Editor’s Note: I wanted to ensure that this was posted. I’ve been slacking lately. I’m writing these summaries for my players so they have something to reference. We play twice a month, so it’s good to have something to jog the memory. I post the session summaries on our World Anvil campaign page for them. I post them on my blog here on the off-chance that someone, someday, might Google “Age of Worms Pathfinder” and stumble across these posts. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll gain a touch of inspiration for their own campaign.

If you find this, I hope it helps. Have fun with it.

—–

The curio shop stank of old incense and fresh blood. 

Glimmerstone’s Curios had been reduced to a charnel house. A grotesque knot of fused bodies twisted in death sprawled across the floor, bloody and twitching in its final moments of unlife. Amid the wreckage lay Damaris Glimmerstone, intact but alive for the moment. Alfie, ever the quiet anchor, called upon his divine power. A soft hum filled the shop as he mended the wounds of his allies. Damaris stirred as well, touched by the healing magic. He coughed, spat blood, and blinked into reality like a man surfacing from drowning. 

The shop’s chaos seemed frozen in time. Cal rummaged through a stained satchel left by the Crimson Glove, finding a diluted healing potion, barely active, and the splinters of a wand with no magic left. He studied a snow globe filled with illusory fish doing tricks no fish should know. Declan found forged maps with arcane markings drawn by an unsteady hand. Oathgar examined his dented mug like it had betrayed him. 

Then Damaris spoke. 

His words staggered out like a drunkard at dawn, slurred but lucid in the worst ways. “Bugs in my brain,” he muttered, “after the seance.” He spoke of the Faceless One and his blood puppets. Of cursed medallions that didn’t just watch, but possessed. Of the niece he tried to save by stabbing a necklace in the night, and the sister who walked in at just the wrong time. 

His voice cracked when he said, “I didn’t mean to stab anyone.” 

The party pushed. He yielded. More secrets came loose. The Faceless One used the bloodstone medallions to create a simulacrum of himself, using flesh rather than snow to form the bodies. Words like “sadistic” and “sick” were used to describe him. Still, there was one secret that Damaris clung to as if his life depended on it.  A secret that, if the prince knew, Damaris would lose his sanctuary. “This place is mine,” he said as he gestured to the shop, “but it’s not really mine if you know what I mean.” 

Then came the knock. 

Two city watchmen entered. Outside the door, a radiant figure, silhouetted in firelight, stood watch – a Blessed Angel, still as judgment. 

The older guard rolled his eyes at the carnage. “Art installation?” he quipped. The younger watchman gagged. 

But when the party name-dropped Prince Voronov, the room’s temperature changed. Swords sheathed. Salutes exchanged. The angel didn’t speak—it just watched them leave, then soared away like justice with wings. 

The Ruinlords walked through Salisgrad’s market district. Lightstones glowed above cobbled streets. Locals raised left hands in casual salute, the tattoos of citizenship shown and passed like currency. Yet near the black obelisks, even greetings died in the throat. 

At the Fellgate Inn, they heard songs below, whispers above, and from a strange fissure in the floor—growls and siren voices. Declan negotiated with the innkeeper for travel supplies. Alfie blessed their food. Cal listened to the walls. 

The next morning, Lashonna arrived. Silver hair, golden eyes, voice like silk hiding razors. She had come to escort them back to the palace. Breakfast was served and poisoned only by tension. Cal cast augury. The omens seemed positive. 

For them, at least. 

Damaris was in chains, a flaming sword at his throat. A Blessed Angel stood ready. The Prince asked one question: “Will you vouch for him?” 

And the party did. 

Voronov, amused and annoyed, spared Damaris but cast him out of Salisgrad. With the Amulet of the Worldbreaker destroyed, the Ebon Triad ritual to summon Malganis would not work. The Prince then gave the party a new task: travel to Egorian, find Lucius Blackthorn, and return with his severed head and the Scepter of Infernal Dominion. A final nail in the Ebon Triad’s coffin. 

No time for protest. They disguised Damaris as an “indentured servant” and entered the Infernal Custom House. 

The portal chamber reeked of brimstone and precision. Ritual circles glowed, mages chanted in harsh Infernal tones. When the gate opened, they stepped through fire. 

One by one, the flames curled around them, burning away flesh and form—but not their essence. They reformed at Waystation 13, the Ashgate Reliquary. A toll station built from smooth stone and iron, hiding a church, a customs office, and an arcane gate. 

They met Signifer Vittorio Sarvinus, a masked Hellknight who inspected their identities, asked sharp questions with blunted courtesy, and let them pass. In the chapel, Alfie and Cal listened to a young cleric whisper sermons to no one. Halfling servants offered rations with quiet kindness. 

On the road, Declan’s saxophone filled the morning with music and momentum. A merchant caravan offered passage, and the road stretched before them. 

Then the sky tore open. 

A Hellgate split the air—and from it, three Death Knights stepped onto the earth. They bore skull motifs similar to the one worn by the worm mage on the bridge. Once, Ebon Triads. Now, something else. The battle was short and brutal. Blood boiled. Auras drained. Spells cracked the sky. 

But Oathgar and Tike stood tall in the end, black ichor dripping from their blades. They took weapons. They left none alive. 

Egorian loomed. The capital’s gates opened at their false identities. Cal cast Ear of the City, and whispers crawled through cobblestones. Paravicar Cassius Del Vago was dead. The funeral would be public. And Lucius Blackthorn was already a legend in the eyes of the people. 

They approached the Crimson Basilica. 

And found it… gone. 

A crater, 500 feet wide, hissed with steam. Red-hot stones. Ash in the wind. Smoke curled upward from the ruins. The church had vanished, consumed by hellfire. And with it, their plan. 

The mission had just become something else entirely.

Previously…

Battered from Tymon’s fall and ambushed on the Sellen, the Ruinlords reached Salisgrad carrying the skull of a fallen High Councilor and the shattered Amulet of the Worldbreaker. The Black Gauntlet took notice.

Inside the warded halls of iron and crystal, the party faced more than questioning—they faced the dead. Through the Vox Eidolon, Damaris channeled the bitter voice of Voragon Drakon, revealing grim truths: unfulfilled prophecy, cursed relics, and the Faceless One still pulling strings.

Then the room cracked. A rift tore open. An Emberwrought Shade of Dahak surged forth. Bound by chains of scorched memory, it fought to silence the past. The Ruinlords answered in blood and soulfire—and won.

But victory was brief. A woman in red arrived. Authority overturned. The skull, the amulet, the party—all claimed in Prince Eli Voronov’s name.

What am I reading?

Want to know what happens when death speaks, dragons burn without fire, and princes play gods? Follow our Age of Worms Pathfinder 1e campaign right HERE, where memory is a weapon, prophecy is a noose, and no one walks free.

---

23 Erastus (July), 4725

The Prince’s Summons

A blessed angel led the party from the interrogation chamber to a waiting carriage—black wood, gold trim, six midnight horses. As the reins cracked, the horses burst into flame, and the entire carriage levitated above the cobbles. It shot through Salisgrad, parting magical traffic like a blade through silk. Oathgar sniffed the air, caught the sharp tang of spilled liquor, and muttered a bitter curse for the waste. Cal’s eyes flared with magic sight. Everything in this city seemed to pulse with runic power. Even the horses were no ordinary beasts. Devil-born. Smoke-cloaked. Infernal.

At the palace, purple-and-black-clad guards escorted the party deeper into the prince’s domain. The halls grew more oppressive with each step. Portraits of Prince Eli Voronov stared down with demonic hands, flanked by statues of Asmodeus and black-iron braziers that never burned out. 

Audience with Eli Voronov

The throne room was vast and silent. Most of the party knelt. 

Alfie stood.

Oathgar offered only a nod. 

Prince Voronov sat upon a throne of stone, encircled by a ring of molten metal floating overhead and flanked by two blessed angels who did not blink. Behind him, a relief carved into the wall showed Asmodeus placing a crown upon his brow. A beautiful elven woman with silver hair and golden eyes watched them silently from behind the throne. Leylines converged beneath the prince’s seat. A nexus of power. A cage, or a conduit—Cal wasn’t sure. 

Voronov questioned them. They answered. Voragon Drakon’s skull had whispered secrets—the Ebon Triad, the artifacts, the resurrection of Kyuss. One relic destroyed. Two still in play. Cal gave them names: Lucius Blackthorn and Erisa Shadowveil. At the mention of Lucius, Voronov’s expression flickered. Recognition. Hate. The Demi-Cardinal of Egorian. Traitor. Asset. Maybe both. 

Declan sang for the prince—something loungey, something smooth. Voronov claimed the Ebon Traid were fools. They could not summon something that was already claimed by another. By Him. Malgorath was already in chains, and his hands belonged to the Prince. Still, the ritual could not be allowed to succeed and potentially free Malgorath from Voronov’s control. He might want his hands back, at the very least. Most inconvenient. The molten crown hovering overhead pulsed. A sudden psychic lash, unseen and unheard by the others, cracked the two who had failed to show the proper reverence to Prince Eli Voronov. Oathgar crumpled. Alfie, shielded by divine grace, stood unmoved. The prince stared, cold and final, and then dismissed them. 

Thexan’s Lab

Thexan Voronov—son of the prince—led them into a twisting warren of corridors until they emerged into a four-story laboratory. Magic warped the space. Constructs. Golems. Arcane diagrams and unfinished projects surrounded them. Oathgar noted dwarven rune-magic etched into the scaffolding. Alfie heard a woman’s voice coming from a bow on the wall. 

These were not a gift, Thexan told them. They were an investment. The Ruinlords were assets for Prince Voronov to use, and the prince wanted them strong. Each of them received an item – Declan, a headband attuned to charm and song. Oathgar, a belt that bolstered strength and presence. Tike, a pair of brutal rune-etched gauntlets. Cal, a cloak woven to resist magical assault. And Alfie… Alfie was handed Deathwhisper, a bow of living steel and dragon-scale patterning. The string hummed as he touched it. Alfie felt as if it knew his name. 

Thexan confirmed Damaris had survived the Vox-Eidolon. He then warned them—Salisgrad wasn’t safe for foreigners. The Crimson Glove hunted outsiders. The law protected only citizens, marked by ink burned into their left hands. Conflict meant death, unless you were lucky—or very fast. 

Arrival at Fellgate Tavern

The party was escorted to the Fellgate Tavern, where Kaelthar Vonn waited behind the bar. Scarred. Calm. Watching. The place was bigger on the inside, centered around a massive pit rimmed with glowing runes. “Don’t fall in,” Kaelthar said. “That’s the Undercity.” 

Cal remembered Kaelthar. Two decades ago, he emerged from the depths with the skull of a demon lord. That bought him the tavern. Now he watched the pit. Let others descend. Never followed. 

Their rooms had been paid for – yet another example of the prince’s good graces.

Alfie’s room, however, was not empty. Saint Alduin waited. 

Alduin’s Proposal

Steel gleamed beneath his cloak. His gaze cut through the silence. He spoke of Tymon – how it fell, how it could rise once again. The undead had begun to spread like rot. But there was a cure. Two gauntlets, part of the divine armor forged for Tynathria’s herald. Armor befitting Saint Alduin. One of those gauntlets, he could get on his own. The other lay in the north, with a lich named Calzurak. Reclaim the gauntlet, and he would cleanse Tymon. 

Saint Alduin came to them because he had to be sure they were strong enough. Killing the Silver Flight? That was the test. 

They had passed. 

Glimmerstone Curios

The party made their way to Glimmerstone Curios, nestled between a forge and a sausage stall. The shop’s wards were sloppy, its signage old. Cal cast an illusion of Clover, Damaris’ niece. Her image spoke. Damaris appeared and broke down when he saw her. 

Tike pinned the halfling against the wall. Damaris begged. Apologized. Muttered something about the bloodstone being a gift that had cursed him, and that he felt like he had “bugs in his brain.” Then the Crimson Glove kicked the door shut behind them, looking to do some business with the halfling. Four enforcers. No citizenship marks. No escape. 

Oathgar knocked one out with a “road beer” mug to the groin. 

Then came the rupture. 

The Faceless One’s Gift

Damaris convulsed. His jaw unhinged. 

A thick, bloody worm slithered from his throat, speaking in the voice of the Faceless One. Tendrils lashed out. Crimson Glove enforcers were instantly drained of their blood, their bodies liquefying and folding into one another. Flesh became horror. Damaris became something else. A red mass of eyes and mouths and mouths and mouths. 

The battle was chaos. 

Oathgar was nearly consumed, but Declan’s masterpiece performance gave him his freedom. Alfie healed. Cal unleashed fire. Potato bit. Tike’s fists shattered part of the creature’s mind. Then, he shattered the rest. Blood sprayed like steam from a cracked boiler. Damaris fell to the ground, detached from the creature. Dead? Hard to say.

But the worm, somehow still alive, spoke one last time: 

“Dragons don’t like it when their plans are foiled. Ilthane did not like having her carefully laid plan with the lizardfolk disrupted. She sniffed out the culprits, and guess where the trail led her?”

 Tike crushed it before it could say more.

Previously…

Battered from Tymon’s fall and haunted by sacrifice, the Ruinlords fled down the Sellen aboard the Sandfly. Captain Lorune, desperate and indebted, planned to sell his prized iron golem armor in Salisgrad to keep his ship afloat. Wounds festered, both old and new—Tike’s soul still scarred, Alfie’s healing stretched thin.

At dusk beneath a ruined bridge, shadows struck. Ebon Triad cultists ambushed the ship, joined by a worm-ridden Seer and the devil Arnyx—now branded with the Triad’s mark. He demanded Voragon Drakon’s head. He got steel and fire instead. Cal’s flames tore through the ambushers. Potato silenced a fleeing cultist. Alfie bled, Oathgar struck true, and Tike crushed the devil to ash.

By dawn, only questions remained—etched in worm-script and blood—as the Sandfly drifted toward Salisgrad.

What’s all this then?

Want to know what happens when the devil’s debts come due and the worm-prophets scream louder than the gods? Follow our Age of Worms Pathfinder 1e campaign right HERE, where fire answers prophecy, death isn’t final, and the river runs dark.

---

23 Erastus (July), 4725 

Rain slicked the deck of the Sandfly as it drifted into Salisgrad’s harbor, the stormlight making the city’s magical runes pulse like veins beneath stone skin. The sky spat mist as two city watch and a pair of ironclad sentinels boarded the ship in silence, steel helms gleaming dull under cloudlight. Then came the Blessed Angel, wings of smoldering flame trailing smoke as she descended onto the gangplank without a word. 

Captain Joseph Lorune spoke first, eyes still tired and haunted. He admitted having fled Tymon as the city fell. The party mentioned their delivery for Bishop , Senior Officer of the Black Gauntlet, and interest shifted sharply. The name opened doors. The death of an Ebon Triad High Councilor—revealed, perhaps unintentionally, through Lorune—sealed their appointment with the Black Gauntlet. 

The Ruinlords were led through corridors of metal and warding runes to a chamber paneled in steel and veined with blue abjuration crystals, humming with restrained power. Bishop waited. Cold. Precise. He wanted to question the relic they carried: the skull of Voragon Drakon. When told of Dunner’s death, he nodded once and began arranging the retrieval of the body, belongings, and honors befitting one who had struck at the Triad’s core. 

What followed was not conversation. It wasn’t a ritual. It was an interrogation of the dead.

Damaris Glimmerstone—formerly known as Thistlefoot Glimmerstone—took the conduit’s seat beneath the arch of the Vox Eidolon, a device that blurred the lines between the arcane and the occult. Brass thorns pierced his skull as his soul and mind became one with the dead. Voragon’s voice returned, hollow and resentful, echoing through the halfling. From his withered skull, truths spilled like black water: prophecies still unfulfilled, the Triad’s unholy relics, and of the Faceless One—the architect threading the darkness between them. The Amulet of the Worldbreaker, shattered by the party, had crippled the Triad’s progress. The end goal was to use the three magic items possessed by the High Council once the prophecies were fulfilled. Now, one of the items was destroyed. The heroes rejoiced at potentially stopping the coming of the Ebon Triad’s Overgod known as Malgorath.

Then the rift opened, and the celebration died on the spot.

Ash boiled from the tear, and from it came the Emberwrought Shade of Dahak—a skeletal wyrm wreathed in fireless heat, its breath an entangling storm of iron chains and scorched memory torn from Voragon’s divine connection to the evil dragon god. Bishop sealed the chamber with a pulse of force, a protection protocol to keep the creature from escaping. 

It also meant the Ruinlords would be unable to retreat. Not that the option was ever on the table anyway. 

Declan’s voice rose like a battle hymn, magic and fate coiling in harmony. Alfie used his healing magic to undo the damage dealt by the shade while his owlbear Potato, wide-eyed but unyielding, darted through the fray. Cal, ever precise, whispered the syllables of Boneshatter and collapsed ribs with surgical cruelty. Oathgar drew blood, blade flashing through the smoke. Tike, bruised and growling, took the final steps, driving his fist into the Shade’s core. It exploded in soulfire. 

Silence. Then Bishop lowered the seal. 

Moments later, the door opened—no knock, no permission. A woman entered, skin pale, lips crimson, wrapped in a red negligee that defied armor and dared defiance. With a smile that wasn’t a smile, she informed Bishop that Prince Eli Voronov had summoned the party for a personal audience. Bishop started to protest, but he caught his tongue. The word of Prince Voronov was final. 

She took the skull. She took the broken Amulet. She took the party. 

And just like that, the balance shifted again.

Previously…

Midday in Tymon meant nothing under a sky strangled by green lightning. The Ruinlords pushed deeper into the city’s corpse, past broken gods and worm-ridden corpses, toward the Iron Baptistery—a shattered temple pulsing with defiance. Inside, they found Ebon Triad cultists twisting dead heroes into living weapons. Dunner fell, buying his friends a heartbeat. Alfie carved worms from his own flesh with a bloody arrow. Tike dove into sacred flame, rose reborn, and shattered the traitors with his fists—until Voragon Drakon arrived. The High Councilor wielded Dahak’s fire and the Medallion of the Worldbreaker, but not even his death curse could claim the city. It came close. Tike died in the blast, standing. Alfie tore him back with Breath of Life. Scarred and half-dead, the Ruinlords fled the ruin aboard Captain Lorune’s ship, carrying Dunner’s body, the medallion’s fragments, and the storm at their heels.

What’s all this then?

Want to know what happens when worm gods come knocking and the war gods stop answering? Follow our Age of Worms Pathfinder 1e campaign right HERE, where resurrection costs blood, the storms are getting louder, and Tymon still remembers who bled for it.

---

23 Erastus (July), 4725 

Having fled the cursed city of Tymon aboard the merchant ship Sandfly, the Ruinlords found themselves recovering from recent losses as they sailed down the Sellen River. Captain Joseph Lorune, grateful for Vaz’non and Cal’s intervention that saved his life, revealed his intention to sell his prized Iron Golem power armor (once the construct known as Piko) in Salisgrad – a desperate measure to keep his crew paid and his ship afloat after a costly tournament defeat that he had naturally assumed he was going to win. The following morning, the party was tending to their wounds. Alfie’s restoration magic healed most of the party’s afflictions from their encounters with the Acolyte of Kyuss and the army of wights. However, Tike still bore the scars of damage yet to be healed. 

As darkness descended and the Sandfly approached a massive stone bridge, what seemed like a routine passage turned into an ambush. Two Ebon Triad cultists emerged from the shadows, raining necrotic bolts upon the party from their vantage point. The situation grew dire with the appearance of a familiar foe – Arnyx, the bearded devil now bearing the burned symbol of the Ebon Triad on his chest, demanding the head of the Ebon Triad High Council member, Voragon Drakon, which the heroes had in their possession. The combat escalated further when a Seer, a disturbing figure with skin writing from worms crawling beneath it, joined the assault with unusual – and devastating – psychic attacks. 

The party fought back with everything they had in a fierce battle, with Cal’s explosive fireballs turning the tide against the cultists (those visible as well as those hidden). Potato demonstrated impressive agility by scaling the riverbank and throttling a third cultist member who had tried to escape, while Declan’s Rheumy Refrain weakened their devilish opponent. Though Arnyx managed to wound Alfie grievously before his defeat, the party emerged victorious with Oathgar’s deft blade and Tike’s crushing fists. Almost thankful that his charge had ended, the devil crumbled to ash upon his demise. 

The following morning, the investigation of the Seer’s corpse revealed disturbing connections to the Ebon Triad, leaving the heroes with more questions than answers as they continued their journey toward Salisgrad…

Previously…

Tymon fell. The Ruinlords ran—not from fear, but from finality. The Arena of Aroden drowned in silence as the Apostle of Kyuss was born in blood and prophecy. A thousand undead gladiators poured into the streets. Citizens became corpses. Corpses became wights. The Ruinlords fled through a collapsing city, hunted by death and haunted by everything they couldn’t save. Only magic kept them ahead of the tide—just barely. Vaz’non and Cal vanished through a tear in space. Tike, Alfie and Dunner braved the shattered Basilica of Desna, while Ekalim led the way toward one last flicker of hope. Their destination: the Iron Baptistery. Their goal: survival.

What’s all this then?

Curious why Tymon is collapsing under its own dead weight? Wondering who Tike Myson is and why you should care that he’s coughing up unmentionable content? Catch up on our Pathfinder 1e chronicle of the Age of Worms right HERE, where the gods are distant, the worms are hungry, and the Ruinlords still have dying left to do.

---

The Light Was a Lie

Midday over Tymon, but the light was a lie.

Overhead, a cyclone of roiling green storm clouds spun slowly, laced with sickly veins of lightning. Below, in the blood-soaked streets, the Ruinlords moved through back alleys like ghosts trying to outrun the inevitable.

Ekalim Smallcask led them, whispering directions, one cautious step at a time. Alfie, the cleric of Erastil, followed closely with his owlbear companion, Potato. Dunner, warpriest of Gorum, walked as if through water, each heartbeat fainter than the last. Tike Myson, once a juggernaut in the arenas, now stumbled like a man made of brittle sticks. His strength wasn’t just gone—it had been stripped away by the Apostle of Kyuss. He and Dunner were on borrowed time, and the sand was quickly passing through the hourglass.

The Iron Baptistery

Then, looming through blood and ruin: the Iron Baptistery. Once, a temple built for war itself. Now it was little more than a corpse. Its iron pillars shattered. Blackstone floor cracked like a ribcage split by a giant’s hand. And at the center, the Iron Font still bled Gorum’s magic—alone, furious, refusing to die.

Inside, the Ruinlords found Declan, a bard seeking refuge with little more than his name and a lot of fear. He assured the Ruinlords he was famous. Tymon had no time for fame anymore.

Worse waited by the Font. Two Ebon Triad cultists knelt in dark prayer, carving sigils into the bones of the temple, disrespecting any god not of their own design. And with them—Zalrynn the Stormcaller and Jylen the Inferno. Once members of Saint Alduin’s Silver Flight. Now, hollowed out shells filled with worms.

The Battle for the Font

Zalrynn struck first, Lightning-Stepping behind the heroes, her arrival crackling with ozone. Jylen followed with a roar, searing Dunner and Ekalim with his Infernal Optics—flame pouring over them like a broken dam.

Tike surged forward, throwing fists with destructive purpose. Dunner shielded the rear.

Not because he thought he would survive.

Because someone had to.

Dunner didn’t fall easy. His armor was scorched black from Jylen’s infernal blast, smoke rising from the cracks in the plates, but he stood anyway—shield up, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the thing that used to be Zalrynn. When the storm came—lightning flashing, rotting fists hammering down—Dunner didn’t flinch. He planted his boots in the blood-slick stone, braced for the hit he knew he couldn’t survive, and made himself a wall. 

Ekalim was behind him. 

The bard, bleeding, gasping, would have died there, one more forgotten corpse in a forgotten temple. 

But Dunner caught the blow meant for him. Took the full weight of Zalrynn’s rage across his battered chin. And when the second strike came—faster, meaner—he caught that one too. 

The third crushed him. 

It drove him to his knees, then to his back, shattering the last stubborn breath from the dwarf’s body. But it bought Ekalim the moment he needed. Dunner died the way he’d lived: Facing the enemy head-on, too stubborn to bow, too proud to run, bleeding steel and fury until there was nothing left to give. 

Not a prayer. 

Not a plea. 

Just a final grunt, a last broken smile, and the sound of a war god welcoming one more soldier home. 

Worms Beneath the Skin

Alfie felt it first.

A wriggling itch under the skin. Sharp. Cold. A wrongness no prayer could soothe. Kyuss worms burrowed deep, hungry for his heart.

There wasn’t time for magic.

Only the arrow.

He snapped it from the quiver, teeth clenched hard enough to crack. The steel tip gleamed—and then he drove it into his own arm. One cut. Two. Blood everywhere. Bile rising. Pain blinding.

But he found the worms. Tore them out.

One. Then another.

No triumph. No roar. Just a bloody arrow, a shaking hand, and a man too stubborn to die.

The Font Answers

Tike, half-dead, dove into the Iron Font, offering his blood with the hope of Gorum hearing his defiant cry.

It answered.

It purged the worms. Burned the weakness from his blood. Made him more than alive. Made him angry.

He rose, dripping red, and crushed the cultists. Smashed the risen Silver Flight with fists like hammers.

Then the ground shook.

Voragon Descends

Voragon Drakon—High Councillor of the Ebon Triad—descended through the shattered oculus. A burning titan wrapped in Dahak’s fire, holding the Medallion of the Worldbreaker like it was the key to the end of all things.

Tike didn’t wait.

He met him in midair. Fists flashing, hammering the warpriest against stone until cracks spiderwebbed the walls.

But Voragon wasn’t done. One did not ascend to the High Council by being less than. He called on his magical discipline and cast a spell, coating his hand in necrotic energy before driving it into Tike’s chest. Everything tore away. 

The instant Voragon’s magic hit him—cold, wrong, hollowing him from the inside out—he knew. The world narrowed into one sharp, perfect moment: breath ragged in his throat, worms writhing beneath his skin, his heart hammering like a war drum that would soon fall silent. 

But Tike wasn’t the kind of man to wait for death. 

He threw himself forward, every tendon and bone screaming, every drop of strength burning like dry tinder. His fists, battered and bloody, became hammers. Each punch slammed into Voragon’s armored chest, fueled not by rage, not by fear—by defiance. 

Tike hit him again. And again. And again. 

Voragon staggered. Another blow. Another break. 

The dragon-priest’s body gave way, splitting open under the final assault. Voragon collapsed against the blackened wall, sliding down in a smear of blood and fire, still smiling. Still laughing. 

With shaking hands, Voragon lifted the Medallion of the Worldbreaker—his final curse. His final triumph.

He crushed it. 

The Medallion of the Worldbreaker shattered, but the cataclysm it promised never fully arrived. The explosion ignited in a violent surge of fire and force, a scream of ancient fury meant to erase everything in its path—but something, whether the lingering power of the Iron Font, the resistance of the Ruinlords, or the final breath of Dunner’s blessing, clamped down on the blast. The eruption collapsed inward, its strength muted, the devastation contained. Heat rolled through the baptistery like a living thing, but the stone walls held. The Iron Font endured. The city of Tymon, though scarred and crumbling, refused to fall. Voragon’s final weapon failed him. 

Almost. 

Declan dove for cover, tumbling through dust and fire. Alfie, Potato, and Tike stood firm, shielded by some last desperate flicker of magic—but for Tike it wasn’t enough. The blast hit like the fist of a dying god. The shield around Tike cracked, buckled, and finally shattered. The fire rolled over him, through him, stealing the last ounce of life he’d fought so hard to keep. 

He fell without a sound. No scream. No curse. 

Only the silence a warrior earns when he’s given every last piece of himself and asks for nothing in return. 

Tike Myson died standing. Tike Myson died fighting. 

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. 

Then Alfie moved. 

There was no time to think. No time to pray. Only the memory of a spell—a desperate prayer carved into magic—the last thread between life and whatever comes after. Alfie knelt beside Tike’s corpse, pressing bloody hands to his chest. He called on Erastil, on life, on hope, on anything that still listened to this crumbling city. The words spilled out of him, not polished or perfect, but real. Raw. 

Breath of Life flared to life between Alfie’s palms. 

The magic punched down through Tike’s battered flesh, found the guttering ember buried somewhere deep inside. Found it—and fanned it. Not into a blaze. Not into a roar. But into a stubborn, shuddering gasp. Tike’s body jerked once, twice, a ragged breath tearing itself free of his ruined lungs. His fingers twitched, curling instinctively into fists. The fists of a man who wasn’t finished yet. Alfie didn’t smile. Didn’t weep. He just stayed there, breathing with him, refusing to let him slip away again. 

Tike Myson lived. Bloodied. Burned. Hollowed-out and half-dead—but alive.

Alive because a friend refused to let him go. 

Quickly, they gathered Dunner’s body and proof of the Ebon Triad’s treachery. Proof that heroes still walked the ruins of Tymon. Together, they fled to the docks, slipping aboard Captain Joseph Lorune’s ship alongside Vaz’non and Cal, the city behind them burning, the storm still boiling above. 

The Ruinlords were not defeated. 

Not yet.