The light faded from Derek's eyes.
And when it returned, it was cold.
He stood in silence surrounded not by enemies, but by stillness. A long, vast chamber stretched endlessly in both directions, lit only by faint rays of silver falling through cracks in a stone ceiling high above.
The ground was polished obsidian, cracked in a thousand places, but what caught his gaze were the swords.
Hundreds, thousands of them. Lining the chamber walls.
Some hanging from the ceiling, some stabbed into the ground, broken, splintered, fractured down the spine.
Some rusted. Others still gleamed with fresh polish.
Each of bore a name inscripted into its hilt.
Names he recognized.
Every single one.
Derek's throat tightened as he walked between the rows. Each step echoed like judgment, like a drumbeat of memory.
He passed one:
Sir Aemon Drelv, Sworn Shield of the Northern Watch.
Then another:
Holse Mor, Vanguard of the Eastern March.
He stopped.
