Page 24 of The Truth

“What?”

“I have always respected you. From the moment I met you. I may not always agree with you, I may rage against you. But Alvira, you are the most honourable warrior I have ever stood beside. Not a single choice you make is made with your own interests in mind. I am proud to stand beside you as my Archon, as my friend. And I am sorry for not showing you.”

Alvira placed her hand at the back of Eltoar’s head, pulling their foreheads together. “There is nothing in this world that would turn my heart dark to you. I am doing all I can every day to be the Archon the Draleid need as the world shifts around us. I need your strength by my side. You are my anchor. I will not fail you so long as you keep the faith.”

After seeking out Alvira, Eltoar sat by an unoccupied campfire on the edge of the camp. From where he sat he could see the still-burning fires of Arathín, winged flecks flitting across the sky overhead. Alvira had been right, he had put her in an uncompromising position, he had forced her hand. But as he jabbed the fire with a long branch and watched the sparks float upwards he knew he would do it again.

Perhaps it had been Helios more so than himself, but they were one in the same. Helios had simply followed their heart, while Eltoar had followed his head. And even at that moment, as Healers worked on the tears and rips in Helios’s wings, and as the dragon lay in the grass on the opposite side of the camp, his body aching, they both knew the decision had been the right one.

There were things in life a soul could not live with, and each soul set its own lines. If Helios had not defied Alvira, then those dragons who had fought to protect Arathín would still be living with broken souls while the flesh was ripped from their bodies. They would have died slowly and alone. And instead they died with dignity, they died in the warmth of their kin knowing they would soon feel the embrace of their soulkin once more.

Two things could be true at once. He could feel genuine guilt and sorrow for not standing by Alvira, and he could know that the choice Helios made was the only choice they could have lived by.

“Eltoar Daethana?” a voice called from across the fire. In the light of the flames, he could not see the face of the man who approached, the rising sun not yet cresting the mountains at his back.

“Who goes there?” Eltoar didn’t bother to stand up. Any who had made it this far were either a friend and or had worked hard enough to be there.

“I do not deem myself important enough for you to know me.” The man stepped closer to the fire. His hair was dark as coal, eyes darker, an intensity to them. He spoke like nobody of import, but he carried himself like a soul of renown. He wore no markings, nothing to tell his allegiance, simply rough trousers, tunic, boots, and a black hooded cloak.

“You came with the survivors from Arathín?” In the past few hours, survivors had begun to drip in from the city and its surrounds. More than Eltoar had dared hope. Thousands. Many were injured, some with only cuts and bruises – a missing finger, ear, nose. But others… some were carried on cots or over shoulders… It had sent Eltoar’s mind back to the seventh incursion. He had forgotten what the Veyak acid could truly do. Faces melted like wax, bones pockmarked like beach rocks. Some of those poor souls may have been alive, but they would never again live.

“I did.” The man reached inside his cloak and retrieved a small flask. He unstoppered it and took a swig, drawing a long breath in through his nostrils and giving a satisfied exhale. He offered the flask to Eltoar.

“My mother always told me never to accept gifts from strangers.”

“Sounds like a wise woman, your mother. Still with us?”

Eltoar shook his head, poking the fire with the branch once more. “She rests with Heraya.”

The man nodded sombrely, shaking the liquid in the flask. “It’s not poison, if that’s what you think.”

“And because you say it makes it so?”

“Too right.” The man took another swig, pointedly long. “It’s wine. Etrusian. The finest outside elven lands.”

That piqued Eltoar’s interest. He raised a hand to take the flask, and as he did, and the man extended it, Eltoar caught sight of a sickle tucked in the man’s belt.

Eltoar took whiff. “Cherry,” he said. “Oak, and berries.”

“Wine,” the man replied. “Strong and warm.”

Eltoar smiled at that. “I would have your name, and your story.”

The man let out a long sigh and gestured to the ground beside Eltoar. Eltoar nodded for him to sit.

“My name,” the man said, pushing back his cloak and folding his legs as he sat in the grass. He set his satchel down at his side and extended his palms out to the fire. “My name is Fane Mortem.”

“I know that name.” Eltoar narrowed his eyes at the man, examining his face.

“I’m flattered.”

“Where do I know it from?”

“The eternal question,” the man whispered as if to the flames. “I am a Battlemage of The Order and a brother of the Book of Arcaria.”

Instantly, Eltoar knew the man, remembered tales he had heard of the youngest Aracrian to ever write his name in the book. “And what is an Arcarian doing dragging bodies from Arathín?”

“What I was born to do.” Fane stared into the flames, his eyes scintillating in the dancing light.