Legacy

The crypt is silent, save for the faint dripping of water seeping through the old stone. Dust clings to the carved names of the Von Drakkan dead, noble blood reduced to inscriptions in the dark. Sarlen stands before the tombs, Horizon’s Lord slung across his back, its weight heavier than steel. He kneels, pressing his palm to the cold ground, his voice low at first—uncertain, like the first steps of an impossibly long journey.
"I used to think you were legends."
His gaze moves over the names, over the forgotten kings and queens his family died for.
"You, Father. You, Grandfather. The Broadwings. Guardians of Redgaard. The ones who stood at the gates while the city feasted, the ones who bled while the lords drank their wine. That was the duty, wasn’t it? That was the legacy."
He exhales sharply, shaking his head.
"But what did it buy you? Where are they now, the Von Drakkans? Buried, lost, their banners rotting in the wind. A wayward son looking for his place in a world that won't accept him. And you, Grandfather—you lived long enough to see the ruin, long enough to be twisted into a beast by it. I cut you down. I had to. Did you know it was me? Did you even remember your name? Mine? Or was it already gone, lost beneath the hunger, beneath the thing that meteor made of you? I had to shut you out and let you go. I wasn't ready to give up on my family. On you..."
His hand tightens into a fist. A long silence lingers between the stone walls before he speaks again.
"I was supposed to be better. That’s what I told myself. When Vikari took my hand, I swore I'd take his. When the city fell to ruin, I swore I'd rebuild it. When the devils gave me this hand—this cursed, gifted, stolen thing—I swore I’d use it to set things right. But tell me, Father, tell me, Grandfather—what is right?"
He unslings Horizon’s Lord, staring at it. The bow hums beneath his fingers, an old predator’s growl. It does not crave justice. It does not crave vengeance. It craves death.
"I took this from you, Grandfather. I thought if I wielded it, I would understand you. I would understand what it means to protect something at any cost. But this bow… it does not protect. It hunts. It devours. There is no hesitation when I nock an arrow. No mercy. No doubt. Only the kill."
He grits his teeth. He thinks of the innocent youth slaughtered by its hum, the mutants who wanted a better life, only to have it snuffed out by an apex predator and its weapon of choice.
"I look at it, and I wonder—is this our legacy? Is this all we are? Is this what it means to be a Broadwing? To carry a weapon so steeped in blood that it cannot be anything else? If I keep it, will I become like you? A beast, hunting until there is nothing left but the hunt? Or worse—will I become like them? The ones who carved up Redgaard and called it their kingdom? The ones who saw a broken world and thought only of power?"
He lets the bow rest against the floor, the sound of wood against stone echoing in the crypt.
"If I let go of it, what am I?"
His voice wavers. He has never admitted this fear aloud before. The silence swallows it, but he forces himself to speak again.
"I could break it. Snap the string, burn the wood, cast it into the darkest pit I can find. And maybe then, I will not hear its whisper when I sleep. Maybe then, I will not feel the pull when I draw back an arrow. Maybe then, I will not become another legend carved into a tombstone, another dead soldier in a long line of men who thought duty meant sacrifice, and sacrifice meant dying with a weapon in hand."
A bitter chuckle escapes him.
"But if I break it, if I rid myself of this thing that made me a hunter, then what am I? A builder? A savior? I have never known how to build, only how to break. I have never known how to save, only how to kill."
His fingers brush over the name "Olren Broadwing." His father. A man who died trying to save the very nobles who let Redgaard burn. A man who believed in honor even when it killed him.
"Tell me, Father—was it worth it? Did you die with pride in your heart, knowing you kept your oath? Or did you die wondering, as I do now, whether there was another way?"
He lets the silence answer him. It is heavy. Unforgiving. No ghosts come to ease his burden. No voices whisper wisdom from beyond. He is alone in this choice, as he has always been.
He exhales, gripping Horizon’s Lord one last time. His fingers tighten around it. Then, with slow finality, he places it across his knee.
The wood groans as he presses down. The bow resists, as if it knows what’s coming. A weapon like this does not go quietly. But Sarlen grits his teeth and presses harder. The first crack is a whisper. The second is a scream. And then—
SNAP.
The bow breaks in two. The string frays, the wood splinters, and the hum of the hunt dies in an instant. The crypt is silent once more.
Sarlen stares at the broken pieces in his hands. It is done. The last remnant of the Lord of Feasts, of Vanren Broadwing’s monstrous fate, of his own blood-soaked road—destroyed.
For the first time in a long time, he breathes without weight on his shoulders.
"I do not know what I will become."
He rises, leaving the broken bow upon the stone. He turns, walking away from the tombs, into whatever future awaits him.
"But I will not be this."