Ashes Of a Friend

The dawn after the siege felt like a wound that refused to close. Smoke still drifted from the outer walls, curling into the pale morning sky like black ghosts. The Outpost was battered but standing, its people moving like shadows through the rubble, checking the fallen and tending to the wounded.

Talon sat on a broken crate, her sword lying across her knees. Her fingers traced the blade again and again, as if searching for answers in its cold steel. She didn't notice the smears of blood on her cheek, or the small cuts on her arms. Her eyes kept drifting to the same place — where Tony had stood beside her only hours before.

Janzo moved slowly between the injured, carrying jars of healing salve. His face looked older, haunted, as if the night had stolen years from him. Garrett leaned against a scorched wall nearby, his arms folded tight, jaw set like stone. Nyrielle watched them both from a distance, her own eyes rimmed red, though she kept her head high.

Tony had fought like a storm — swift, fearless, almost reckless. He had laughed between clashes, taunting the beasts, slashing through the dark shapes that poured over the walls. But no one noticed the deep gash across his ribs, hidden under the layer of blood and sweat. The Shadow Warlock's blade had found him, quiet and deadly.

After the final wave broke, Tony staggered into the courtyard, breathing heavily. He dropped to one knee, pressing a hand to his side. Talon had called out, rushing to him, but he had waved her off with that same crooked grin.

"I'm fine," he had said, voice hoarse. "Just… need to catch my breath."

He wasn't fine.

Moments later, he collapsed forward, the dark blood spilling from the hidden wound. Talon caught him just before he hit the ground, her arms trembling. Janzo sprinted over, hands already reaching for his healing kit, but the damage was too deep, the poison too quick. Garrett knelt beside them, eyes wide with a horror he didn't know how to hide.

Tony's eyes fluttered open, clouded and distant. He looked up at Talon and managed a faint, tired smile.

"Guess… I won't get to see what happens next," he whispered, the words barely a breath.

Talon clutched his hand, her own fingers sticky with his blood. "Stay with me. Please, Tony. Don't go."

But his gaze drifted past her, toward the brightening sky. His breathing faltered, each gasp weaker than the last. Then, in one final exhale, he stilled.

Silence fell around them, so heavy it seemed to crush the morning air. Talon pressed her forehead to his, shaking, as Janzo's sobs broke through the courtyard. Garrett bowed his head, fists clenched tight at his sides, unable to look up. Nyrielle stood back, a hand pressed to her chest, her armor catching the weak light like a funeral shroud.

They buried him at sunrise, beyond the north wall where the ground was soft and overlooked the valley below. Talon placed his dagger beside him, the blade he had carried so fiercely. Janzo laid a small vial of herbs, whispering shaky words about healing and peace. Garrett left a single arrow, its shaft blackened by the fires of the night before.

When the grave was filled, Talon remained, staring at the rough mound of earth. She didn't wipe the tears from her cheeks. She let them fall, each one a silent vow.

"We'll finish this," she murmured to the wind. "For you."

Behind her, the Outpost tried to breathe again. Fires were doused, wounded carried to the healer's rooms, weapons repaired. But the absence of Tony hung heavy over every corner, a sharp, aching void that no one could fill.

Nyrielle finally approached, her voice low. "We need to plan. The Warlock isn't finished. He'll strike again."

Talon turned slowly, her eyes empty and fierce all at once. "Then we'll be ready."

Garrett joined them, his eyes hard. "Together."

Janzo stepped up too, wiping his tears, trying to steady his shaking hands. "We can't let him take anyone else."

Talon nodded, her hand resting on her sword hilt, her fingers curling tight. The kinje within her hummed faintly, a cold, electric whisper in her blood — a reminder that the fight was far from over.

The four of them stood there, a circle drawn by pain and unspoken promises. Around them, the Outpost stirred, battered but alive.

Tony was gone. But his spirit would ride with them in every sword stroke, every plan, every scream into the darkness.

And they would not stop until the Shadow Warlock was nothing but ashes.