Phealafarian Frontiers : 19 : Lady Brightglade
A thin layer of snow blanketed the back alley nestled halfway between the Tavern With No Name and the Clerical District. Footprints crunched lightly in the frost, steam rising from nearby rooftop vents, the air still and quiet. The silence was abruptly shattered by the sound of quick footsteps—Erisa sprinting forward, her breath hitching in a mix of hope and disbelief.
“Mama!” she shouted, launching herself at Lady Brightglade and wrapping her arms around the figure in green armour.
Lady Brightglade froze, armour clanking as she instinctively raised her arms, caught off guard. “I’m sorry—what?”
Erisa held her tighter, face buried against the polished breastplate. “You’re my mum! It’s me, Erisa!”
Brightglade gently grasped Erisa’s shoulders and eased her back. Her tone was careful, uncertain. “I’m sorry, but I’m not…”
Erisa’s face twisted in confusion and heartbreak. “But… the way you dropped from the roof, your armour, everything—I thought…”
Brightglade glanced around, her posture stiffening. Snow drifted lazily in the still air as she hesitated. “Look, I owe you my life. I can trust you with this.” Slowly, deliberately, she reached up and removed her helmet. Beneath it was the face of a Beta Fish Triton—blue-scaled, finely featured, with delicate flowing fins in place of hair.
Erisa’s eyes widened. Her breath caught. Then the realization settled in. “No… no, you’re supposed to be—no! NO!”
Tobias, standing just behind her, stepped forward, his voice quiet but steady. “I’m sorry, Erisa. We’ll keep looking. I’m sure we’ll find her.”
Brightglade, eyes softening, tilted her head. “Did… did you say Erisa? What’s your mum’s name?”
Erisa blinked away tears. “Um… Lyra. Lyra Brightglade.”
At the name, Brightglade’s hands flew to her mouth. “By Undyne… you’re her daughter. You’re really here. I—I’m not your mother, but I know her.”
Erisa’s eyes flared again, hope sparking like tinder. “You do?! Can you tell me where she is? Is she alright?”
Brightglade paused, then shook her head slowly. “Not right now. We’ve probably got a lot to talk about—and I’d rather not do it in full plate armour in a back alley. Let me change into my commoner clothing. I’ll meet you at your tavern this evening. ‘Tavern With No Name,’ right?”
Erisa clutched Brightglade’s wrist with a trembling hand. “You will come, right? Promise?”
Brightglade gave a small nod and a half-smile. “Of course.”
She reaffixed her helmet with practiced ease, her demeanour shifting as she turned sharply and vanished down the alley at a jog, snow crunching beneath her boots.
Erisa stared after her in silence for a few long moments before muttering, “I need a drink.”
The Tavern With No Name was warm, firelight flickering from the hearth and a faint smell of spiced cider wafting through the air. The party entered through the front door, shaking off the cold.
Tobias stepped inside—only to immediately stumble over a heap of hessian sacks carelessly left by the entrance. “Wh—ack!” He staggered, catching himself on the edge of a barrel.
“Nooo, my treasures!” cried Tosk, bounding forward with a look of exaggerated horror.
Guardian blinked, puzzled. “Your what now?”
Tosk dropped to his knees and began frantically rummaging through the sacks. “Stuff I found while working with the guards! You wouldn’t believe the things people just leave behind! And they said I could keep it—can you believe that?”
He pulled out a mismatched collection of junk: a cracked lantern, a bent copper pan, a child’s lost mitten, a spoon carved with a star, and then—with triumphant glee—a crate.
“Look! Potatoes! Mostly unspoiled!”
Tobias peered into the box, eyebrows raised. “You found a whole crate of potatoes?”
Tosk nodded excitedly. “Yep! It fell off the back of a wagon. I checked! Totally abandoned. That means it’s fair game, right?”
Guardian crossed his arms, smirking. “I’m not sure that’s how law works, but I admire your commitment.”
“Finders keepers!” Tosk chirped, already gathering his bags.
“You’re going to store all that in your room?” Erisa asked, arching a brow.
“Of course! These are valuable cultural artifacts!” he said, dragging the sack upstairs with a determined grunt.
The rest of the group shook their heads in amusement and made their way to their usual table. The tavern was quiet but comforting, a few locals clustered in corners nursing drinks and talking softly.
Tobias ordered a round of light ale, and the group sank into their chairs, the tension of the day easing slightly with each sip.
As the snow continued to fall outside, laughter and the clink of mugs gradually returned to the room. The evening was far from over—but for the moment, they allowed themselves a breath, a drink, and the comfort of not being alone.
As the evening wore on, the tavern slowly filled with its usual ebb and flow of patrons. Familiar faces and strangers alike trickled in and out, laughter and conversation rising and falling with the clink of mugs and the strum of a lute in the corner. The fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting golden light against the stone walls and pooling in the dark wood of the floor. Candles were lit one by one as the sun dipped below the horizon, cloaking the streets outside in snow-touched twilight.
Among those entering were two members of the former Final Cut. They spotted the party across the room, paused, then raised their mugs in silent acknowledgment. No words were exchanged—just a quiet nod of respect—before they took a table for themselves near the back and drank in quiet companionship. Whatever lingering tension may have remained was left unspoken.
Later still, the tavern door creaked open once more, letting in a chill gust of air and snowflakes clinging to woollen cloaks. In stepped Lady Brightglade—though the title hardly applied now. She was no longer clad in her distinctive green plate armour. Instead, she wore simple traveling leathers, a wool-lined cloak wrapped tightly about her shoulders, and a satchel slung over one side. Her hood was pushed back, revealing a blue-scaled Triton face framed by delicate fin-like crests. Her presence was calm, confident, and very much trying not to be noticed.
Tobias rose instinctively. “Lady Br—”
“Ahem,” she interjected with a sharp gesture, quickly closing the distance and lowering her voice. “No, no—let’s not shout my name across a tavern, yeah? Secret identity and all that.”
Tobias winced slightly, giving an apologetic shrug. “Right, of course. Sorry.”
Thomas leaned forward from his seat, a teasing grin curling across his face. “So what should we call you, then?”
The Triton gave a small smile. “Zaryth. Zaryth Luminar.”
Tobias nodded. “Well, pleasure to meet you properly, Zaryth. Tell me, how did you—”
But Erisa was already on her feet, voice sharp and impatient. “Look, enough of this. Tell me where my mother is.”
Zaryth turned to her, her smile fading into something softer, more serious. “Of course. I’m sorry—it’s just been so long. Your mother is alive and well. She’s living in the uplands, beyond Uraa’s Wall.”
Thomas frowned. “Uraa’s Wall?”
“The mountain range that spans the northern peninsula,” Zaryth explained. “She’s in a small village called Mistvale. It’s remote, but peaceful.”
Erisa’s eyes shone, though her voice remained guarded. “What is she doing up there? Why did she leave?”
Zaryth hesitated. “She never told me exactly. Just that something called to her—something she couldn’t ignore. She said she had to go, and asked me to stay here. To continue her work.”
The conversation drifted into quieter tones as Zaryth shared more: stories of Lyra Brightglade’s years as a vigilante, how she evaded the city guard while helping those in need. Tales of moonlit rooftop chases, healed wounds, hidden safehouses, and whispered warnings to the right people at the right times. She had been a guardian, even if the law didn’t see it that way.
Laughter mingled with awe as drinks were poured. The party asked questions, and Zaryth answered what she could. They spoke not just of Lyra, but of what had changed in the city, what had stayed the same, and the kinds of burdens that linger after choosing to walk away from the world you once saved.
Finally, as the candles burned lower and the tavern’s crowd thinned, Erisa placed her mug down and looked Zaryth squarely in the eyes. “I’m going to see my mum. Will you take us?”
Zaryth didn’t even blink. “Of course. But it won’t be easy. Uraa’s Wall is a dangerous pass even in the best conditions. And now… there are reports of Borglin encampments all throughout the mountain paths.”
“We’ll manage,” Tobias said firmly. The others nodded in agreement.
And so, over the next several days, the party began to prepare. Erisa, Eldrin, and Tobias rented sturdy, winter-trained horses from a stable near the east gate. Thomas, ever independent, purchased his own mount outright. Tosk—never one for subtlety—returned proudly with a rented elephant, its thick woollen blanket dyed in mismatched festival colours.
Each member checked in with their day-job employers, invoking New Albion’s legally protected Adventurer’s Clause. By city law, an official adventure took precedent over standard employment, and their posts would be held for them until they returned—or were declared legally dead.
Zaryth, meanwhile, wrote a letter to Lyra. It was simple and direct: “I’ve found her. She’s coming to you.” At the same time, Erisa penned her own message—more personal, filled with nervous excitement and questions long held in silence. The two letters were sealed together and sent north via a pair of swift messenger birds, their wings cutting through the grey winter sky.
Then, there was nothing to do but wait.
The party stayed at the tavern, their belongings packed, their travel cloaks hung near the fire. Supplies were checked. Maps reviewed. Idle chatter filled the long hours. Every knock at the door brought someone to their feet. But days passed slowly.
And then, one morning, as frost rimmed the windows and the sun peeked over the snowy eaves, a letter arrived…
