Page 19 of The Truth

Fane stared into those raging eyes for just a moment longer, then turned and walked away. Only his footsteps sounded, his boots clipping the cobbles. He stopped where his satchel lay against the wall, snatched it up, then slung it over his shoulder. When he turned back the elf had Laraith in her arms, cradled like a babe. She was already straining, arms shaking, face tense.

He walked back, looking into her eyes. “What is he to you?”

“My son. I will not leave him.”

Fane drew a long, pensive breath, then slid the sickle into his belt and tucked his arms beneath Laraith’s back and legs. “Give him to me.”

“What will you⁠—”

“Don’t let me think twice, I won’t make the same choice a second time. Give him to me.” Fane took the elf’s weight and hauled him over his shoulder, ignoring the grunts and groans of pain. He looked back to the elf’s mother. “If we do not find a healer in time – which it is likely we will not – he will lose his legs or die.”

She stared back at him but said nothing.

Fane nodded, shifting the elf’s weight. As he made to turn, she touched his arm.

“Thank you. You could have left.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I could not. Keep with me. I won’t stop again.”

Fane turned and set off towards the bazaar. Above him, a roar sounded, rippling across the sky. He looked up to see an enormous shape falling, wings folded towards the moon, two score of smaller shadows fluttering around it. Within seconds, it fell from view, and a violent crash soon shook the ground beneath Fane’s feet, nearly sending him stumbling. He moved faster. Arathín would burn, and he would not lie beneath the ashes.

Chapter Six

No Simple Path

City of Ilnaen – Winter, Year 2662 After Doom

Alvira sprinted through the keep’s corridors, armoured boots smashing against the white stone. The moment word had reached Ilnaen of the Karvosi attack, she had sent runners to Farda and Eltoar, and onwards to her commanders. Fourteen cities along the lightning coast as well as Arathín, Thalieth, and Mhaketh in the Veloran Bay. It was the largest Karvosi incursion in her lifetime.

Vyldrar roared in the back of her mind as he alighted in the courtyard west of the keep. A fire burned in his belly, an urgency that drove her forwards.

She pushed through the wooden doors on her left into a drawing room with an arched opening on the opposite side that led out onto a balcony. There were easier ways to the courtyard, but none quicker. All five of the drawing room’s occupants leapt to their feet at her presence, barely getting the chance to press their fists to their chests as she dashed across the room, stepped out onto the balcony, and launched herself off the edge.

Alvira wrapped herself in threads of Air, pushing threads of Earth into her bones. Four heartbeats and she hit the ground, the threads of Air softening the last few feet and the landing. A shroud of dust and dried winter leaves whipped up around her, a slight crack sounding beneath her feet.

Vyldrar stood in the centre of the yard, a flock of Dracårdare moving around him, checking his talons, examining his wings for rips or tears. There would never be a point in her life when she would look upon her soulkin and her heart wouldn’t stop in awe. He stood over the fussing Dracårdare, a low rumble resonating in his chest, his eyes shimmering like molten fire. Moonlight caught in the grooves of the spirals that ornamented his obsidian horns, emerald scales catching the light of the Dracårdare torches. At the sight of her, he leaned his head forwards and exhaled a breath of warm air that set a calm in her blood. She was his, and he was hers.

“Once more into battle, my heart,” she whispered.

“Archon.” One of the Dracårdare – an elf by the name Suithlín – gestured over Alvira’s shoulder.

Alvira clenched her jaw at the sight of six Highguard marching towards her, Councillor Matharius at their head. The man was a slab of onyx, his skin dark as the stone, his voice lilted with the Narvonan accent of his parentage.

Sensing her frustration, Vyldrar lowered his head to the ground and angled his wing so she could climb to her perch.

As she made to do so, Matharius called out.

“Archon Serris – a word.”

“By all the gods,” she whispered, her hand resting on Vyldrar’s scales. She turned. “Matharius, if you haven’t noticed the Karvosi have assaulted seventeen of our cities along the coast. I have sent word. The Draleid will fill the skies. There is no time to waste.”

“That is precisely why I have come, Archon. It is the council’s decision that the Draleid are not to engage.”

Alvira stared at him a moment, then stepped forwards slowly. “You should see a Healer, Matharius. It appears you have fallen, and your head is badly wounded. When I return, I will check on you.”

The man smiled back at her. “If the reports are to be believed, this is the largest Karvosi incursion⁠—”

“Since the seventh, I know.”