Dagger of Souls - Epilogue
The caravan moved under the cover of twilight, its blackened wagons creaking ominously as they rolled over uneven terrain. The banners hanging from the sides bore no symbols or colors, blending into the shadowy hues of the dying day. Lord Deveron, the one whispered to as the "Dark One," sat in the lead wagon, a figure cloaked in flowing robes as dark as the night itself. His pale, angular face was partially obscured by a hood, but the glint of his crimson eyes reflected his quiet fury.
The orcish hordes had failed him. Red Larch still stood—a bitter insult that gnawed at his patience. Yet, he mused, all was not lost. Even in failure, the chaos had reaped its own reward.
Deveron extended a thin, bony hand, its fingers tipped with sharpened black nails. Resting on his palm was a small crystal vial, glowing faintly with an eerie, sickly green light. The vessel thrummed with power—the tortured essence of captured souls harvested from the rituals conducted in secret beneath the ancient hidden fortress. Though incomplete, the essence was potent enough for the next phase of his plan.
His deep, velvety voice broke the silence within the cramped wagon. "The fools in Red Larch believe they've won. Let them revel in their fleeting triumph. They've only given me the time I needed to perfect the ritual." He clenched the vial tightly, his thin lips curving into a malicious grin.
A hooded figure seated across from him, her face obscured by shadows, inclined her head. "And the next step, my lord?"
Deveron's voice deepened with grim satisfaction. "We move to Baldur's Gate. The city is ripe for our influence—fractured by politics and greed. When the final ritual is performed, the weave of magic itself will be torn asunder, and the Sword Coast will fall to ruin. I shall reign as its eternal lord, its people either enslaved or destroyed."
The figure nodded, the torchlight flickering against her pale skin. "And those who resisted in Red Larch? The adventurers who intervened?"
"They've served their purpose," Deveron said dismissively. "Their meddling cost me nothing I cannot recover. Let them celebrate. When my work is complete, they will either kneel before me or die like the insects they are."
The caravan pressed onward, slipping like a phantom into the deepening night. Behind them, the horizon was painted with the faint, flickering light of Red Larch's rebuilding efforts—a stubborn ember of hope in the distance.
But the darkness that Deveron carried with him was vast, ancient, and unrelenting. The Sword Coast was far from safe. The final ritual was coming, and with it, the unthinkable.
Authors Note:
I am finished with the first book, and looking to write a sequel or even trilogy. I need to get support and people reading this and providing reviews of what you like and didn't like, etc. I would like to write more novels so they can be published one day. I work a lot so it takes a lot of effort to write a full novel. Please like and share the link for this story and any of the stories I have published. I will probably work on the D&D Forgotten Realms story "Plight of the Kingdom" next. Any suggestions on how to get exposure for these books would be helpful.