[h2]Agernath Solas, The Sword of Light[/h2]
[i]Each section can be expanded. Read in order for full context.[/i]
[hr]
[hider=Vision and Birth]
Lightning rolled in the distance, moments before thunder split the night. Again and again, the sky flashed, and each crack of thunder cast the temple's shadow long across the ground.

In restless, fevered sleep, Teronis felt his mind drawn into a realm beyond time itself. It was a realm of light, yet the light offered him no source. It did not shine from above nor rise from below, but bore in from all sides, close and unyielding, without warmth and without shadow.

This was not the first time he had stood in that place. As the Seer, he accepted the visions that rushed past him.

Then one vision became clearer than the rest. It was about a man; his armor blue trimmed in gold, with eyes of light, and his blade gleaming purely in the darkness that surrounded him, and the look upon his face was pure conviction.

Startled awake by the vision, Teronis knew that he'd been granted a small peek into the future and that he'd been given the quest of seeking this person out.

At the same time, but far away, came the sounds of a babe crying from inside a small farmer's home. A small miracle to the father and mother inside, as they'd been trying for years to really start a family, and now they held their son in their arms. The midwife who had attended knew, as soon as the child was born, that he was different.

A soft glow permeated his body; he had eyes that were white with the faintest hint of blue, and, though not completely unheard of, he had a full head of onyx black hair. His parents named the child Agernath after his grandfather and gave him the last name Solas, after the god of light whose presence left nothing hidden and nothing untouched. They saw him as their miracle, a light in their darkness. In the villages, it was believed that Solas’s light found its way into the lives that needed it most, not to ease their burden, but to show them what they were meant to face.[/hider]
[hr]
[hider=Destiny Calls]
Years passed, and Agernath grew into a capable farm boy, his days shaped by routine and quiet labor. On the anniversary of his birth, the same night Teronis had received his vision, the Seer arrived at the farmhouse.
Agernath answered the door.

For a moment, Teronis said nothing. He studied the boy, as if confirming something only he could see, and then a slow, certain smile crossed his face.

Inside, over a warm meal, Teronis spoke of that night years ago, of the vision he had been given, and of the role Agernath was meant to play in a world that struggled against encroaching darkness.

His mother listened in silence before speaking. She told Teronis of her prayers, how she had begged the gods for a child and believed herself unanswered. When Agernath was born, she had called it a miracle. Now, hearing this, that word felt heavier than it once had.

Teronis asked to take the boy with him, to train him within the Order of the Eternal Light.

His father did not answer immediately.

Instead, he looked at Agernath, really looked at him, as if trying to memorize something that would not stay.

They agreed, but not easily.

The next morning came too quickly. There were no speeches, no grand reassurances. Just a packed bag, a long embrace, and the quiet understanding that the life Agernath knew had already ended.

As he left, Agernath did not look back until he was told to.

By then, the farmhouse felt farther away than it should have.[/hider]
[hr]
[hider=From Boy to Man]
Ten years passed by, and his training with Teronis was fairly brutal, but each lesson he learned stuck. Each day, he was tutored in the basics of swordsmanship, combat, and social tactics, and the conjuring of spells. Agernath pushed through his training until it became second nature, even learning to control his spells with the ease of a well-fitted cloak. Eventually, his training revealed a surprise: Agernath could produce a semi-permanent light upon anything he touched. Teronis warned him not to rely on it. Light that lingered, he said, did so for a reason, and not always one the wielder would want to understand.

Through his travels with his mentor, Agernath encountered a multitude of monsters: undead scourges, unnatural beasts that brought death, and other such things, all vanquished by the light. Each time they came upon darkness that needed to be cleansed, Agernath showed no hesitation and rid the world of the evil that was slowly spreading throughout it.

Due to this strength, Teronis contacted the other members of the Order and arranged for Agernath to train under four of its most seasoned warriors, each tasked with shaping him in a different discipline.

The first was a swordsman who believed hesitation was a flaw to be cut away, drilling him relentlessly until action came faster than thought.

The second was a healer who forbade him from drawing his blade at all, forcing him instead to tend to wounds he could not close with light alone.

The third spoke little and watched more, teaching him that what was not seen often mattered more than what stood before him.

The last cared nothing for form or doctrine, pushing him into battles he could not win cleanly, until he learned that survival often came at a cost he could not measure in the moment.

Over the next four years, each took him in turn.

That lesson stayed with him more than any blade form or spellwork. There had been a time when the light answered him without hesitation, and he had mistaken that ease for certainty. By the time he reached his eighteenth year, Agernath no longer saw the light as a weapon to be wielded freely, but as something to be carried with restraint.

They brought him to the Order’s central temple and reunited him with Teronis. With his mentor's approval and endorsement, Agernath was granted the rank of neophyte, along with all the responsibilities that came with it.[/hider]
[hr]
[hider=Bitter Strength]
Driven by the belief that the light had chosen him to cleanse the world, Agernath threw himself into every battle that promised an end to it. In the quiet that followed, he would test himself against the silence, waiting to see if the names would stay this time. They rarely did.

He became one of the Order’s most tireless champions. His victories earned him recognition, marks of honor that others admired and quietly resented, though few understood what it cost him to keep earning them.

But not every battle ended in light.

Agernath remembered the ones who didn't make it back. At first, he carried their names with him, whispering them under his breath after each mission, lips moving in the dark as if the act alone could keep them from fading.

Sometimes he would catch himself reaching for a name he could no longer recall.

Eventually, he stopped.

He began taking assignments on his own, ignoring his peers' concerns. To them, it looked like ambition, a hunger for recognition. In truth, it was something quieter and far less noble. It was easier this way. Fewer voices. Fewer faces. Fewer moments where he had to pretend he still remembered who they had been. Alone, there were fewer names to remember.

Working this way made him reckless. He pushed further than he should have, stayed longer than was safe, and treated survival like an afterthought. There were times he stood in the aftermath of a fight, light still clinging to his hands, and did not immediately leave, as if waiting to see if it would be enough this time.

Reports of his conduct reached the High Marshal on more than one occasion, each followed by a formal reprimand that did little to change his behavior. Within the Order, his name began to carry weight, though not always the kind that brought comfort.[/hider]
[hr]
[hider=The Darkness]
Between missions, Agernath drank until sleep took him. When the call came, he was already deep in the bottom of a bottle.

By dawn, he was in the saddle.

The town was already lost when he arrived.

Smoke hung low over the streets. The dead did not lie still. He drove his mount straight into them, steel and light carving a path through bodies that should not have moved.

Another rider joined the charge.

White armor. A familiar silhouette.

Teronis.

There was no time for words. They broke the horde together, pushing toward the center where the resistance had failed. The closer they rode, the worse it became. Bodies piled high. Not fallen. Placed.

At the center stood the thing that made them.

Agernath did not slow.

They split without meaning to. The press of bodies forced them apart. One moment, Teronis was at his side, the next he was gone behind a wall of grasping hands and rotting flesh.

Agernath cut his way forward, trying to reach him.

Then he saw it.

Teronis was thrown from his horse.

A rusted morningstar rising above him.

"No…"
Agernath pushed harder, and that hesitation cost him. Hands dragged him from the saddle. Fingers like hooks pulled at his armor, his throat, his legs. He tore free, burning what little power he had left to clear the space around him.

By the time he stood again, it was already happening.

Teronis was on one knee. Armor split. Blood where there should have been light.

Agernath reached for him.

Too far.

Teronis met his eyes, said nothing, and threw his greatsword.

Agernath caught it on instinct.

It screamed the moment his hand closed around the hilt.

He barely had time to look up before the morningstar came down.

The sound of it landing didn't match anything human.

Something in Agernath broke.

He tried to call the light again. There was nothing left to give. Still, he reached for it, forced it, demanded it answer him.

The world went white.[/hider]
[hr]
[hider=A New Power]
Agernath was no longer standing in the ruined town.

There was no ground beneath him. No sky above.

Only light.

It wasn't warm. It wasn't gentle. It burned.

It filled his vision until there was nothing else, until even the shadow of his own body began to thin and dissolve. He tried to breathe and felt his lungs seize, air replaced by something sharper, brighter, forcing its way into him whether he could endure it or not.

His wounds did not heal.

They ignited.

Burned away.

Pain flared, then twisted into something else, something that refused to let him collapse, refused to let him die, holding him upright in a body that no longer felt entirely his own.

A child of light.

The voice did not come from around him. It came from within, threading through thought and memory, impossible to separate from his own mind.

You burn with it.

Agernath tried to speak. Tried to deny it. Tried to hold onto something that was still his.
The light pressed harder.

Not as a force against him, but as something that refused to leave room for anything else.
You seek to end what took him.

Not a question.

A verdict.

The pressure built, not crushing, but filling every space inside him, leaving no room for doubt, for grief, for anything that did not align.

You already carry what is mine.

The words settled into him like something remembered, not given.

Then stand.

The command was quiet.

Absolute.

The light surged.

And the world broke open.[/hider]
[hr]
[hider=The Light]
As Agernath's vision cleared, the world rushed back in all at once.

Teronis lay at his feet.

The ground around him still glowed, heat rising in wavering lines where the light had burned itself into the earth. The nearest undead had been reduced to blackened shapes, their forms barely holding together as smoke curled from what remained.

The sword was still in his hand.

He hadn't realized he was gripping it.

It pulsed against his palm, not like steel but like something alive, something urging him forward, drawing his attention to the thing that had done this.

The abomination.

It moved through the thinning horde, slow and deliberate, its frame too tall, its limbs set at angles that did not quite match the shape of a man. The rusted morningstar dragged at its side before rising, as if the weight meant nothing.

Agernath stepped forward to meet it.

The blade flared.

The light tore outward in a sudden, violent cascade, driving heat ahead of it in a wave that stung the skin and filled the air with a sharp, cracking sound, like something breaking faster than it could be heard. The ruined square groaned beneath it as shadows fled, and the undead recoiled, then surged again, straining toward him, their advance breaking against the light.

His grip tightened.

Something in his chest twisted, rose, and broke loose.

He tried to steady his breath.

Failed.

And the words came anyway.

"Where there is darkness..."

His voice caught, then sharpened, no longer entirely his own.

"...I will bring light."

The blade burned brighter.

"Where there is innocence, I will stand."

The ground beneath his feet glowed hotter, cracks of light spreading outward.

"Where there is evil..."

He stepped forward.

"I will end it."

The final words didn't rise.

They fell.

Heavy. Certain. Unavoidable.

The abomination answered with motion, the morningstar cutting through the air toward him.

Agernath did not hesitate.[/hider]
[hr]
[hider=The Aftermath]
Agernath awoke in a room he did not recognize, in a bed he did not remember reaching.

His armor was gone. His weapons, too.

Bandages wrapped his body. His left arm had been set by magic, but the pain remained, dull and persistent, like something that refused to be forgotten.

He tried to sit up.

"Lie back."

The voice was firm. Not unkind.

Agernath turned his head. The High Marshal stood at the bedside, armor polished, war maul resting at his side. His expression was steady, though the lines in his face had deepened.

"The men we sent found nothing left to save," Macharius said. "The village was still burning when they arrived. White fire. They said it did not behave like a flame."

He stepped closer.

"They found you standing over him. Your blade was still buried in the creature. You were unconscious, but you would not let go of the hilt."

Agernath swallowed.

"It was already too late," he said quietly. "Teronis… he joined me on the charge."

Macharius nodded once.

"He often saw what others could not."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"You survived something you should not have," the High Marshal continued, resting a hand briefly on Agernath's shoulder. "Call it strength if you like. I call it something else."

He straightened.

"There will be a ceremony. For him. And for you."

His tone softened, just slightly.

"Rest. You will need it."

When the High Marshal left, the room felt larger than it should have.

Agernath shifted, wincing, and his eyes caught on the blade resting against the far wall.

Teronis' greatsword.

Not resting.

Waiting.

The realization came slowly.

It was his now.

Nearly a month after the fall of the western village, the Order gathered to honor Marshal Teronis the Seer.
The procession moved in silence. The High Marshal led. Agernath followed close behind. Others carried the body.

No one spoke.

When the pyre was lit, the fire burned clean and bright. A single voice began the hymn, and the rest followed, low and steady, carrying the sound upward as the flames took him.

Agernath did not join them. He tried, briefly, to form the words, but his mind caught on Teronis’s name and went no further.

He watched until there was nothing left but ash.

The Order returned to the temple.

Agernath's ceremony began.

High Marshal Macharius spoke of what had been witnessed. Of the village. Of the battle. Of what Agernath had done.

When he finished, he stepped forward.

"Rise."

Agernath did.

"From this day, you stand as Battle-Brother of the Order."

A pause.

"And as the Blade of Light."

The words settled over the gathered ranks. Then came the response. Not loud at first, but building. 

Approval. 

Recognition.

Expectation.

A relic was brought forth. Hardened leather gauntlets, worn but intact, with black iron studs set across the back of the hands and fingers.

"Battle-Brother Takkok bore these," Macharius said. "He did not fall easily. See that you do not either."
Agernath took them.

They were heavier than they looked.[/hider]
[hr]
[hider=The First Cut]
It happened in a controlled space, within the walls of the Order’s training hall.

It was meant to be a warm-up.

A measured exchange. A test of recovery, not of strength.

The man across from him was experienced, chosen for that reason. Someone who would not push too far, who understood the purpose of the exercise and the limits it required.

Agernath expected nothing more from him than control. It was the only thing that kept a spar from becoming something else.

The first strike came from him.

A probing motion. Nothing committed.

Agernath answered it cleanly, turning the blow aside with minimal effort. The second followed, slightly faster, testing his footing, his timing. He met that one as well, the motion familiar, controlled, exactly as it had been taught.

There was no strain in it. No hesitation.

By the third, something shifted.

Not in the man before him.

In the space between the strike and the answer, where thought should have settled.

It did not come from the man in front of him.

It came from the blade.

Not in voice. Not in thought.

The world did not disappear. It narrowed. The edges of the room remained, the sound of movement, the presence of others watching, the faint scent of oiled steel in the air, but none of it mattered.

There was only a line.

A single point of failure.

Something that needed to end.

Not because of what it was.

But because it was there.

Agernath moved.

He did not remember choosing to. The motion was already underway by the time the thought could have formed, his body committing to it with a precision that allowed no space for correction. By the time awareness caught up, the outcome had already been decided.

The strike was clean.

Too clean.

Steel met steel, then slipped past it. The exchange broke, not as a spar should, but as something final. The man across from him barely had time to react before the motion resolved, his footing lost, his guard gone, the outcome decided in a way that had never been intended.

The room returned slowly.

Not all at once, but in pieces, and not in the order he expected.

The motion had already finished.

He was only now catching up to it.

The sound of heavy breathing. The sound of boots on stone. Those watching held for a beat too long before moving.

Agernath stood where he had finished the motion, the blade still in his hand.

His grip had not loosened.

He became aware of it gradually, the tightness in his fingers, the way they held the hilt not out of effort, but out of certainty.

It took conscious thought to release it.

Not because he could not.

But because, in the moment before he did, there was nothing in him that suggested he should, and nothing that rose to oppose it. The absence did not register as wrong. It simply was.[/hider]