Lugh had already known this. He had known it long ago—but refused to accept it.
Until now.
And once he did, he went on to dig his graves.
It brought him peace of mind. Oddly enough, stabilizing his mental state in the process.
He could feel it, subtle, but present. A sliver of warmth, of grounding. He felt more human. He felt more real.
It was progress.
Still, there were outliers among the souls of Drakensmar.
Those who clung to the world not because of rage or regret, but because of yearning—burning, fervent desires left unfulfilled.
A scavenger who longed for the taste of white bread.
A novelist who never finished her final chapter.
A street fighter who only wanted one clean shot at winning an underground tournament.
And soldiers. Dozens of them, who died praying they'd see the end of the war.
There were hundreds of such wishes.
And Lugh would grant them.
He had to, if he wanted the voices to quieten.
He already had.
