THE LAST KING OF EMBERWYLD : THE AWAKENING DARK
Chapter 8: The Return
The journey back was different from the journey there.
Kaelen had expected more darkness, more cold, more hunger. But the nothing had changed. The darkness was lighter, softer, almost gentle. The cold was warmer, almost warm. The silence was filled with whispers—not hungry whispers, but hopeful ones. The dreams of the heart, finally at peace.
Hope walked beside him, her white dress glowing faintly, her silver hair bright against the gloom. She was different now. Her eyes were brown, warm, human. Her smile was real. Her hands were steady.
She was no longer the nightmare.
She was something new.
“The heart is quiet,” she said.
“The heart is sleeping.”
“Will it wake again?”
Kaelen looked at the Duskblade.
“Eventually. Everything wakes. Everything sleeps. Everything wakes again.”
“And when it wakes?”
“Then we’ll be ready.”
They walked for what felt like hours.
The nothing gave way to something—a path, narrow and winding, leading through a forest of silver trees with leaves that glowed in the darkness. The air smelled of lilies and old stone and something else. Something like home.
“The door is close,” Hope said.
“The door to the world?”
“The door to your world. The one you left behind.”
Kaelen’s heart pounded.
“How long have we been gone?”
Hope was silent for a long moment.
“Time is different here. In the heart of the nightmare. What felt like days to you may have been years to the world.”
“Years?”
“Maybe. I cannot say. The heart does not measure time the way the living do.”
Kaelen walked faster.
The path ended at a door.
Not the door of stone and shadow—the door of the nightmare. A different door. Smaller. Simpler. Made of wood and brass, like the door to a cottage or a shop or a home.
It was the same door he had walked through when he became the guardian.
But it was different now.
The wood was older. The brass was tarnished. The handle was cold.
“Where does this lead?” Hope asked.
“Home,” Kaelen said. “Or what’s left of it.”
He opened the door.
Beyond the door was a field.
Green grass. Blue sky. White clouds. The sun was warm on his face, the wind was soft in his hair, the flowers were blooming all around him.
He knew this field.
It was the field behind his childhood home.
But the home was not there.
The cottage was gone. The garden was gone. The lilies were gone.
In their place was a stone.
A gravestone.
And on the gravestone, a name.
LYRA OF DUSK HOLLOW
BELOVED SISTER
DIED WAITING
Kaelen fell to his knees.
The Duskblade clattered on the grass.
Hope knelt beside him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“How long?” Kaelen asked. “How long was I gone?”
Hope looked at the gravestone.
“The date is worn. I cannot read it. But the stone is old. Older than it should be.”
“Years?”
“Decades, perhaps. The heart does not measure time the way the living do.”
Kaelen buried his face in his hands.
“I left her. I promised I would come back. I promised.”
“You did come back.”
“Too late.”
“She knew you would come. She waited. The stone says ‘Died Waiting.’ She never gave up on you.”
“But I gave up on her. I chose the heart. I chose the nightmare. I chose the door.”
“You chose the world. You saved everyone. Including her.”
“She’s dead.”
“She lived. She lived a long life. She had children. Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren. The village prospered because of you.”
Kaelen looked at the gravestone.
At the name.
At the words.
“How do you know?”
Hope touched his shoulder.
“I can see it. In the dreams. In the memories. In the heart. She was happy, Kaelen. She missed you. She grieved for you. But she was happy.”
Kaelen stood.
He picked up the Duskblade.
He looked at the field, at the sky, at the sun.
“What happens now?”
Hope stood beside him.
“Now you live. You have been given a second chance. A third chance. A fourth. You have been given more chances than anyone deserves.”
“I don’t deserve it.”
“No one does. That’s what makes it a gift.”
Kaelen looked at the gravestone one last time.
“Goodbye, Lyra,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
He turned.
He walked toward the village.
Hope walked beside him.
Dusk Hollow was different.
Larger. Busier. The cottages were bigger, the streets were wider, the people were strangers. No one recognized him. No one knew his name. The stories of the Last King had become legends, and the legends had become myths, and the myths had become forgotten.
But the longhouse was still there.
And the throne.
His throne.
The throne of the Last King.
Kaelen walked to the longhouse.
The guards at the door did not stop him. They did not see him. He was a ghost in his own home.
He sat on the throne.
The wood was warm.
The Duskblade was on his hip.
Hope stood beside him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
Kaelen looked at the empty hall.
At the shadows.
At the light.
“I’m thinking that I’m tired,” he said. “I’m thinking that I’ve done enough. I’m thinking that I want to rest.”
“Then rest.”
“Can I? After everything? After all the people I’ve failed?”
Hope took his hand.
“You didn’t fail them. You saved them. You saved everyone. Now it’s time to save yourself.”
Kaelen closed his eyes.
The longhouse faded.
The throne faded.
The village faded.
He was standing in the nothing again.
But the nothing was not empty.
Elena was there.
His mother was there.
Lyra was there.
All the people he had loved. All the people he had lost. All the people he had saved.
They were waiting for him.
“Welcome home,” they said.
Kaelen smiled.
“I’m home,” he said.