now,” I said, my voice firm, “and I certainly wouldn’t make it common knowledge about the ruins or the Warden. I didn’t get the feeling that the Warden was particularly malicious, but it is extremely powerful, and we should leave it alone for the nonce.”

I let my words settle before continuing. “You’re the leaders of the town, so the decision is yours in the final analysis, but that’s my advice. Frankly, as soon as is practicable, I’d drive the Thistletop goblins from that place and secure it, so the goblins don’t accidentally trigger an apocalypse of some sort.”

Mayor Deverin absorbed my words in silence, her gaze steady. She didn’t question my caution—if anything, she looked relieved to be advised against bold action.

“We’re not a town that courts apocalypses,” she said dryly. “And we’re not equipped to dig around in ancient ruins. If your instinct is to let sleeping gods lie, I’ll listen.”

Sheriff Hemlock grunted. “We’ll start clearing Thistletop of any goblins still sniffing around it. Quietly. And I’ll assign a small detachment to hold the place once it’s secure—nothing obvious. Just enough to keep fools from wandering in.”

Father Zantus looked up from his clasped hands. “I’ll have the cathedral issue a quiet statement—a pilgrimage ban to that part of the coast. It’ll keep the curious away. Sometimes ‘sacred and dangerous’ is more effective than secrecy.”

The mayor nodded. “Good. Then we keep the ruin quiet. For now. No word to Magnimar. No notice to scholars.”

Then she looked back at me. “But I trust that if the Warden’s prison starts to strain, you’ll be the first to know.”

Lucian chuckled softly. “Trust me. If anything strains, you’ll hear it from the rooftops. And probably in poetry. Or flame.”

The mayor smiled faintly and stood. “Then let’s consider this the official end of the goblin crisis. You’ve done more than any of us expected, Cassian. And you’ve earned more than we can offer. But we’ll try.”

She reached for a scroll tied in ribbon and passed it across the table.

“A writ of land and residence. The town formally grants you a home here in Sandpoint, should you want it. A modest house on the east hill. Yours to keep.”

Then, with a glint of humor, “And a monthly stipend—enough to keep your books dry and your stomach full. We’d rather keep our heroes nearby.”

Father Zantus gave me a small smile. “You came here a stranger. You leave this room as part of Sandpoint’s story.”

Sheriff Hemlock just nodded. “Good work.”