Bury a Friend

The flames do not stop. With smoke in their lungs and ash on their armor, the party fights on. A new figure joins the fray: Günther, an old druid and friend of the resistance, arrives flanked by earth and wind, conjuring barriers of roots and tidal bursts to keep the harengon and giants at bay. Amid the chaos, Kilijan breaks formation—racing to preserve Mycha’s body before it’s lost to war. He finds it where Jazz left it: mangled, headless, but intact. He gently removes the Cape of Leaves, blood-soaked but whole. He whispers a prayer and shields the body from the falling fire.

Then—horns. The resistance bursts forth from the gates of Revilon. One flank charges across the left side of the river. Another holds position on the right bank, pushing the harengon invaders into a bottleneck. In the center, the party pushes forward. There is only one name on their minds: Jazz. This is not strategy. It is vengeance.

And then—he returns. Jazz, laughing, blood-flecked, riding on the spine of a fallen Storm Giant, leaps into the fray. His eyes glow with bloodlust, his mouth carved in a feral grin. Kilijan meets him. The two clash atop the giant’s corpse in a brutal dance of blades and rage. Jazz gains the upper hand—again. He moves to end Kilijan. But before the blow lands— A blinding beam of light cuts through the air. Günther, from across the battlefield, releases a spell so radiant it burns through Kilijan’s shoulder and into Jazz’s chest. The light passes through both. Kilijan staggers. Jazz is thrown back—screaming, shattering, disintegrating into smoke and light. The battlefield goes quiet. Jazz is no more.

The resistance has won. Cheering erupts. Fires begin to fade. The enemy retreats. But the party doesn’t celebrate. They carry Mycha’s body to the heart of the city—to Greg’s chapel, where quiet prayers echo through broken stained glass. Beneath the altar, in a stone crypt, they lay Mycha to rest. Candles are lit. Names are whispered. And then, Tamil enters—young, dragonborn, and quiet. He kneels beside Mycha’s body. But something is off. The temperature shifts. The candles flicker sideways. Greg steps forward. Manasa draws steel. Tamil’s shadow stretches—twists—rises. A Shadow Walker, cloaked in black vapor, rises from the body of the boy. It lunges for Mycha’s corpse, seeking to trap his soul. The party strikes it down. But not before it speaks: “He was promised to her.” The ring on Mycha’s hand pulses. And Marla’s voice speaks through it—cold, cracked with grief: “You let him die. You left him." “He was mine.” “I will take him back.” The ring dims. The voice fades. And silence returns. Frul arrives, beaten to a pulp. The fight has taken his toll on him. He tries to tell Greg that he hopes he will take care of his children. However, Greg is not registering him. Frul falls to the ground and dies. Greg does not hesitate, and instantly revives him against Frul's will. Frul gets up and stares into Greg's eyes: "When I was begging for your help, you weren't there. Now that I don't want it, you decide my life over me." Frul leaves and Greg runs after him. Friend