Arc V- Chapter 10: Silverglass Departure

The message arrived in silence. Brynja stood alone in a narrow chamber overlooking the docks of Sungrace, the parchment still in her hand as the last of her informants slipped back into the shadows. She read the report again, slower this time, letting each word settle. Dargan had done it. The hidden pass had been revealed. The Trollking now knew.

For a long moment, Brynja said nothing. Then, slowly, she smiled. Relief, sharp and cold, settled in her chest. The Maw had grown too quickly, too boldly. If the trolls broke them now if Harrowhall fell beneath the weight of Ulg’s forces then one threat at least would be devoured by another. By sundown, she thought, her gaze drifting toward the distant horizon, they will be surrounded. Let monsters consume monsters.

She folded the parchment carefully and slipped it into her cloak. There were other matters now.

The docks of Sungrace roared with activity. Ships groaned against their moorings as sailors shouted orders and hauled cargo. The massive fleet being assembled for Fairehaven loomed across the harbor, masts rising like a forest of wood and sail against the morning sky. But one vessel stood ready apart from the others smaller, faster, bound north.

Brynja approached the gangplank flanked by a handful of dwarven honor guard, their heavy armor marked with the sigils of her house. At her side walked one of her retainers, silent and watchful. Ahead, Prince Aren stood near the railing, Raenisa beside him. The Aevarian’s wings were partially folded, her pale feathers catching the early light of dawn.

They both turned as Brynja approached, and for a brief moment something passed between brother and sister understanding, unspoken.

“You look like you’ve made your decision,” Brynja said.

Aren nodded. “There wasn’t much left to decide.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the horizon. “North is the only path forward.”

Raenisa stood close beside him, her presence no longer uncertain or hesitant. Whatever fear had once lingered between them had been replaced with something steadier something chosen.

“You’ll need more than resolve,” Brynja said quietly.

“We’ll take what we can get,” Aren replied.

Footsteps approached from behind. Cassian. Several members of the Steel Dawn followed with him, their movements subtle, their presence deliberately understated among the chaos of the docks.

“You always did pick the hardest roads,” Cassian said, a faint grin touching his lips.

Aren gave a short huff of amusement. “They tend to lead somewhere worth going.”

Cassian’s expression sobered. “What’s the situation?”

Aren leaned against the railing slightly, his voice lowering. “Fairehaven is being reinforced. The fleet will sail soon. But it won’t matter if we don’t secure the north.”

“The Jarls,” Cassian said.

“The Jarls,” Aren confirmed. “And if they refuse…” He didn’t finish the thought, but something in his tone made it clear.

Cassian studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “I’ll keep things steady here. The Steel Dawn will continue to move quietly. The clergy won’t have free rein while you’re gone.”

“I’m counting on that,” Aren said.

Cassian smirked slightly. “You always do.”

The call came from the deck. “Cast off!”

Ropes were loosed. Sails unfurled. The ship shuddered as it began to pull away from the dock. Brynja stepped back as the gap widened between vessel and stone, her eyes fixed on her brother.

“Don’t die,” she said.

Aren allowed himself the faintest smile. “I’ll try.”

The ship drifted further into the harbor, turning slowly toward open water. The Silverglass Sea stretched ahead, its surface gleaming like polished metal beneath the rising sun. Beyond it lay Shieldharbor the last beacon of civilization before the wild northern mainland and the territories of the Jarls.

Raenisa stepped beside Aren as the wind caught her hair and feathers, the two of them standing together at the prow. Together. She leaned against him a hand reassuring on his arm. “I can tell you’re grinding your teeth again..”

Aren just chuckled. “Sorry terrible habit I’ve done since I was a child I’m lucky I have any teeth left.”

He stood there beside her as Sungrace left view.

Behind them, the world they knew was shifting.

Ahead of them war awaited.

And far to the south, beneath stone and shadow.

Harrowhall burned.

Seatown smelled of salt, rot, and desperation.

The docks of Sungrace had always been rough, but now they strained under the weight of too many bodies and too little hope. Refugees from Brightharbor huddled beneath patched canvas and broken crates, their wounds untreated, their hunger sharp and constant. The war had not reached this place in fire but it had arrived all the same.

Lysander knelt beside a dockworker whose arm had been badly splintered by a collapsed beam. He worked slowly, carefully setting the bone as best he could, his hands steady despite the man’s pained breathing.

“Hold still,” Lysander murmured. “Just a moment more.”

Callan sat nearby, listening intently. The boy’s blind eyes faced forward, but his head tilted slightly with every sound the scrape of cloth, the tightening of a bandage, the quiet groan of pain.

“You always say that,” Callan said softly. “Just a moment more.”

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Lysander huffed faintly.

“It’s usually true.”

The man hissed as Lysander finished binding the arm, then sagged in relief.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

Lysander nodded and rose, brushing dirt from his hands.

Callan was quiet for a moment.

Then he asked:

“If the Lady of Light loves everyone…”

Lysander glanced down at him.

“…why are they all still hurting?”

The question settled heavier than any wound.

Lysander didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he looked out over the docks at the thin faces, the limping figures, the quiet desperation that clung to every corner of Seatown.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

Callan frowned slightly.

“I thought Saints were supposed to know things.”

Lysander smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“So did I.”

They worked through the afternoon.

Lysander carried crates, repaired torn shelters, and traded labor for scraps of food which he distributed among those who needed it most. Callan stayed close, learning how to listen, how to move through the chaos without sight, how to speak to people without fear.

But as the sun dipped lower, a new presence arrived.

Radiants.

Their white-and-gold robes stood out starkly against the grime of the docks. A small group of them moved with purpose through the crowd, flanked by two members of the Faithful.

Not here to help.

Here to collect.

“Tithes,” one of the Radiants announced. “In the name of the Lady of Light. All who receive the protection of Sungrace will contribute.”

A murmur of unease spread through the refugees.

“We have nothing,” a woman said weakly, clutching a child to her chest.

“You have something,” the Radiant replied coolly. “And if you do not, you will find a way.”

The Faithful began moving through the crowd, taking what little food and supplies remained.

Callan stiffened beside Lysander.

“They’re taking it,” he whispered.

Lysander watched.

A man protested he was struck down.

A crate of supplies was seized.

A wounded soldier begged to keep his rations.

Denied.

Callan’s voice trembled slightly.

“Aren’t they… the Light?”

That was the moment.

Lysander stepped forward.

“Enough.”

The word wasn’t loud.

But it carried.

The nearest Radiant turned, irritation flashing across his face.

“You will stand aside,” he said. “This is Church business.”

Lysander didn’t move.

“The Light does not abandon those who cannot pay for it,” he said calmly.

Recognition flickered in the Radiant’s eyes.

“…you.”

Another stepped closer, studying him.

“Lysander Brightlance.”

A murmur passed between them.

The fallen Saint.

The Radiant’s expression hardened.

“You no longer speak for the Church.”

“No,” Lysander agreed.

“But I still speak for the Light.”

The tension in the air thickened.

Callan stood very still behind him.

The Radiants hesitated.

And then there was a moment where there was complete silence save for the lapping of water underneath the wooden planks of the dock.

Something changed.

Lysander did not call down fire.

He did not summon wrath.

Instead, something softer emerged.

A gentle radiance spread from him not blinding, not scorching, but warm. Like sunlight on skin after a long winter. Like the first quiet breath of dawn.

The refugees felt it.

The fear in their eyes eased.

The tension broke.

Even the Faithful shifted uncertainly.

This Light…

Felt different.

Real.

The Radiants faltered.

For the first time, they did not look certain.

One of them stepped back.

“We will… return later,” he said.

They withdrew.

Not defeated.

But unsettled.

That night, Lysander and Callan sat together beneath a tattered awning near the docks.

The noise of Seatown had quieted to a low murmur. Waves lapped gently against the shore. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed softly brief, but real.

Callan leaned against Lysander’s side.

“They felt it,” the boy said.

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t like theirs.”

“No.”

Callan was quiet for a moment.

Then:

“If the Light isn’t what they say it is…”

He tilted his head slightly.

“What is it?”

Lysander looked out over the sleeping refugees.

The wounded.

The forgotten.

The people no one else had chosen.

“The Light,” he said softly, is what we give each other… when no one else will.”

Callan leaned into him, settling there.

Safe.

For now.

Callan looked up at his adoptive father, and smiled. “Can I call you pa?” Lysander thought about it a moment his scarred face forming a look of emotional twisting. He had thought of Cal as his own child, and he nodded a shaky breath leaving him. “Yes.. I wish that..”

Cal smiled broadly his blind eyes looking in Lysander’s direction. “Then its thoroughly settled..” The young blind boy yawning.”I’m your son..” He grasped his father’s hand and smiled broadly as he then fell into a secure sleep. Lysander was glad the boy couldn’t see his face because stinging tears rolled down his scarred visage. “Good night son..”

Far above the docks, within the quiet halls of Dawnkeep, a report was delivered.

High Luminary Aurelia Valmyra read it in silence.

Her expression did not change.

“Lysander Brightlance,” she said quietly.

She set the parchment aside.

“Do not interfere.”

The Radiant before her hesitated.

“Your Eminence?”

“Observe him,” Aurelia said.

“Watch everything he does.”

Her pale eyes gleamed faintly.

“And report it directly to me.”

The Radiant bowed deeply.

“As you command.”

Aurelia turned toward the window, gazing out over the lights of Sungrace below.

“Let us see,” she murmured, almost to herself…

“…what kind of Light he truly carries.”