The Vanishing Light Conclusion

“We’re almost there!” shouts the captain of the ship. You rise, fighting your seasickness with the the hope that there was only a few moments of it left. As you glance up, your eyes meet Alastor, and you swallow. He stared back, unblinking, until you looked away, out at the horizon.

“You’ll need this.” Ezra rolls a scepter at your paws. “For the spell.”

Fern approaches as well, nodding. “It’ll be a lot to handle, but Pioette told us you can hold steady, after how you unleashed the first spell on Raydes.”

You nod, and pick up the scepter.

“All the Faians will channel their magic into the scepter at the same time, while Alastor recites the spell. If it works—sorry, when it works—the island will return to normal. And… we should be able to get a better grasp on the landscape. Hopefully… we find some answers.”

You avoid Alastor’s gaze, which hasn’t left you. You weren’t sure what that spell would entail, and that sends a chill through your entire body.

As the ship and their Tortuvina escorts come up onto the beach, the ship hushes. Everyone takes in the devastation that had emerged yet again: the dark sand, rotten foliage, and deep dark mist. You knew to expect it, but it was still quite disappointing, remembering how it looked when the spell was complete: fresh again.

As everyone dismounts, the murmurs between members are faint. Nobody talks too loudly, and most just listen to the wind and the waves. The air is thick with rain, and its density makes each breath heavy with the weight of the Wither’s potential.

“Look,” a Faian gasps, and heads turn to see a figure in the dark mist. A creature? On the island?

Someone shrieks, and everyone scrambles  back in horror as it emerges. It’s a Candle Noodle—or something of one. They are rotten, eyes wide open and white, but flames impossibly dark, like a hole in the universe. Their body is slick with oily slime, Wither dripping from their jaw as it gapes open, tasting the air.

“What is that?” is the murmur across the crowd.

“A Withered Faian,” Fern breathes. You move aside to let her pass you.

“Everyone stay back,” Ezra warns.

Following the Candle Noodle are a few other shapes in the mist. No, more than a few—not more than your crew, but an incredibly freakish sight. The Lumendra lack lures, and Tortuvina mist is disturbingly dark, thicker than any smoke. Not a drop of light comes from the infected Faians.

“There’s more!” Pioette shouts. “We need to work this spell, now, before they overwhelm us.”

Everyone immediately goes into action. Paws pass all kinds of supplies between each other. The Mages construct poles with crystals on top, planning to channel magic into those, and then angle them to hit your scepter.

You position yourself in the middle, stamping down your anxiety as you observe the Withered Faians in the distance. They aren’t attacking, but they do seem to be sizing up what is about to occur.

In the midst of the preparation, the zombie Faians begin to advance, making themselves more clear. You imagine they contributed to the stench of the island—the black ooze seeping out from their orafices and gashes in their sides from unhealing wounds. They move slowly, but with observation.

Alastor glides past you, before turning to stare you dead in the eyes. You swallow and look at the ground.

“Ready, Alastor?” Ezra calls over the commotion. He nods.

The Mages set up the posts, and beam magic into them. They align their crystals, sending them into the prism that was your scepter. There is probably twenty streams of magic already touching your scepter as the Archmages prepare. Once their magic hits the scepter’s globe, it starts to shake.

Alastor begins to chant, and you shut your eyes, too terrified to watch him perform the spell.

“Send it!” Pioette shrieks, over Alastor’s ghastly chants and the roar of the wind surging around you. You give one last shriek, raising the scepter up. It explodes, a shockwave mass of energy nuking the air and rippling into the beyond. The sea roars as it is pushed with the force of the blast, but after, there is silence. 

You look around. Alastor is hunched over, silent. Everything good is still standing—which is to say, only you, and the other Faians with you—and everything withered is gone.

The few remaining trees on the island were now toppled, too rotten to stand. The ground barely has growth, as the withering had consumed it, but the dirt is warm and soft, no longer brittle and dry. The Faians shake sparks out of their wax and fur as they look around.

“Looks purged to me,” Fern murmurs, sweeping her tail. “Again. Hopefully for the last time.”

Ephime’s voice is sharp as she speaks. “Look.”

Heads turn to where Ephime’s eyes lay. Near the shore, nearly touching the water, there is a Faian, sprawled out.

“Oh no.” Pioette rushes towards the body, worried. Dusting yourself off, you follow Ephime, Fern, and Pioette towards the shore, weary without your scepter. 

Pioette looks over them, sniffing. “That’s not one of our Faians,” she announces. “I’ve never seen them before.”

“They’re dead,” Ephime pronounces. You wrinkle your nose as Ephime willingly pokes them, and leans in against their mouth, just to make sure they weren’t breathing.

“Did they die to the zombies?” Fern asks, a bit saddened. Whoever it is, you figure they must have died out here, all alone.

“No,” Ephime warns. “No, they were a zombie.”

“What makes you say that?” 

“The Withered turn other Faians Withered, Fern. There’s no way that they survived on the island, yes—but they would have been consumed. We just purged the Wither with the spell, so they seem fine.”

“The zombies must have brought the Wither back,” Fern breathes. “Or, rather, it never left from the first spell. They must be spreading it back onto the island. We’ll never be able to purge it as long as there are Withered Faians on the island.”

“We purged the Wither from this Faian, did we not?” Ephime points out. Another voice breaks past Ephime’s, much deeper, more chilling. You turn, faced with Alastor—and you realise you have never heard him speak until now.

“Ephime,” he rumbles. He steps forward, sweeping his tail against the sand, raising his head as he stares at the Lumendra. “A soul hovers over this body. More souls… they hover over the water.”

Ephime swallows, sinking back, and you couldn’t blame her. The dark energy that cascades around Alastor has always been frightening. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean it literally. This is what I can see with the spell. These souls never travelled to the afterlife.” Alastor looks to the sea, and all eyes widen once they spot floating bodies. You feel a pit open in your stomach. Those were the zombies. The blast sent them into the ocean.

“It is as we feared.”

“The Archways,” Fern breathes. “They’re—”

“Hush.” Ephime glares between you and Pioette.

“This is not just our problem, Ephime,” Alastor corrects, straightening himself. “They deserve to know.” 

You shiver. Alastor knows too much, you think, and you fear learning more than the universe has bestown you.

“The Adventurer’s Guild has proved helpful thus far. We ought to have more paws to help us.” Fern looks to Ephime with an almost pleading expression, and Ephime huffs, looking away. “Pioette—will you help us?”

“I could never say no, but—tell me, what do you think has happened?”

“The keystones are part of the Archways. In ancient texts, they are said to unlock portals. We’ve known for some time that the keystones have been missing,” Fern begins, shifting the sand with her hooves. “But we haven’t known of the consequence of that.”

“We assumed the consequence was related to the Wither—that perhaps the Light is not strong enough without them, and that the Archways once provided Light. Surely the dieties would not leave us completely defenseless, and our Light can still be effective? But it seems as though they were more crucial than we thought.”

“We’ve suspected for a while that the Archways were connected to our afterlife. We’ve searched throughout the rest of Faia, and I have communed with the dead—we have not found access elsewhere. Now, we have confirmation.” Alastor waves a claw at the dead Lumendra. “Spirits are stuck, even when their bodies are decayed. And it’s been like that, since the war.”

“With them being stuck, they’ll just return to these bodies… and re-Wither,” Ephime notes. “We can’t save this island. Those zombies will wash back up, their souls will re-enter, and they will Wither.”

Pioette shivers. “So we need to retrieve the keystones… ourselves? To send these spirits into the Archways, and clear Raydes?” 

Alastor stares at her, eyes unblinking. “The gods have left us here to rot. We must take this upon ourselves, and free the souls from the earth.”