Chapter 32: The Light of the Pendant

Dorian knelt in the square, his fingers trembling as they clasped the red gem in his pendant. Its faint, steady glow brightened until it seemed to hold the radiance of a miniature star. Around him, the chaos of the aftermath quieted as heads turned, villagers and bandits alike frozen in confusion.

From somewhere deep within, Dorian felt a warmth spread outward, filling every inch of his being. He reached for the flute Tyrn had given him, his grip firm despite his exhaustion. As the pendant’s glow intensified, golden-red light engulfed him, bathing the entire hollow in brilliance.

The air stilled as the light seemed to pulse in time with Dorian’s breath. His hair, streaked with red for so long, now ignited fully into a vivid crimson that shimmered as if aflame. When he opened his eyes, they glowed a luminous gold rimmed with fiery red.

Lucas, who had been relentlessly beating Krag, paused mid-swing as the light caught his attention. His fists, bloody and raw, hovered in the air as his gaze locked onto Dorian. Around him, hunters and villagers stopped tending to the injured or restraining bandits, their expressions awestruck.

Even the bandits, hardened criminals who had shown no remorse for their actions, felt a cold fear prick their spines. This village was no ordinary village, and this boy—this man—was something else entirely.

At the edge of the square, Dorian’s family, rushing to embrace him, hesitated. Gorlan, his usual stoicism giving way to unease, gripped Elira’s arm. Selia’s wide eyes glistened with wonder and confusion as she clutched her mother’s skirt.

The light grew stronger, brighter, until even the shadows in the farthest corners of the square faded. And then Dorian moved.

He raised the flute to his lips and played.

The first notes resonated through the air, crystal clear and soothing. The music poured out like water quenching a blazing fire, its energy spreading across the hollow. Everyone—villagers, bandits, hunters—felt the effect almost immediately.

The injured gasped as their wounds began to close. Broken bones knitted together, torn flesh healed, and blood stopped flowing. For a moment, the hollow, filled with grief and pain moments before, pulsed with life and restoration.

Bogo, still crouched beside his father Garrin, felt the smith’s pulse grow stronger. The mangled stump of his leg no longer bled, the wound sealing as though nature itself had intervened. Tears streamed down Bogo’s face as he clutched his father’s hand.

“Thank you, Dorian,” he sobbed. “Thank you so much.”

The same light reached Master Gresham, whose severed arm now ended in a cleanly healed stump, no longer a source of life-threatening blood loss. He chuckled weakly, shaking his head. “Boy’s summoning the sunrise by himself,” he muttered.

The bandits weren’t spared. Their bruises and cuts healed just as quickly, though many trembled with fear at what they perceived to be punishment wrapped in mercy. Krag, beaten bloody by Lucas, blinked as his wounds began to mend.

But the respite was short-lived for him. Lucas, his body trembling with rage, saw the man’s injuries start to heal. Snarling, he surged forward, raining punches on Krag again, refusing to let the healing leave the brute unscathed. “You don’t deserve this!” he roared.

Dorian played on, the notes flowing effortlessly as if channeled through him by the pendant itself. The golden-red energy swirled like a protective aura, saturating every corner of the hollow. But with each passing moment, Dorian’s movements became slower, his notes less precise.

As the last chords echoed through the square, the light around him dimmed until the pendant returned to its quiet crimson glow. The flute fell from his hands, clattering softly against the stones as his body swayed.

“Dorian!” Ryssa’s voice cut through the silence, but before anyone could act, Gorlan caught him. He knelt with his son cradled against his chest.

Elira rushed to them, Selia close behind, her small hands tugging at Dorian’s sleeve. “Is he okay?” she cried.

Gorlan pressed his hand to Dorian’s chest, relief flooding his face as he felt a steady pulse. “He’s alright,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “He’s just exhausted. He always pushes himself.”

A faint smile lingered on Dorian’s unconscious face, his breathing slow but even.

Ryssa stood frozen, her mind reeling from what she had witnessed. She turned to Dorian’s pendant, which gleamed faintly as it rested against his chest. “What... was that?” she murmured to herself.

Behind her, a familiar voice startled her.

“Is that the pendant you mentioned?” Vaerin asked. He had dismounted his horse, standing a few paces away with Meryth at his side.

Ryssa turned, her tears welling again—not from relief, but from anger. “Where were you two?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “We could’ve saved more people if you’d been here!”

Meryth began to explain, “We were summoned to—”

Vaerin held up a hand, stopping her. He stepped forward and wrapped Ryssa in a tight embrace. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You’re right. This shouldn’t have happened.”

Ryssa buried her face in his shoulder, sobs wracking her body as the anger gave way to grief. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. “None of it’s fair.”

Meanwhile, the hunters held Lucas back as he loomed over Krag, who was barely conscious but still alive. Lucas’s knuckles were bloodied from his relentless assault. His rage simmered as his gaze shifted to Dorian.

The sight of the villagers—once broken but now healing—brought conflicting emotions: pride in their strength but guilt for what their actions had cost.

Lucas turned to the hunters holding him and growled, “He’s not done answering my questions.”

Near the square’s edge, Bogo knelt beside his father, joy overwhelming him as he saw Garrin’s wounds stabilizing. “You’re gonna be alright, Dad,” he whispered, gripping his hand tightly. “Dorian... you saved him. You saved all of us.”

As Dorian lay cradled in his father’s arms, Gorlan gazed at his son with a mixture of awe and quiet sorrow. “Always pushing yourself,” he muttered softly, brushing the crimson hair from Dorian’s face.

The villagers gathered, their eyes fixed on the unconscious bard, not as the carefree boy they had known but as the force who had given everything to save them.