THE LAST KING OF EMBERWYLD : THE FINAL DAWN
Chapter 4: The Return of the Light
The nothing became something.
Slowly, gently, like mist burning off a lake at sunrise. The darkness thinned, grew lighter, grew softer. The cold warmed. The silence filled with sound—birdsong, wind in the trees, the distant crash of waves.
Kaelen opened his eyes.
He was lying in 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 different.
Larger. Brighter. The walls were white stone, the roof was red tile, the windows were tall and wide. Smoke rose from the chimney. Music drifted from the open door.
And standing in the doorway, waiting for him, was Hope.
Her silver hair was bright in the sunlight. Her white dress was simple and clean. Her brown eyes were warm.
“Kaelen,” she said. “You came back.”
“I came back.”
“You were gone for a long time.”
“How long?”
Hope walked to him.
She took his hands.
“Three years.”
Kaelen’s heart stopped.
“Three years?”
“Time is different in the nightmare. What felt like days to you was years to us.”
“The children—”
“Are grown. Thomas is a soldier. Elara is a dreamer. They are both strong and brave and stubborn.”
“And you?”
Hope smiled.
“I waited. I hoped. I prayed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. You did what you had to do. You saved us. Again.”
Kaelen looked at the house.
At the music.
At the light.
“Is it over? The nightmare? The door? The hunger?”
Hope nodded.
“It’s over. The door is gone. The heart is silent. The nightmares are no more.”
“How do you know?”
She touched his face.
“I can feel it. In the dreams. In the silence. In the peace.”
They walked to the house together.
The music grew louder—a fiddle and a flute and a drum, playing a tune that Kaelen had heard before. It was the song his mother used to sing, the lullaby she had hummed when he was small.
The door was open.
Inside, the house was full of people.
Lyra was there, older now, her red hair streaked with gray, her freckled face creased with laugh lines. Aldric stood beside her, his arm around her waist. Their children were there too—grown, with children of their own.
Thomas was there.
He was tall and broad, wearing the armor of a soldier, a sword at his hip. His dark hair was cropped short, his brown eyes were serious. He looked like Kaelen. He moved like Kaelen. He was Kaelen’s son.
Elara was there.
She was slender and graceful, wearing the white robes of a dreamer, a staff in her hand. Her silver hair was long and straight, her brown eyes were bright. She looked like Hope. She moved like Hope. She was Hope’s daughter.
And in the center of the room, sitting in a chair by the fire, was an old woman.
She had silver hair and kind eyes and a face that was achingly familiar.
His mother.
“No,” Kaelen whispered.
“Yes,” the old woman said.
“But you’re dead.”
“I was. For a while. But the nightmare is over. The door is closed. The trapped are free.”
“You’re real?”
“I’m as real as you are. As real as the love that brought you back.”
Kaelen walked to his mother.
He knelt in front of her.
She reached out and touched his face.
“You’ve grown,” she said.
“I’ve aged.”
“You’ve lived. That’s more important.”
“I missed you.”
“I know. I missed you too.”
“Why didn’t you come back before?”
She smiled.
It was a sad smile, small and tired and full of years.
“I couldn’t. The nightmare held me. The door trapped me. The hunger fed on me.”
“But you’re free now.”
“I’m free now. Because of you.”
Kaelen’s eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t know.”
“How could you? You were too busy saving the world.”
The music swelled.
The people cheered.
Kaelen stood.
He looked at the room—at his mother, his sister, his children, his friends. At Hope, standing in the doorway, her brown eyes bright.
He had done it.
He had saved them.
He had saved everyone.
And now, finally, he could rest.