The path before him was pure darkness as Seeker stepped into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Instinctively, he reached for his Phial—then froze. Of course. He’d given it to Bright. Without its light, the Valley pressed in heavier than before—thick, suffocating, alive with unseen weight.
The crunch of the gravel beneath his boots assured him he still walked the Narrow Way. His feet seemed to know the road, step by step, without the aid of sight.
As he took a step forward, his boots shifted of their own accord, drawing him slightly to the right. He couldn’t see his hand before his eyes, much less the path ahead. Yet his mind saw it clearly—the bones, the traps, the snares that had haunted this place the last time he’d passed through. He knew they were still here.
The Interpreter’s words echoed in his mind: We walk by faith, not by sight. He drew a slow breath, closed his eyes, and let his feet guide him.
“Oh, Seeker… did you come back to me?” Charm’s laughter rippled through the darkness—low, taunting, impossible to place. It mingled with the howls of unseen fiends. Fear tightened in his chest as the sounds drew nearer. A sudden brush of wings grazed his shoulder, and he staggered back, unsheathing his Sword.
The Sword blazed to life in his hands, flooding the darkness with a silver radiance that bled across the twisted ground. Shadows leapt and shrank away. The light burned brighter than the Phial had ever shone. Above him, drakes wheeled and shrieked in fury; before him, a legion of fiends gathered—countless shapes massed in defiance of the light.
The fiends swarmed him. A squat, leathery creature lunged—the moss-mottled hide of its body glistening in the silver light. It swung a jagged blade with surprising speed. Its teeth were needle-sharp, its ears long and pointed, its eyes burning with a feral cunning that spoke of hunger rather than thought.
It will guide your hands. The Sword rose of its own accord, meeting the goblin’s strike with a flash of silver light. His boots pulled at his feet, urging him left—just follow the lead. He turned as a drake swooped low, its claws raking the air where he’d stood a heartbeat before. The Sword arced in answer, cleaving through its neck. The creature crashed to the ground, twitching at his feet.
The goblins closed in around him. Feet. Sword. Let go. He moved without thought—light and motion as one. A single sweep of the blade, and they were flung back in every direction.
Howls. Shrieks. Endless. The battle became a dance with death: swing, block, step forward, fall back. The longer he fought, the brighter his sword burned. Then a dragon swooped in from the dark, its wings splitting the air. Seeker raised his blade—and lightning leapt from it, striking the beast mid-flight. It crashed to the ground, lifeless before it touched the earth.
Ten. A hundred. A thousand—he lost count. There was only the dance. The air around him crackled; the hair on his arms rose. Seeker cried out—ΔΕΞΑΙ! Waves of lightning cascaded from the Sword in torrents, and he dropped to his knees. No fiend remained standing. Mangled corpses surrounded him.
“Oh, brave warrior…” The voice drifted through the stillness, lilting and cruel. “Come and play with me.” Play with me. Play with me. Lay with me. Charm’s mirage shimmered in the distance—her green eyes gleaming through the dark like twin lanterns of deceit.
Out of the shadows emerged tall, broad-shouldered shapes—bodies lithe and powerful, half-shrouded in coarse brown hair. From the waist up they bore the form of men, beautiful in a savage and terrible way. But below, their legs were those of goats—corded with muscle, ending in cloven hooves that struck sparks from the stone.
From their brows sprang horns that curved backwards like a ram’s. Their eyes gleamed amber and wild, pupils slit and threaded with crimson. When they smiled, their teeth were too sharp—too human to be fangs, too bestial to belong to men.
They circled him in a wild dance, flutes and pipes shrieking in discordant joy. Goblets sloshed with dark wine as they spun and leapt. “Rest, Seeker, Rest,” they chanted. “Drink. Dance. Play with us.”
They pressed close—so close he could smell the mingled scent of sweat and wine on their breath. The satyrs spun around him, brandishing their flutes like daggers. His boots refused to join their rhythm. He swung his sword, but they slipped past each stroke with mocking grace. Step by step he forced his way forward. The Necklace had grown warm against his chest, and the old stripes on his back began to burn. Never forget.
Yet his Sword stayed steady in his hands, and his boots carried him onward—calm, unhurried—until he passed beyond that place and came to the straights between the sulfurous bog and the abyss.
From the depths rose specters—faces of men, half-formed, flickering in and out of substance. Moans drifted through the air, tangled with whispers. Then came the thoughts—unbidden, relentless. They hissed like steam in his head. Curses. Blasphemies. Accusations. His mind reeled beneath them. Despair. Shame. Guilt. He could neither fight nor flee.
Then the words of the Interpreter returned to him: This is not I. At once, the specters—and the thoughts that carried them—wavered, thinned, and sank back into the abyss from which they had come.
Seeker did not look back when he reached the far side. The air turned sweet, fragrant with lilies, and the gentle murmur of running water welcomed him.
He was covered head to toe in blood, yet not a single tear marked his garments, nor a scratch marred his skin. It was good to stand once more in Humility. First, he would wash—then find Bright.
Seeker stripped off his shirt, then the chain mail hidden beneath. He crouched beside the stream and dipped the linen into the running water. The white fabric—once beautiful—should have been ruined by the blood and gore that covered it. He worked it gently between his hands until the water cleared. When he lifted it from the stream and held it to the light, not a single trace of stain remained—the white gleamed pure, the gold still shone.
He spread the shirt carefully across a sun-warmed rock to dry, then took up his trousers, using them to wipe the blood from his boots and sheath before rinsing it in the stream. When both garments were laid out to dry, he stepped into a still pool where the water had gathered and washed himself from head to toe, scrubbing away every trace of battle.
His clothes were already dry. He’d never seen a fabric like it—sturdy, unstainable, and quick to shed the water. He dressed swiftly and started toward the Prince’s country house. If Bright was still in these parts, Seeker knew where he’d be—beneath the old tree by the still pool across from the house.
As he walked, Seeker met a youth with bright cheeks and a lamb slung across his shoulders. The boy’s eyes lit up the moment he saw him.
“Hello!” he called out. “You must be Bright’s father!”
“I am,” Seeker said with a nod. “How is he? Is he well?” He smiled faintly. “His mother’s worried sick about him.”
“He’s more than well,” said the youth, grinning wide. “You should’ve seen him—he smacked the lion that tried to steal one of our sheep! It slunk back into the mountains, tail between his legs.”
Seeker laughed at the thought of Bright fighting a lion. “Oh, he’s added lions now—to go with the coyotes and bears?”
“Oh, I’m Meek, sir…” said the youth.
“Just call me Seeker,” he replied with a nod.
“You came just in time, Mr. Seeker,” Meek said brightly. “Bright’s been talking about traveling on—to the Delectable Mountains. I’ll tend the flock when he’s gone. He’s been teaching me everything I need to know.” Meek’s whole face lit as he said it, the words tumbling out like sunshine.
The lamb on Meek’s shoulders gave a pitiful bleat. “Oh, hush,” said Meek with a grin. “You’re lucky a coyote didn’t get you. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before wandering off.”
“I’m glad you’re here to go with him,” Meek went on. “Coyotes are one thing, but…” He gave a slight shiver. “You should hear the sounds that come from that place at night.” His eyes flicked toward the Valley of the Shadow of Death, then back—lingering on the sword at Seeker’s side. “You wouldn’t believe it,” he murmured.
Seeker gave a quiet chuckle. “Let’s just say I know more about that place than I’d like to.”
–
When they reached the camp by the still pond, Bright was tending a pot of black beans simmering over the fire, the smell of cumin in the air. He looked up, startled—and the ladle slipped from his hand.
“Dad!” He ran to Seeker and threw his arms around him. “You’re just in time for supper!”
“Mr. Seeker can have my plate,” Meek offered quickly.
Together they ate. Bright had chopped several tomatoes and prepared rice seasoned with herbs and spices. Sheep grazed contentedly nearby—at least twice as many as when Seeker was there before. He listened as Bright spoke of how he’d sought out the scattered sheep one by one and driven back the coyotes on his own. How he’d met Meek. And how he planned to journey onward, leaving the flock in Meek’s care.
–
That night, Seeker slept peacefully beneath the open sky, a soft breeze cooling the summer air. Overhead, the Great Bear and Little Bear wheeled in their slow procession, the Dragon gliding between them—King and Queen shining beside them.
***
In the morning, Bright gave Meek his final instructions, and together they set out. Never forget. The Shining One’s words echoed through Seeker’s heart as they passed through Forgetful Green and stepped once more into the darkness of the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
The path was too narrow for them to walk side by side, so Seeker went first—his Sword raised, light glinting along its edge. Bright followed close behind, staff in one hand, Phial lifted high in the other. Together their lights filled the Valley—silver and gold intermingling with the restless red glow of the fires below. Bright’s voice rang out over the chasm, clear and fearless, untroubled by the stench of sulfur that thickened the air.
Seeker was grateful that no hobgoblins stirred this day. Perhaps their joined light kept such shadows at bay. Of all the trials in the Valley, that had been the worst—the voices that spoke in his own mind, each one wearing the sound of his thoughts.
Seeker’s necklace grew warm against his chest as they neared the second half of the Valley. The ground ahead was strewn with bones—bleached remnants of Plague’s victims. Then there, astride the Narrow Way, stood Giant Wrath—waiting, blocking their path.
“Little Bright,” the giant sneered, “come to play with your daddy’s staff? I was gentle with you last time.” His gaze shifted to Seeker. “And you—do you believe that puny weapon will save you?”
Something had emboldened him. Wrath stood unflinching in the mingled light of Forgiveness and Wisdom. Fear’s icy fingers brushed Seeker’s spine, but the warmth of the Necklace of Conscience held them back—steady, sure, and near his heart.
The giant’s face contorted with rage. “Wherever you go, I will follow—and I will destroy you! I am the curse that haunts your blood. Your father, and his father before him—I was their undoing. I am your curse… both of you.”
With a roar, Wrath heaved a boulder high above his head and hurled it toward Bright. The air slit with its passing. Bright dove aside, the stone crashing where he’d stood an instant before, shattering the ground in a spray of dust and shards.
Seeker felt the gentle pull of his boots and the weightless guidance of the Sword. He closed his eyes, breathed a prayer to the King—and surrendered. Then he moved. In a single heartbeat he surged forward, faster than thought, the Sword flashing in an arc of silver light. Wrath’s head parted cleanly from his shoulders.
The earth trembled as the giant’s body struck the ground, dust billowing skyward. The severed head rolled to Seeker’s feet; its face still locked in shock—as if disbelief had followed him into death.
Bright collapsed to his knees, trembling. The Valley fell silent. Even the air held its breath. Then they saw what had emboldened Giant Wrath. Out of the shadows emerged a monstrosity—towering, terrible, alive with malice. Its body was scaled like a dragon’s, wings vast and leathery, the hands and feet those of a bear, each claw longer than a man’s forearm. The head was that of a lion, with fangs that gleamed like burnished iron. Smoke coiled from its belly, rising in choking waves, and sparks leapt from its jaws with every breath. And its eyes—its eyes burned with a hatred so pure it seemed to strip the world of light.
Apollyon.
“You are my subjects—yet you have defied me.” His voice rolled across the Valley like thunder breaking mountains, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. In his right hand he held a bundle of fiery darts, their shafts of black iron glowing at the tips with molten light.
Seeker planted his feet and raised his Sword, the weight of it steady in his hands. Nothing in his Book had prepared him for this. Did he possess the being to stand firm before such a power?
“I am the Lord of Destruction,” he declared, his voice echoing like fire through iron. “Yet I am not without mercy.” He spread his claws in a gesture of mock compassion. “Bow to me, swear fealty to Mammon—the King of this world—and I will spare your lives. I will even grant you fortune… and fame.”
Apollyon stretched his mighty wings until they seemed to span the valley. He roared, “If you will not, your blood shall soak the ground, and your corpses will join the heaps of those who have fallen here.”
Seeker turned to Bright with a wry smile. “I’m glad to have the vanquisher of bears and lions at my side—now let’s chase off this damn coyote.”
Seeker closed his eyes and breathed a prayer to the King—strength for himself, protection for Bright. Then he sprang into motion. Fiery darts hissed through the air, but his feet found their path with unearthly precision. Lightning burst from his Sword, striking toward Apollyon. A dart hurtled straight for him—his blade rose in time, deflecting it with a crack of light.
While Seeker held Apollyon’s gaze, Bright struck from behind. He swung with all his strength, but the staff glanced off the creature’s scales—he did not even flinch.
The ground trembled beneath Apollyon’s steps. Lightning split the sky, and thunder answered—mingling with his terrible roars.
The battle dragged on—an endless blur of dodging and parrying. No matter how he pressed forward, he couldn’t land a single blow. His arms ached, his breath came ragged, and his strength ebbed with every heartbeat.
Seeker froze in horror. From the shadows, Plague bounded forth on all fours and leapt upon Bright, dragging him down. That single instant was all Apollyon needed. A flaming dart slammed into Seeker’s chest, driving him backwards. His armor caught the blow, but the force crushed the air from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, Sword spinning from his grasp. He clawed for breath that would not come, vision narrowing, the world dimming at the edges as he fought to stay awake.
Apollyon pounced, slammed Seeker against the ground beneath the crushing weight of his body. “I have you now!” he roared. Sparks spat from his jaws, the fangs stopping inches from Seeker’s face—so close their heat seared his skin. The stench of smoke and sulfur filled his nostrils as the world shrank to claws, fire, and breath.
Seeker felt the Book pressed against his chest—and beneath it, the Necklace of Conscience pulsing with life. Christian’s words stirred in his heart, not as thought but as truth itself: Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy. “When I fall,” he whispered, calm amid the storm. His left hand found the hilt of his Sword. Strength surged through muscles long forged by tread-wheel and timber. “I shall arise!” With a cry that split the air, he drove the blade upward with all his might, plunging it deep into Apollyon’s chest.
A hideous cry tore from Apollyon’s throat as the blade struck true. He lurched backward, wings thrashing in pain, the air shuddering with his roar. Smoke poured from his belly as he clawed at the wound. Then, with a final scream that shook the Valley, he spread his wings wide and plunged headlong into the abyss.
Seeker rolled to his feet. Bright lay beneath Plague’s weight, the creature’s claws tearing at him. A surge of fury ignited in Seeker’s chest—not the black rage of Giant Wrath that poisoned the soul, but a righteous fire that blazed with golden light.
He charged, Sword raised high, and struck with every ounce of strength. Plague shrieked and lashed back, a miasma of sickness spilling from its wounds. The air burned his lungs. He coughed, choked—but kept swinging, fighting with all his might.
Claws raked against him, scraping sparks from his armor but finding not purchase. Seeker struck again and again, each blow echoing through the Valley like thunder. The creature’s hide bore the scars of countless battles—marks left by warriors who had come before—yet still it would not fall. With a final cry, Seeker gathered all his strength and drove the Sword downward. Plague shrieked, rearing back, its body convulsing in pain. Then wailing, it turned and fled into the darkness, leaving behind a trail of black vapor that dissolved into nothing.
Bright lay sprawled among the scattered bones—eyes closed, unmoving, his body bloodied and broken. Seeker dropped to his knees beside him, gathering him into his arms. The faintest groan escaped Bright’s lips as Seeker tried to lift him, but he felt the bones shift beneath his hands and froze, terror tightening his chest.
Seeker bowed his head against Bright’s chest, a cry tearing from his throat as grief overwhelmed him. “Bright… oh, my Bright.” The words broke apart into sobs. Bitter tears fell freely, mingling with the dust and blood beneath them.
Beautiful lay alone in bed, fear gripping her heart. For more than twenty years, Seeker had always been beside her. Now—silence. She wished Wonderful would come creep into her bed, as she had so many times as a child. The thought of going to her crossed her mind, but she pushed it aside.
She had been worried for Bright—now she had to worry for Seeker as well. He no longer had his Phial to light the way. She prayed the sun was shining on him as he passed through the Valley. It had been days. Surely by now he had found Bright… and soon, they would both be home again.
She tossed and turned for what felt like half the night before sleep at last claimed her—fitful, uneasy, and thin as breath.
Then the air itself seemed to still, as though the whole world held its breath—and a Shining One stood before her. He appeared like sound made visible, a harmony given form. His garments shimmered like woven light—silver threaded with faint hues of rose and pale gold.
“Fear not, daughter of faith,” he said.
The colors around him seemed to move with his voice—each word carried weight, leaving ripples in the air. Her fear melted away. His voice was soft, yet unescapable—ringing with music, as though a thousand harps trembled in harmony.
His face was beautiful yet unreadable—like sculpted flame. His eyes were blue-gray, the color of dawn seen through rain, filled with both promise and sorrow. He seemed at once infinitely near and infinitely far away.
His wings were vast and translucent, feathered with argent light that shimmered as he moved—leaving behind a faint trail of radiance, like moonlight rippling over water.
He took her by the hand and led her out of the city of Vanity, across the Plain of Ease, until they came to the River of Life. Along its banks stood a small cottage, nestled among trees heavy with violet fruit that glowed like amethyst in the soft light. Then he placed a scroll in her hands—its words written in silver, bound with a slender thread of the same.
“Go now—you and your daughter, Wonderful—to the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Your beloved fights for his life there, and he is in need of your help.”
“As you command, my Lord,” she said, bowing low. Then she woke in her own bed, the scroll still clutched to her breast.
Thunder crashed, and the whole house trembled. The scroll slipped from her hands onto the bed as she rushed outside. Over the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the heavens had grown black—lightning tore through the clouds in wild flashes, and the ground quaked beneath her feet.
Wonderful had already loaded a donkey with herbs, bandages, and other supplies for her usual rounds with Mr. Skill. She stood frozen in the doorway, eyes lifted to the darkened heavens, terror etched across her face.
“Come—your father and brother need us,” Beautiful said.
Wonderful nodded, fear still glistening in her eyes. She slung her satchel over her shoulder and together they set out.
The city was in chaos. Some stood frozen, staring toward the Valley; others ran wildly through the streets, colliding with them as they passed. Many had already barred their doors and shuttered their windows against the storm.
They left the city behind and pressed on, step by step, toward the mountain pass that led into the Valley. The nearer they drew, the clearer the sounds of battle became—the clash of steel, roars and shrieks echoing through the heights. Wonderful guided the donkey with a firm hand, whispering soft words of comfort as it trembled beneath the weight of the noise.
Fear not. The Shining One’s words settled deep in Beautiful’s heart, steadying her spirit and filling her with quiet courage.
Suddenly, the thunder and the lightning faded, and even the ground grew still. A deathly silence fell over the plain—no cry of bird, no whisper of wind. A terrifying void.
They came to the gap between the mountains. Before them lay only darkness—thick and impenetrable. Still, they pressed on.
Wings stirred overhead, and the clouds drew back. Sunlight poured over the Valley, illuminating the path before them.
They moved carefully, step by step, avoiding the snares and bones that littered the way. The donkey balked, ears pinned and trembling yet still followed—reluctant but obedient to the gentle pull of Wonderful’s hand.
The body of a giant lay sprawled across the path, headless and still. Nearby, Wrath’s severed head stared upward, its face locked into a grotesque sneer—as if death itself had only deepened his hatred.
Not far ahead, two figures lay in the dust—one motionless, the other bent low over him.
“Daddy!” Wonderful cried, letting go of the rope and racing forward.
Beautiful froze. Bright lay still on the ground, and Seeker was draped over him, sobbing without restraint. For a heartbeat she couldn’t breathe. Was he dead? No—no, he couldn’t be.
Wonderful took command. “Light a fire,” she said, pointing to the bundle of wood on the donkey, then to a kettle and waterskin. She pressed the back of her hand to Seeker’s forehead, assessing the heat before pulling a small packet from her satchel.
“This will bring down his fever—and counter the poison,” she said, handing it to Beautiful.
Then she knelt beside Bright. Yarrow first—to stop the bleeding. She worked quickly, her mind moving faster than her hands. Splints for the bones—several were broken. Comfrey once they’re set. She reached for her pouch, sorting through the familiar scents of earth and leaf. Balms for the cuts, salves for the bruises…. And there—the faint, sickly trace she dreaded most. The mark of Plague. She knew it instantly, just as Mr. Skill had taught her.
Beautiful cradled Seeker in her arms. His face was pale, streaked with tears.
“Bright’s going to be fine, Daddy,” she whispered.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. He swallowed the medicine Beautiful held to his lips, and little by little, color began to return to his cheeks.
Bright’s eyes fluttered open. His lips moved faintly. “Wonderful,” he murmured.
When Wonderful was certain Bright could be moved, Seeker helped him onto the donkey. Together, they left that Valley behind—forever.