Page 26 of The Truth

Eltoar eyed Fane askance but didn’t speak. It was not his place, not after the words he had only just exchanged with Alvira.

“You need not confirm it.” Fane pulled his knees to his chest, finally letting his stare drift from Eltoar. “I know the minds of that council well enough as is. No doubt they commanded you wait until more forces had been mustered. A logical plan – for those who do not have to look upon the bodies of the dead, nor hear the screams of children as acid melts their flesh. Choices are always easy when you do not have to look upon the consequences. Do you see the faces of the dying in your quiet moments?”

“I see them every time I close my eyes.”

“Do you think the council will give a second’s thought to those who died here today?”

Eltoar let out a huff at that.

“And I don’t suppose Arathín was the only casualty. The Karvosi always strike multiple points of landing.”

“Fourteen cities. All along the lightning coast and the bay.”

“Fourteen?” Fane pursed his lips. “How many dead in a single day do you think?”

“What is this?” Eltoar asked, turning to face the man. “You do not know me, and yet you seek me out to what? To deepen my dreams of dead souls?”

Fane stared back at Eltoar for a moment, then, without warning, pulled himself to his feet. He looked from Eltoar to the crackling flames. All mirth drained from the man’s voice. “I sought you out to find the measure of you. To see if you were like them, like the council. To see if leaving so many to die would tie a weight around your heart or if you would carry on unburdened.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found a kindred soul, I believe, but one that has still not seen itself. You yearn for the same thing I do, Eltoar.”

“That is?”

“Change. A world where the strong stand for the weak instead of treading upon them.”

“Your words are bold, Arcarian. You speak to the First Sword of the Draleid. I could have you strung up for high treason.”

“The present belongs to the strong,” Fane said, tilting his gaze to the sky. “But the future belongs to the bold. This has been enlightening, Eltoar. May I ask one more question?”

Eltoar said nothing, only stared up at Fane.

“Would you do it again? Would you stand by and watch the innocent be slaughtered simply because a council of weak minds commanded you so? Would you stain your own soul because they bid you? Think on it. Once is ignorance. Twice is wilfully blind. After that, well… after that it is who you are.”

As Fane Mortem stepped into the night, Eltoar stared after him, a darkness wrapping itself around the heart of the First Sword of the Draleid.

Alvira walked in silence around the outskirts of the camp, the song of birds heralding the dawn. The sun had not yet crested the mountains, but its warm light touched the horizon. She had been walking ever since she and Eltoar had exchanged words. Over and over she relived the conversation in her mind, as she always did. What could she have done better? What words could she have chosen? Did she say the right thing? Did Eltoar truly believe in her?

There had once been a time where she would not have doubted that.

“Tell me, what is the difference when you ask us to stand on this hill and watch tens of thousands burn, watch dragons be eaten alive. Tell me where I am to draw the fucking line because I cannot see it.”

The line. That was a thing Alvira was still searching for herself. She wished he understood, though she supposed he never would. Eltoar’s was a soul that did not see how delicate the balance within The Order was, how fragile.

Dragons were creatures that engendered awe and wonder across Epheria, but in equal measure so too did they draw out fear and distrust. Particularly since Vastillion.

And the council knew just how to twist that fear, how to use it to their advantage. Had she known quite the level of politicking, Alvira didn’t think she would have ever accepted the mantle of Archon. Or perhaps she would have. It was rare that anything made sense to her anymore, particularly the wants of her own mind.

As she walked, she found herself wandering through the pavilions and hastily erected tents that housed the survivors from the city. The cries were fewer now, the screams of the dying subdued with the evaporating night. Another time, that might have been a good thing. But there at the base of the hill where Arrathín’s corpse still burned, all it signalled was death. A spare few Healers had made their way from the city. Three. And even they were so badly wounded themselves that they had been of little use. Her Draleid had saved those they could, done what they could, but in this endeavour they were sorely inadequate. There would be many, many cold bodies come the night.

This was her burden. Her weight to carry.

What Eltoar didn’t understand, what he had never understood, was that as Archon there was no correct decision. Whatever choice Alvira made would always be wrong in the eyes of half of those she sought to protect. To be the Archon was not to make the choices that would paint her with honour, but to forge her own honour by making the choices that would hold the world together even if it cost her everything.

Even if it meant never spending a night without hearing the screams of the dying in her sleep, without seeing the faces of those she had failed. To be Archon was to carry the weight so that others did not have to, to bloody her hands so that others might remain clean, to bear the guilt and the shame so that others could think themselves greater.

She stopped at the sound of a soft neigh, a hoof pawing in the grass. A black mare was tethered to a makeshift hitching post beside a row of tents, her breath misting into the rising dawn light.