Crude Summoning

Jareth’s strong facade shattered almost instantly as Shadow’s truth poured out, raw and unguarded, like an open wound. His heart overrode his senses; his eyes lingered on the elf, absorbing the pain, the fury, the unspoken longing for solace. He yearned to offer comfort, to close the chasm between them with something as simple as a hug.

The fire Shadow carried was all too familiar. It was the same fire Jareth had seen in the broken circle, in the rebellion against the Templars, and later, in the Inquisition. None of those battles had been fought without loss, and the scars they left ran deep.

Jareth extended a hand and conjured a small flame, its flickering light reflecting in his somber gaze. The thing about fire, he murmured, almost to himself, is that it burns no matter the reason. It doesn’t discriminate. The words were hollow—meant less for the elf and more as a tether to his own thoughts. He couldn’t help but see the same relentless blaze in Shadow: passion, rage, a yearning for justice. All of it had stoked the same unforgiving flames time and time again.

Closing his hand, he extinguished the flame with a quiet resolve. When he looked at Shadow again, his expression had shifted—softer, more understanding. Like I said before... He paused, inhaling deeply to steady himself. His chest tightened as the weight of memories pressed against him—faces of friends and family who no longer walked among the living. His eyes glistened, not from Shadow’s words, but from the tidal wave of his own grief.

...I will help.