Thunder roared above, a deep, shuddering sound that rattled the stone chamber. The sound rolled through the ancient walls, shaking dust loose from the ceiling, but the lone lanterns lining the room did not flicker. Their flames burned steady, defying the darkness clawing at the edges of the world beyond these walls.
The boy stood frozen at the platform's edge, looking straight ahead with reddened eyes and his fists clenched so tight, his nails bit into his palms.
Before him, atop a raised slab of smooth black stone, lay a coffin of carved basalt, its lid unsealed.
Behind him, the elder's voice was quiet, steady—like a man who had spoken these words before.
"It must be by your hand," the old man said.
The boy swallowed hard, staring at the still figure inside the coffin.
His father lay inside the coffin, his breathing shallow, each rise and fall of his chest slower than the last. He was not dead. Not yet.
The dagger in the boy's hand felt like a brand.
He shook his head, his throat tightening. "There has to be another way."
The elder, standing just behind him, exhaled softly. A patient, knowing sigh. "You already know the truth, Elric."
Elric turned, finally taking his eyes of his father and turning to the elder with eyes burning. "Then say it!"
The old man regarded him with the quiet sorrow of someone who had seen this happen too many times. He did not flinch at the raised tone, nor did respond with anger. "If he dies on his own," the elder said, "he will rise."
Thunder boomed again, as streaks of lightning raced across the dark sky .
Elric's grip on the dagger faltered. His father was still breathing. He could feel the warmth of him, could see the flicker of life behind his closed eyelids.
How could they... how could anyone expect him to do this?
The elder's hand came to rest on his shoulder, firm but gentle. "It must be done while he is still himself."
Elric swallowed hard. His heartbeat pounding in his ears, louder than the storm, louder than anything else. His father's face was not the stern face he had known his entire life rather it was gaunt, skin already losing its color. The bandage over his torso did nothing to hide the massive scar that now adorned his chest. Soon, although he refused to admit it, his father would draw his last breath.
"I don't want to," Elric whispered.
The elder did not move. "Neither did I."
A silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. The old man had been in this same place once. Every torchbearer had.
A rasping breath broke the silence. Elric stiffened. His father's fingers twitched.
Slowly, his father's eyes fluttered open.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, a voice—weak, barely a whisper.
"Do it, son."
The dagger shook in his hands. His father's eyes, once sharp and full of fire, were dim now, clouded with pain. But there was no fear.
Elric could feel his father's warmth fading. He didn't know how much time was left. He didn't want to know.
A gust of wind howled through the cracks in the stone, and in the distance, beyond the torches, something shifted in the dark.
Waiting.
The elder's grip on his shoulder tightened. "It must be you."
Lightning split the sky. The lanterns flared, their light barely holding against the creeping black.
Elric took a breath. He lifted the dagger.
And with his eyes filling with tears he drove the blade into his father's heart. "Ah!" Blood splattered following a pained scream. His vision turned red as the blood splattered upon and his face with some getting into his eye.
Pulling out the dagger he proceeded to slit his fathers throat as he forced himself to say the words, "Vash liora sa'kael toren do'zel'kaeth". Stumbling back from his father with the dagger still at hand, rivulets of blood streaked down his face as the elder repeated the words in a somber voice.
"Vash liora sa'kael toren do'zel'kaeth"
With the reality of it all setting in, he dropped the dagger which let out a loud *klang* as it made contact with the stone below. Before dropping to his knees and letting out a gut wrenching scream, that seemed to rival the thunder outside.
The elder who observed this from the side sighed before heading to the door and opening it to reveal the two guards in leather armor with spears at hand, standing outside. "Tell Dalvos there will be no need for a purification, the Oran'thara was a success".
Upon hearing this the guards let out a breath even they were unaware they were holding, before giving the elder a short bow and leaving to give their report.
***
Elric was led through a well lit tunnel, his face and hands now clean of his father's blood. The words the elder spoke to him barely registered in his ears.
"I will not lie to you and say the pain shall pass, but I want you to know you did the right thing. There was no other way."
The Elder looked at him as he simply responded with a nod, his eyes glazed over as the memory of his father gurgling out blood after he had slit his throat played over and over in his mind.
"Here we are", the elder's words drew him out of his own thoughts, they had arrived at the tunnel's exit. "Get some rest, Elric and if you need anything at all don't hesitate to find me".
Elric simply responded with another nod before stepping out of the tunnel and into town.
The firelight blurred in Elric's vision, the twisting glow of torches melting into smears of gold as he stumbled through the streets. His hands felt raw, still warm from the blood that had stained his hands. The image of the light fading from his father's eyes as he choked on his own blood, was firmly at the forefront of his mind, playing over and over again.
His feet carried him forward, but the town felt wrong now, unfamiliar in its sameness. The streets were just as they had always been—narrow, cobbled, lined with flickering sconces—but the weight in his chest made them feel distant, unreal. His breath hitched as he passed a brazier where an old woman sat tending the flame. Her hands, steady and practiced, dropped fresh oil-soaked wood into the fire. The scent of burning tallow made Elric's stomach twist—how many times had he done the same for his father's hearth?
He barely noticed the hunters gathered at the well, their quiet murmurs lost beneath the roaring silence in his own mind. They were men and women hardened by the world, leaning against the stone, weapons resting at their sides. For the longest time he had dreamed of being one of them trained his hardest so he could one day head beyond the walls with his father. One of them sharpened a long hunting spear, the scrape of metal on stone ringing out in slow, measured strokes. The sound sent a shiver up Elric's spine, a cold echo of moments just passed—his father's labored breaths, the whisper of steel as Elric raised the knife, the final, awful stillness that followed.
A breathless sob caught in his throat, but he forced it down.
He turned to continue his journey, His steps carried him past the dim-lit homes, past doorways where braziers burned low. A child darted across his path, clutching a clay pot filled with oil, moving quickly to keep the flame-fed. Elric had done the same as the boy, running errands, never thinking about why the fire must never die—never truly understanding until now.
The air thickened as he reached the eastern district, the scent of tallow and charred meat mingling with iron and smoke. The hunter's quarter loomed ahead, its gates flanked by jagged trophies—fangs, skulls, remnants of creatures slain in the dark. His father had walked these streets once, carried a blade at his hip, fought the things that lurked just beyond the firelight.
Elric had never noticed how heavy the night pressed against the torches here. Beyond the gate, the blackness swallowed all things. It did not care for grief, for love, for loss. It only waited.
He exhaled shakily and turned away. His house was close now, the light of its brazier flickering in the distance. The flames were still burning.
But his father was gone.
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Vash liora sa'kael toren do'zel'kaeth - May your soul find refuge beyond this cursed abyss.
Oran'thara - The passing of the ember (these are the last rites of the dead)