RAVEN'S GAMBIT | Part 17: Ashes and Oaths
The air was heavy with silence as the survivors of the splintered expedition emerged from the mountain. Every step they took back to camp was a quiet tribute to the fallen—Sir Cedric Lightbringer, Zel Dorne, Fox-Eyes, Jorek, Evelyn… and the others. Some were carried. Others were only bags of belongings and broken gear, cradled in solemn arms.
Kaela Virell’s voice broke the silence as she addressed the mourning party gathered beneath the ashen sky.
“We have lost our faithful leader, the paladin, Sir Cedric. He kept us as safe as he could… and when the time came, he gave his life so that we might see the end of this cursed place.”
She placed a gauntleted hand on a mound of earth, where Sir Cedric now lay. “May the gods remember your light, Cedric.”
Lira Valesong stood beside her, eyes damp but resolute.
“We should rejoin the others and conquer this mountain together,” she said. “Enough factions. Enough fractures. If we want to survive what lies ahead, we must face it as one.”
The sentiment was met with silence… and then nods.
The camp became a quiet flurry of preparation. Graves were dug with magic and muscle. Some were simple stones, others marked by blades planted upright in the soil. Personal effects were burned or buried. Farewells were whispered. Prayers offered.
Kaela Virell sat alone for a time, letting her spellbook rest open in her lap. “You were right, Cedric,” she murmured. “Greed would have ruined us. I only hope we’re not too late to make your sacrifice matter.”
When the last of the rites were said, a new council was called. The three remaining rangers—Kaelen Thornstride, Kale “Whisper” Stronemarch, and Thalia Emberbranch—stood together in quiet conversation, each seasoned, each proud.
But none would bend to the other’s command.
So, the decision was made.
It was Hachiro Noboru, the samurai who had survived more than most within White Plume Mountain, who stepped forward. His face was weathered stone, his armor worn but kept with reverence.
“I do not ask for obedience,” he said. “Only unity. I have bled in this mountain longer than any of you. I know its tricks. If you trust me to lead, then I will lead. If not, I go alone.”
The rangers glanced at one another. Then Kaelen Thornstride gave a slow nod.
“You lead. We follow—on our own terms. Our bows are yours, Hachiro.”
So it was done.
The army of many—mages, gunslingers, monks, mercenaries, warlocks, and wildbloods—took shape again, this time under one banner.
Hachiro’s.
Kaela Virell, Kara Dhex, Marcus Virelli, Lira Valesong, Brick McGraw, Brother Tetsuro, and all the remaining combatants found new purpose. Roles were assigned. Watches were kept. Armor was mended. Magic restored.
When dawn came, White Plume Mountain loomed before them once more—its sulfuric breath curling like a dragon waiting to wake.
“We enter now,” Hachiro said, katana drawn and gleaming in the pale morning light. “Not as factions. Not as rivals. As one.”
Boots struck stone. Steel rang softly in sheathes. Spells hummed at fingertips.
And so, the united company passed once more through the black threshold of the mountain.
This time, they swore, would be the last.