Champion of a Lost Cause

The relic remains clenched in Effruin’s one hand, its cold pulse locking the featureless black plane around him and Grahamin. Beyond the glass-dark horizon, the mill hangs unreachable and still.

Grahamin lowers his center of gravity and raises his sword. The old paladin studies Effruin’s wounded shoulder, then understands that no surrender, bargain, or command will end this place.

Effruin’s shoulder burns as he settles into his drunken fighting stance. His single hand hangs loose, his feet finding balance on black glass that offers neither grit nor echo.

Across the sealed distance, Grahamin’s sword point steadies. His copper-toned face remains grim, but his eyes carry the weight of every battle that brought them here.

Neither man moves. The relic’s cold pulse slows between Effruin’s fingers, and a faint fracture of darkness creeps across the black plane beneath their feet.

Effruin draws a deep, concentrated breath. The black glass gives back no echo, yet the cold pulse in the relic falls into rhythm with his measured lungs.

He holds Grahamin’s gaze without blinking, one hand loose in his combat stance. The darkness fractures farther beneath them, spreading in thin, soundless lines.

Grahamin shifts his sword into both hands, the blade angled across his body. His stance is disciplined, but his eyes remain fixed on Effruin rather than the spreading fracture.

The relic’s pulse stops. For a breath, the black plane becomes perfectly still, holding both enemies in the silence before the first blow.

Grahamin’s blade erupts in holy flame and cuts across the black glass. Effruin meets it with his single hand, turning the burning edge aside before it reaches his body.

The impact drives Effruin back several hard paces. Fire crawls across his palm and the wrench tears through his wounded shoulder, forcing a sharp drop in his stance, but Grahamin’s strike is blocked.

The holy flame gutters along Grahamin’s sword without touching the relic. Effruin’s deflection leaves a pale scar across the black glass, while his arm trembles under the strain.

Grahamin resets his footing, flame brightening along the blade. The sealed plane offers no retreat, and Effruin remains inside its prison, wounded shoulder burning but sword arm ready.

Effruin slips sideways as Grahamin’s burning blade descends, his drunken rhythm abandoning every expected measure. He darts inside the guard and strikes beneath the paladin’s arm.

His knuckles hammer the exposed joint beneath Grahamin’s pauldron, then snap against the inside of the armored knee. The impacts jar the plate and buckle the paladin’s advance.

Grahamin’s leg falters. He catches himself with the flaming sword, but his stance has lost its clean strength, and each movement now drags against the damaged armor.

The cost lands immediately: Effruin’s wounded shoulder wrenches hard as he twists away, sending numb pain down his side. His footing skids across the black glass.

Grahamin raises his sword again, slower now, one knee guarded and his damaged shoulder plate hanging askew. The holy flame still burns, but Effruin has stolen the paladin’s momentum.

Effruin snaps the blackened bronze relic from his hand and hurls it at Grahamin’s face. The paladin flinches, raising his burning sword too late to track the feint.

Effruin surges through the opening and drives his boot into Grahamin’s breastplate. The impact booms across the black glass, launching the older man backward.

Grahamin crashes onto one knee, his sword scraping a bright line across the featureless floor. The relic tumbles beyond him, its cold pulse briefly lost in the darkness.

Effruin’s wounded shoulder flares as the kick twists his balance, but he stays upright. Grahamin’s guard is broken, and his sword arm hangs low beneath the damaged plate.

The bronze relic rests between them on the black glass. Grahamin remains kneeling, exposed but conscious, while the sealed plane waits for Effruin’s next move.

Grahamin lunges, his enchanted blade carving a bright slash across the black glass. Effruin slips aside, letting the flame pass inches from his ribs, then drives his fist into the paladin’s sword wrist.

A second thrust follows without pause. Effruin twists outside its point, his wounded shoulder burning with the motion, and counters with a sharp heel strike beneath Grahamin’s breastplate.

The blade sweeps low, then snaps upward. Effruin folds around the first cut and hops clear of the second, answering with two knuckles against Grahamin’s exposed throat guard.

Grahamin staggers, holy fire shivering along his sword. Effruin stays inside its reach, turning each murderous stroke aside and returning a compact blow to plate, joint, or helm.

The final slash passes over Effruin’s head. He pivots beneath it and smashes his palm into Grahamin’s chest, forcing the paladin backward across the fractured glass.

Grahamin gathers the last of his strength and brings the holy blade down in a cataclysmic arc. The black glass buckles beneath its path.

Effruin twists aside at the final instant. The blade misses his body, but its radiance catches his wounded shoulder and tears him off balance.

The strike does not end at the floor. A rift splits the void from Grahamin’s feet toward the sealed horizon, spilling silent white fire into the darkness.

Effruin skids across the slanting glass, one hand scraping for purchase. The fracture widens between the two men, making the ground itself a treacherous divide.

Grahamin wrenches his burning sword free as the rift crawls beneath him. Its light outlines him on the far side, while the relic’s cold pulse answers from Effruin’s hand.

The direct path to Grahamin is gone. Between them, the black plane continues cracking toward the horizon, and each new fracture makes the prison shudder.

Effruin drops the blackened bronze relic. It strikes the glass and skids away as he launches across the widening rift, his wounded shoulder screaming with every step.

His first blow crashes through Grahamin’s guard. The paladin reels, and Effruin follows with a second death-dealing strike before the holy blade can rise.

Grahamin tries to answer, but Effruin slips inside the burning sword’s reach and hammers through the armor at throat and chest. The final impact is lethal, and with it Grahamin falls.

The holy flame gutters. Grahamin collapses onto the black glass, his sword falling from his hand as the rift’s white fire washes over his still form.

Effruin remains standing over him, but the assault tears his wounded shoulder open again. His arm hangs numb, and blood darkens the glass beneath his feet.

The black plane shudders, as Grahamin looks up to Effruin. With one, final breath, Grahamin's life fades away. Beyond the sealed horizon, the distant mill remains unreachable, while the discarded relic pulses alone between the fractures.

Effruin looks down at Grahamin’s fallen body. The paladin’s eyes remain open, fixed on nothing, while white fire passes silently through the cracks beneath him.

No answer comes from the dead marshal. His sword lies beside him, its holy flame gone, and the black glass gives back only Effruin’s solitary reflection.

The question hangs over the featureless plane. Nothing crowns the vengeance, and nothing rises to replace it; only the relic’s cold pulse marks time beside the widening fractures.

Effruin remains trapped with the body, his ruined shoulder hanging numb at his side. The dead man cannot judge him, absolve him, or give his life another name.

Effruin’s legs finally give way. He drops onto the black glass beside Grahamin’s fallen body, the impact jarring his wounded shoulder and sending a numb shock through his side.

He catches himself with his remaining hand, but the effort fails. His palm slips across the cold surface, and he folds onto one knee before sinking fully onto his side.

The collapse leaves him sprawled beside the dead marshal. His shoulder hangs uselessly, and the hard landing bruises his ribs beneath the torn cloth.

White fire continues to crawl through the fractures beneath them. It passes under Grahamin’s still form and throws a pale, shifting edge across Effruin’s exhausted face.

Effruin remains conscious but cannot rise. The sealed plane holds him where he has fallen, with the relic’s cold pulse sounding faintly beside Grahamin’s sword.

Effruin drags his remaining hand across the black glass toward the discarded relic. His fingers close around the bronze while white fire trembles beneath Grahamin’s dead body.

The relic’s cold pulse enters his palm. Effruin wills it toward safety, and the black plane answers by folding inward around his exhausted body.

For one silent instant, Effruin’s resolve goes hollow. The purpose that carried him through the darkness slips away, leaving him unable to summon even anger at the dead.

The void tears open above Duskford Mill’s rain-slick yard. Effruin falls through with the relic clenched in hand, landing hard beside the extinguished black fire.

The shadow seals behind him. The mill, soldiers, and scattered Ashen Oath warriors return to ordinary sight, while Effruin lies conscious amid rain and smoke, the relic cold against his palm.

He is free of the featureless prison, but the escape has stripped the last certainty from his vengeance. The bronze relic rests with him, and Grahamin remains beyond its reach, dead.