Page 1 of The Truth

Part One

92 years before The Fall

Chapter One

The Breaking of Things and Beginning of Others

City of Vastillion – Spring, Year 2590 After Doom

The screams echoed across the open plain, clawed their way up the cliff, and scratched like nails on iron at Alvira’s ears. Her throat was dry as autumn leaves, her heart twisting. The air vibrated above her as a deep rumble resonated in Vyldrar’s throat. The dragon loomed over her, their fury coiling together, two hearts raging, a fused soul burning.

Hundreds of feet below, in the distance where the Landuil River met the coast, the city of Vastillion burned like the fires of the void. A force of some twenty thousand crashed against the walls, washing over the barriers of stone, a wave meeting little opposition. Above, eight dark figures plunged from the skies as rivers of fire poured from their jaws.

Traitors. Foul-hearted demons who had turned their backs on everything they’d sworn to protect. Alvira gripped the sword’s pommel so tight she lost the sense of her hand, her jaw trembling. “This isn’t right,” she whispered. “I will not wait any longer. I will not stand by and watch these people die as though I were a statue doomed to witness and not act.”

To her left, Farda turned his gaze from the carnage below, tilting his head just enough to meet Alvira’s stare.

“I will not do it,” she said. “I would rather die down there than live up here.”

Alvira turned from the scene, and Vyldrar lowered himself to the ground, the obsidian horns that framed his face scraping the dirt. She placed a hand on the scales of his neck as a voice sounded over her shoulder.

“Still yourself.” Eltoar Daethana stood at the cliff edge some twenty feet from Alvira, his arms folded, his voice the measure of calm. In the light of the spring sun he looked a god, his white steel armour glistening, long hair flowing in the breeze. At his back stood his soulkin – Helios. The dragon was shadow and fire made flesh, monstrous in size though ever-growing, scales of deep black flecked with crimson, wings the colour of spilled blood. “Your youth betrays you, Alvira. The Archon instructed us to await reinforcements from the east. Tarast and his wing are not far, nor Galandíl and his. We must have patience.”

“Patience?” Alvira snapped, pulling away from Vyldrar. A flash of regret flared in her but was swallowed by the fury that poured into her mind from her soulkin. Eltoar Daethana may be a legend who breathes, but she was still a Draleid, she knew her duty, knew her oaths. Etiquette could fuck itself, and so too could the fear that reared its head at the sight of Helios. She would not be a sheep among dragons. “Do you think the people of Vastillion will appreciate that patience while they burn alive and we stand here and watch?”

“Those traitors outnumber us two to one, Alvira.”

The calm on Eltoar’s face ignited a spark of anger in her belly. “If we wait any longer, there will be nothing and nobody left alive down there to save.”

As she made to step closer, a hand pressed against her abdomen, holding her in place. She found herself staring back into Farda’s eyes, green as Vyldrar’s scales. He shook his head.

“Brother, I am with Alvira on this. Her youth does not make her wrong.” Farda stood between the pair, though Eltoar’s gaze still did not shift. “It is our duty to protect that city from our own. No matter the risk, no matter the odds. Our purpose is not self-preservation but the preservation of others. Every moment we wait we fail in that purpose.”

Eltoar paused for a moment, meeting Farda’s gaze. The elf had always had an intensity about him, a way of staring at everyone and everything as though they were works of art to be studied and puzzled. “No, her youth does not make her wrong,” he conceded. “But it does mean that she has never faced a dragon in the sky. She has never seen the horrors of two dragons colliding, the darkness of shattering a bond, the emptiness that follows.”

When Eltoar had finished speaking, he stared into Alvira’s eyes. His gaze alone almost froze her blood. The elf had a way of doing that to her, a way of churning her mind, of making her feel as though they were always alone no matter how many souls shared their space. He never looked at her, always through her and into her, piercing the walls that surrounded her.

“Do not be so eager to charge into battle against those who were your kin, Alvira. No matter where your heart lies on this, breaking a bond, severing a soul in twain, it will carve marks in you, marks that will never heal.”

In that moment, Alvira understood. She could see those marks in the depths of Eltoar’s eyes, hear them in the sound of his voice.

Heavy wingbeats thrummed in the air, growing louder as Alvira turned to see Carasín alight on the dried earth beside Helios, her pale silver wings glittering in the sunlight. The dragon bowed her head, sharp blue eyes finding Alvira’s gaze. She looked but a hatchling next to the great black dragon. Maquil dropped from his soulkin’s back, threads of Air whipping around him.

The young man inclined his head to Farda and Alvira, bowing slightly as he approached Eltoar. “Master.”

“Maquil.”

“The eastern quarter is nothing but flames. The garrison is in full retreat towards the keep, their number halved. Our brothers and siste⁠—”

“They are no brothers or sisters of ours,” Eltoar said, cutting Maquil short. “Not any longer.”

“Apologies, Master. The traitors sweep along the walls and the outskirts of the city methodically, driving the defenders towards the centre.”

“Towards slaughter,” Alvira whispered.

Eltoar simply nodded in response. “What have you gleaned of their intentions?”

“Little. There is no obvious reason why they joined with Antiloch’s army, why they would betray us, or why they would do… this.” Maquil stared down at the city of Vastillion, a deep sadness in his eyes. “Why would they do this? There are so many bodies.”