Mercy or Judgment

A steel-gray sky hung low over Wayrest, heavy with impending rain that kept residents indoors. A somber breeze drifted through the cemetery encircling the grand Temple of the Divines. The air carried the damp scent of earth and stone, tinged with the salt of the nearby Iliac Bay. The city’s usual clamor was muffled here, as if in deference to the dead—only the occasional cry of a gull and the devout steps of the faithful broke the hush.

How is it that mood always seems to match the weather? Arden Duremont mused as he wove between towering crypts, their stone facades worn by time and devotion. He searched for—

squish!

He recoiled, scraping fresh mud off his boot against the paving stones.

"Sorry, Tib," he muttered, embarrassed.

Despite the treason charges brought against him, Sir Tiberius had been granted burial in his ancestral plot near the Stendarr shrine—an honor earned by his valor in Ranser’s siege. The judiciary had accepted the evidence provided by Arden’s father, yet the city still remembered the knight’s service.

Arden crouched, brushing moss from the name carved into the stone.

Baron Aldric Marveille.

He knew little of him, but the burial here—rather than in Cath Bedraud, where Glenumbra’s greatest heroes rested—suggested he had been more than just a provincial defender. He had been a champion of faith.

From a short distance, a voice cut through the quiet.

“It’s good you came today.”

Corbyn Rangouze approached with the unhurried grace of one accustomed to solemn spaces, his hands clasped behind his back. He gestured toward the fresh mound of dirt.

“Stendarr’s mercy is for all, even those who fall into scandal,” he said, measured and respectful. “But his ancestor… he never faltered in his duty.”

Arden looked up, nodding slightly. Corbyn continued.

“I performed his final consecration in accordance with Arkay's Law. His body will not be raised to unlawful servitude by those who would desecrate the slumber of the faithful. He was a devoted servant of the Eight—Arkay will commend his soul to Aetherius.”

Arden’s gaze lingered on the tombstone.

“His duty cost him everything,” he murmured. “And yet… he stood firm. I wonder if I could ever do the same.”

“You already are.” Corbyn’s tone was gentle but firm as he gestured to Arden’s attire. “Your devotion to the Resolutes honors his sacrifice. By serving them, you carry his legacy forward.”

Arden rose, brushing damp earth from his knees. The gray sky pressed down with the warning of rain, but a flicker of resolve burned against it. He turned to Corbyn, his jaw set.

“Today, I recommit myself to the Resolutes of Stendarr. I will root out darkness wherever it hides—whether in the wilds or in the hearts of men.”

Corbyn studied him, then nodded. “May Stendarr guide your path. Mercy tempered with justice—that is your charge. But if that darkness is in our own heart, what then?”

He turned and walked away, leaving Arden frowning.

The first drops of rain spattered the stone path as Arden lifted his hood and turned toward the temple, its spire piercing the brooding sky. Behind him, the tombstone stood in silent testament to the past. Ahead, the temple doors beckoned.

Unseen, a pair of emerald eyes watched him from the shadows behind a crypt. They slipped away as he stepped inside.

Arden spent the afternoon before the rededication shrine of Stendarr, lost in quiet reflection. Worshippers came and went, pressing gold into donation plates, seeking to change their skills in healing or combat. Arden never put stock in such things. Mastery came through discipline, not superstition.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, he checked on his horse at the stables, retrieved his newly sharpened sword from the High King’s Forge, and returned to his lodgings.

“Mind yourself, sir,” Leobois Viliane called out when Arden stepped into the Cloudy Dregs Inn that evening. The chef had chased a thief from the kitchens earlier and suspected the culprit might be working the guest rooms as well.

Arden took the warning to heart. He climbed the stairs in silence, eased open his door, and slipped inside.

A shadow moved in the corner.

A small figure rummaged through a drawer.

Arden drew his sword. “Move, and forfeit your life.” His voice was low, menacing.

The intruder froze. He lit a candle.

Kneeling there, small for her kind, was a young Orc. Her frame spoke of weakness, but her emerald eyes held a depth that belied it. Fear flickered across her face—yet something in her gaze remained present and aware.

He pressed the tip of his sword against her chest, just enough to break the skin. She didn’t flinch.

“Hunger,” she intoned, her voice shaking.

Arden stiffened. “What?”

She let out a slow exhale, as though ashamed. "I wouldn’t be here otherwise," she said, her voice a blend of weariness and regret. "This tavern is one of the easier places for a starving Orsimer to find bread."

"Or gold," Arden replied, studying her. Something about her didn't sit right. She was small, weak—but too composed. Too aware for someone desperate enough to risk their life for a scrap of bread.

At last, he withdrew his blade. “I grant you your life, unless we meet again.” He flicked a coin toward her. “Stendarr be with you.”

After making her show him the contents of her pack, he shoved her out of his room and locked the door.

That night, Arden placed the shard on his nightstand. He had made little progress deciphering its inscriptions, though a scholar had identified the material as a rare volcanic glass—possibly from a structure in the Deadlands. How it had come into the possession of a Dominion ambassador, and why it had been given to him, remained a mystery.

His nightmares had faded, but sleep still eluded him. He had renewed his vows as a Resolute, sworn to protect the weak and aid the sick. And yet, when he faced the Orc, it wasn’t justice that had made him want to run her through.

It was something else.

Something vague.

Something bordering on satisfaction.

Uneasy, he stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to claim him.