Chapter 28 The Crest Abandoned
The Crest Abandoned
Kailorien didn’t hear Zarrek approach. That alone told him how angry the man was. He stood with one hand still resting on the wagon, eyes distant, breath slow. The wind tugged at his coat, sharp with mountain air and judgment. He didn’t flinch when the voice came—low, hard, and close.
“How long?”
Kailorien turned to see Zarrek’s face in profile. His Second stepped forward, boots scraping against the stone. “Don’t waste my time. How long have you been planning to send her away?”
A beat of silence. “Since I sent the hawks.”
Zarrek’s jaw clenched. He scanned the wagon behind Kailorien. The tarp. The sigils.
“Maradryn?” he asked, though he already knew.
Kailorien gave a single nod.
Zarrek exhaled sharply, a sound halfway between disbelief and disgust. He turned in a slow, deliberate circle before facing him again.
“You brought her back from the brink,” he said. “You gave her the chance to believe she wasn’t just some symbol. That she mattered. That someone would stay.”
“I never lied to her,” Kailorien replied.
“No,” Zarrek snapped. “You just left out the part where you planned to toss her out the moment she started to believe it.”
“She needs peace,” he said, voice flat. “She needs time. Safety. Not war. Not Krystopolis. Not this.”
“She needs you.” Zarrek stepped closer. “You know that.”
Kailorien’s throat worked once. His hands stayed at his sides.
“I can’t be what she needs,” he said. “Not while I’m this. Not while I’m theirs.”
Zarrek’s stare was a blow.
“You’re not theirs, Resh. You’re hers.”
“I am the Resh’Agar.”
Zarrek sneered. “Yeah, used to be. Back when you had a spine. We shook on it, Resh. You brought her back soaking wet and muddy and shaking, looking like someone had just carved out your soul. You told me you were going to fight for her.”
“Not to keep her,” Kailorien bit out. “To protect her.”
Zarrek swore darkly. “Don’t feed me that vesh’tal, Resh. I’ve seen men like you break before, but never like this. You’ve become what they always wanted—a weapon that walks.”
“She won’t survive if she stays.”
“She won’t live if she goes,” Zarrek snapped. “You think exile is peace? It’s erasure. You’re erasing her. Repurposing. And you’re letting them.”
Kailorien’s voice was barely audible. “You don’t understand.”
“No. You don’t.” Zarrek stepped closer, every word a blow to the ribs. “You asked her to fight. You pulled her from the edge. Made her want you.”
Kail didn’t flinch. “I gave her a future.”
“No,” Zarrek said. “You gave false hope.”
Kail’s breath caught. The wind howled between them. Zarrek’s tone changed—no longer a soldier’s fury, but a man’s final vow.
“I will not stand by while you destroy her from a distance. You think she’ll be safe in some cushy house in the capital? Wake up, Resh. What do you think will happen when someone sees her bring a tree to life? Or save a field of dying crops?”
Kailorien didn’t speak.
Zarrek cursed, voice low and furious. “You heard the Riftwardens. They’re not the only ones with opinions. They’ll call her a heretic. The kindling of old magic. And you won’t be there when the torches come.”
Kailorien’s hands fisted. “She’ll have new papers. A quiet identity. The people there—”
“The people,” Zarrek said, “are afraid of what they don’t understand. The first time she heals a sick child with a touch, the first time she casts without thinking—” He stopped. “She’ll be alone. And it’ll break her.”
Kailorien closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Just to breathe.
“I’d rather she hate me,” he said, “than bury her.”
The grizzled old warrior stared at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. When he finally spoke, his voice had cooled. Hardened.
“Varn’ekir,” he hissed. “You coward. You don’t get to decide her fate just because you’re afraid of what you’d lose.”
Kailorien almost snapped back, almost lunged for words that would wound in return. But the silence between them was crushing.
The doors burst open. A Reskala warrior from the Vanguard made his way toward them in hurried steps, his breath fogging in the air. “Your Quintessence,” he said, saluting. “A Mandate arrived. Sealed by the Sovereign Flame. The War Hall awaits your decree.”
Kailorien nodded without a word and made his way toward the halls.
Zarrek fell into step beside him before he reached the upper corridor.
Neither spoke. A chill had fallen over them both that had nothing to do with their argument.
Shu'Khan—his brother—had sent a Mandate? This late into the Campaign?
He only bothers when word has reached him of a significant find. A relic or artifact that would benefit him.
His hand clenched into a fist. Had word of Auryn reached him, then? Was he already laying claim to her? Void damn it all. This was exactly what he'd tried to avoid. Exactly why Zarrek was wrong. Krystopolis would devour her, and his brother…
Kailorien's second hand clenched.
He and Zarrek walked on. Tense, the unspoken words between them growing into a soundless scream.
The War Hall of Stonewake was a narrow, spined chamber—its ceiling high, its banners stripped, its windows narrow slits that let in only silence and cold. Once, this room had held strategy councils, rune briefings, and oaths sworn in blood. Now, it held only memory.
And one seal.
An ornate scroll sat upon the stone dais beside the massive fluxhearth, its wax unbroken. Violet and sun-stamped. It pulsed with runic heat. Kailorien approached. Zarrek's eyes burned into his back. He broke the seal, and the parchment unfurled with the whisper of silk.
He read it silently once.
Iridias Savarax — Our brother,
We look forward to your return. Long have you been away to war for the sake of the Crystal City.
The Council grows restless as the Shields show signs of decay.
Inch by inch, they creep inward, and Draevan Sol continues to stir unrest among the Council.
We trust you still remember what happened the last time the Shields decayed too far.
Thousands lost, turned to ash in moments as the magic failed.
Much has changed since you have been away, Iridias. The Flaeme grants the Lifegivers less usable Breeding stock each Cycle. The Council fears it is the lack of Estar that is to blame. Without the Resh’Agar, the Companions grow restless.
But We suspect the truth of things. For this Campaign, you have taken too many souls with you to the Surface.
The resource must now be returned to the city, where it belongs.
The Shields, strained as they are, consume more essence with each passing Season, and without fresh returns to the Flaeme, the balance of the city falters.
Even a minor deficit could hasten collapse.
Should the stock return with you, they will likely live another decade before their souls return to the Flaeme to form new life.
Therefore, We must—with a heavy heart—pass down a Mandate.
Kailorien read the final sentence and stopped.
Read it once more in silence.
Then again, aloud.
“By decree of the Sovereign Flame, the Resh’Agar is to return. With his Commander. All others stationed at Stonewake are to be Repurposed."
The words hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre.
Kailorien folded the parchment. Set down the scroll.
Stood quiet and still as the command sank into his bones.
He envisioned carrying it out—taking his blade and executing every single one of the men he'd worked himself to the bone to keep alive.
Day after day for nineteen years. His Kelvasari.
His warriors who'd carried the name of Resh'Agar—now deemed worthless in the eyes of their own Emperor.
Zarrek didn’t move.
Not for a long time.
Then, with dead eyes, he reached for his shoulder. He ripped off the metal sigil that marked his command—the final rune-etched plate that named him the Resh'Agar's Second.
It hit the ground with a sound like breaking teeth.
Zarrek spat on it.
Kailorien stared. Unmoving. Unable to react. Duty was a muzzle to his fury. Obligation and vows of blood were his shackles.
“I see,” Zarrek said, voice cold. “Now I know what I’m fighting for.
” He met Kailorien’s eyes—no rage there.
Just certainty. “I’ll take her to Maradryn myself,” he said.
“If you don’t have the spine to keep her by your side, I will.
But I won’t serve Krystopolis. I won’t bow to that filth of the Flaeme any longer. ”
Then he turned and walked out of the chamber.
This time, Kailorien almost followed.
But didn’t.
Because if he did…he would throw down his own sigil, abandon the Dark, believe he might have a chance in Maradryn.
A fool’s hope, one cleaved in twain by the enchanted dagger hidden in his belt.
By the weight of the madness carved into his neck.
By the chains that held him.