Page 65 of The Necromancer's Prisoner

I only hope we can all be so lucky as to have the determination to walk our own path. To carry out our own duty.

Alistair squeezed the hilt of his sword as he scanned the streets leading to and from the village square. This was the heart of Singer’s Rest, so he assumed it was where the golem would go. Now, if only the Light-blinded thing would show up so he could get this work over with and be on his way.

More time crawled by—enough that Alistair found he couldn’t comfortably maintain his battle stance. He allowed his sword to drop, dismissing his dawnflame with a frown. He could always resummon it once his adversary arrived.

Erys hadn’t been certain about the specifics of his former apprentice’s ritual. Their best guess was that the golem would make its grand appearance at first light since that traditionally marked the start of Dawncoming. A quick glance at the sky, however, confirmed what Alistair already knew—the sun had long since risen, beginning its curving ascent toward noon.

Where, then, was his foe?

It was too much to hope that something had happened to the golem, such as its unstable voidflame destabilizing early. Had it simply wandered too far from town and needed extra time for its return trek? Or had Erys miscalculated its time of arrival? Perhaps it was supposed to be here at midday or sunset rather than sunrise?

Alistair took a seat on a bench lining the square. Rather than feeling relaxed, however, the gesture only amplified his tension. A fight to the death he could deal with, losing himself in the heat of his dawnflame and the frenzy of battle. But this interminable waiting and anticipation?Thatwas far more difficult to swallow.

His gaze settled on one of the many harmonite poles scattered about the village, this one a roiling blue that reminded him of Iggie’s pale gaze. Merciful Light, how he wished Iggie were here with him now. The necromancer could have arrayed his undead as scouts to alert them of the monster’s approach while they kept one another company here on the bench, passing the time with idle chatter rather than empty silence.

He could practically picture Iggie’s wry grin and that mop of messy red hair falling over his eyes. Imagine his dry chuckle and the way his long fingers twitched with constant nerves.

Another spike of regret lanced through Alistair, the melancholy it left in its wake harder to shake off than before. Erys’ words replayed endlessly in his head as he considered all the things he might’ve done differently—not just yesterday, but throughout the rest of his life as well.

That line of thinking was counterproductive, even dangerous. Dwelling on Iggie was bad enough. But to question his choices since his father’s death, every decision that had brought him here as a member of the Order…that risked dredging up all sorts of discomfiting notions.

Alistair liked helping people—he always had. But wasthistruly the best way for him to do it? How long until the Order asked him to hunt down someone else like Iggie—an innocent wildling born with magic who was simply trying to make their way in a cruel world?

If he’d been the one sent to deal with Iggie in that village so long ago, would he have intervened on Iggie’s behalf? Or would he have consoled himself with some made-up fiction about the greater good while he stood back and allowed the massacre to happen? His inability to answer frightened him more than any voidflame abomination ever could.

Determined to get his mind on something,anything,else, Alistair conjured his dawnflame and attempted to settle into a meditative state. Much as he used his magic to soothe his physical wounds, he imagined the holy fire flowing through him now, filling him up with blazing light to comfort his churning thoughts.

He’d done this plenty of times before when he needed to clear his head. This time, however, he found the exercise only somewhat effective. The dawnflame was there as always, comforting in its predictable warmth—a symbol of light and hope to so many, especially here in Khordan, despite its destructive potential. Yet, while his magic might be considered a force for good, in that moment he himself felt like little more than a fraud.

Loneliness echoed through the caverns of his heart, more all-encompassing than it had been since those first early days after his father’s passing when he’d wandered through the empty rooms of their sprawling estate like an unmoored spirit. Without the vibrancy of its people, Singer’s Rest seemed just as desolate—a hollow husk no matter the lifeless beauty that had been left behind. Abandoned like this, it was hardly even a town anymore, but a—

His eyes shot open, icy tendrils of fear burrowing through him as he drew in a sharp breath.Merciful Light, how could I have been so stupid?All of them had.

Leaping to his feet, he infused dawnflame into his muscles and charged down the desolate streets in the direction the caravan had taken the night before. Thank the Light he’d listened to Liliana’s directions and that there’d been nothing except light flurries the night before. Their tracks should still be visible enough for him to follow.

When Erys told them of Matrim’s ritual, they’d all assumed that Singer’s Rest was aplace—the physical location of the town. But Matrim hadn’t cared about buildings. His driving focus had been to prove himself to itspeople.Thatwas the intent he’d imparted to his golem—not to return on Dawncoming to a few empty houses, but to present itself to the townsfolk whose admiration and respect Matrim had sought so desperately that it had gotten him killed.

Their plan to shelter the village in the harmonite caverns hadn’t kept them safe—it had boxed them in with no way to escape. Alistair had sent them off to their doom.

He quickened his pace until his muscles strained and his breath came in sharp pants. Snow churned beneath his boots, and he sent a silent prayer to the Dawn Aspects that he didn’t lose his footing and take a hard tumble. Liliana had said the caverns lay a few hours from town, but that had been accounting for the caravan’s more plodding pace. Alistair had no such constraints—he ran as if his very life depended on it.

As iftheirvery lives depended on it.

When he heard the first distant screams carried on the wind, a knot of dread rooted in his gut. Merciful Light, he was already too late. How long ago had the harmonite golem arrived? He tried not to think about how many villagers it had already slain or to picture the gristly sight that awaited him. Whatever it was, he’d face it head-on. He owed the people of Singer’s Rest that much. He would save those he could and avenge the rest.

Cresting a final ridge, he spotted the cavern’s entrance nestled in a ravine at its base. A hulking form sprouting with jagged crystals that flickered in scintillating azure patterns blocked most of his view. Tentacles formed from violet voidflame roiled along its back. It was every bit the monstrosity Alistair had expected, but he had no time to dwell on that now. There’d be chance enough for reflection once the battle was over, one way or another.

He scanned the area for corpses, letting out a relieved breath when he spied none. Perhaps he hadn’t arrived too late after all. If the golem had only just reached the caverns, casualties might still be light. He might still have a chance to salvage this disaster.

As he clambered down the hill, sword drawn and ablaze with holy light, he noticed tinier figures scurrying around the golem, drawing its attention. Some brave villagers must’ve come out to fight, trying to buy time for the others. He admired their courage, but they stood little chance against this foe. It was only a matter of time before—

As if in response to his worry, the abomination swung a massive crystalline fist into one of the figures. Alistair winced, his heart plummeting as the figure careened backward. The blow proved strong enough to crack open the figure’s chest and…and scatter its limbs throughout the snow in dozens of pieces.

Alistair blinked, almost losing his footing as he struggled to make sense of what he’d just witnessed. Then, the strange sight clicked, and a wide grin stretched his lips. Those weren’t townsfolk—at least, not among those currently living in Singer’s Rest. They were skeletons, doing their best to hold the line.

Iggie had come to save them after all.

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