2/28/26 - The Day the World Got Brighter

We stood at the base of that towering structure battered, spell-drained, and profoundly aware that a long rest was a luxury we did not possess. Barty bore the worst of it — bitten, marked, and quietly carrying the Blight like an unwanted houseguest. He attempted to cauterize the wound himself. Bold. Stoic. Questionable craftsmanship. The flesh sealed, but something in him dimmed. The Blight lingered. He felt it. We all did.

But rivers do not pause for existential dread.

The debris still blocked our path, and the crane above it was our only option. Eggie climbed to the control tower with the confidence of a man who has survived worse — and discovered why no one else had succeeded. The levers bore the grisly proof. Fingers lost. Weeks old. The crane demanded payment.

And then there was the rope.

Pristine. Metallic. Almost elegant.

When Barty picked it up, it stirred.

Not dramatically — just enough to suggest it was considering him. It shifted, coiled faintly, then settled again like a cat pretending it hadn’t moved at all. We exchanged looks. We had seen this pattern before. Relics never arrive by accident.

Below, Agnes and Emonie descended to hook the crane. Emonie landed like she expected applause. Agnes followed with clerical dignity intact. Eggie lowered the crane perfectly, and we began to push.

It was heavy. Insultingly heavy.

Iron groaned. Timber protested. We strained together, muscles screaming, boots digging into soaked earth.

And then I pushed just a little too well.

The bar snapped.

The crane whipped back with violent enthusiasm. Agnes went into the water. The control tower collapsed with a crash so thunderous it rolled across the marsh like a challenge.

Something answered.

The ground trembled.

“They’re coming,” Barty said — and the rope coiled around his arm as if in agreement.

From beneath the wreckage rose the Blasphemy — half flesh, half liquid, eyes glowing like jaundiced lanterns and posture suggesting she very much enjoyed an entrance. She slammed Eggie with terrifying force and nearly folded him in half.

We did not panic.

We simply retreated aggressively.

Elandra attempted to bend the creature’s will. The Blasphemy declined the suggestion. Shamblers closed in. A Broken Lord entered the fray. A Wretched lunged for me and missed, which I would like formally recorded.

Agnes anchored herself in faith, her Toll ringing out like a warning bell. Emonie hauled bodies to safety and readied the barge. Barty struck and disengaged with the efficiency of a man who knows he cannot afford to linger. I insulted things until they hesitated. It’s a skill.

The Blasphemy melted across the battlefield as though she were only pretending to be solid, reviving the fallen with grotesque ease. Enemies we had put down rose again. Steely Dan fell.

There was no grand stand. No heroic final blow.

There was strategy.

Step by careful step, we withdrew toward the river. When I found myself nearly surrounded, the rope extended toward me without being asked. I grabbed hold and made it aboard as the others shoved the barge free with poles and stubbornness.

Behind us, the Blasphemy stood in the shallows, watching.

We drifted into the mist — exhausted, diminished, and alive.

Which, given the alternatives, felt like victory.

---

The dock we found later was quieter, though no less strange. An iron bell sat at its edge while a crow pecked at it with suspicious dedication. Archimedes took great interest in the rope, which did not help anyone’s nerves. Eggie silenced the bell with fire. Nothing answered. Which was somehow more unsettling.

Inside the nearby boathouse, Agnes and Barty heard faint chiming — not wind, but metal striking metal. Religious fetishes arranged in the symbol of Lathander. Six in total. Three inlaid with silver.

Agnes replaced silver with copper — equal weight, equal respect. No desecration. No greed. Just balance.

Later, she told Barty quietly that if the Blight claimed him, she would send him beyond before it finished its work.

That night we rested.

Barty did not.

The rope, in the morning light, revealed its nature: a Rope of Climbing. A relic. Loyal, apparently. Eggie rebuilt Steely Dan into Jericho — Owlbear in spirit, if not entirely in shape.

We returned to the river.

Gibbets lined the banks. Some empty. Some moving in ways they shouldn’t.

And then we saw it.

A monastery so massive it bordered on arrogant. Gold sun iconography blazing across its façade. Too grand. Too pristine. Dedicated to Lathander.

Inside, the air held incense rather than rot. Doors were barricaded from within. Something struck one as we passed.

At the end of a candlelit hall sat Brother Durst — ancient, sharp-eyed, impossibly calm. Alone for a year and a half. In service for nine centuries.

He knew we were coming.

Lathander had told him.

He entrusted Agnes with a weathered box — meant for Lady Elspeth of Evenmore. The Ember Glass. He warned us not to touch it directly if it broke. He would join his brothers once we departed.

Agnes lingered. He told her she was doing holy work.

We left with the box.

The stained glass exploded inward before we reached the door.

Fireballs tore through the sanctuary. Flames devoured pews and pillars alike. Nine raiders waited outside. Two with pistols — strange, sharp thunder-weapons. One wielding a silver dagger. Yorick’s name surfaced in accusation.

We charged.

Steel clashed. Gunfire cracked. Fire roared behind us.

Agnes fell while still clutching the box.

It broke.

And then—

Light.

Not flame. Not spell. Not sunlight.

White radiance burst outward with such force it swallowed the burning monastery in brilliance. It forced every shadow to retreat. It silenced even the roar of the inferno.

From the shattered crate rose a hexagonal shard of gold-veined glass, hovering in the air. At its core, something pulsed. Something breathed.

It called to Agnes.

She reached for it.

When her fingers touched the Ember Glass, her wounds vanished. She rose, alive by the narrowest and most deliberate margin, standing amid flame and falling timber with radiant light curling around her like dawn itself had chosen a champion.

Everyone saw.

The light burned brighter than the fire consuming the holy place. The world did not feel the same afterward.

The Ember Glass hovered near her, then settled — calm, dormant, but undeniably awake. And as it did, Barty straightened. The creeping weakness within him stilled. The Blight’s advance halted as though held at bay by something ancient and uncompromising.

The relic had chosen.

When the raiders lay dead in the ash, we searched them.

We found:

• 120 gold pieces

• 3 silver coins

• 60 iron clinkers

• 300 copper pieces

• 1 silver dagger

• 2 pistols

• 1 potion of healing

Ken claimed the silver dagger.
Eggie took the pistols.
Silver coins were divided.
Barty kept the potion of healing.

And we stood there, smoke rising around us, holding something that had just rewritten the rules.

We had awakened the Ember Glass.