Page 38 of The Truth

Fane had taken Eltoar’s darkest thoughts and spoken them aloud. The man had a way of doing that, of peering inside a person’s soul and knowing the truth of their heart.

“And yet she still obeyed. She still stood and watched thousands die, only taking to wing so that the dragons who had fallen over the city would not suffer.”

Those words were the same Eltoar had spoken over and over again in his own mind. Alvira was not the same soul she had been all those years ago at Vastillion. That day, it was she who spoke against inaction, she who become enraged at the thought of leaving the innocent to die at the words of the council. And now it was Alvira herself who carried out those same words, who argued for them. Though, that wasn’t entirely fair. She raged against the council in quiet quarters, holding the line only when the argument had been lost. He understood why, understood that it was her task to keep the peace. And yet…

As he walked the streets of Ilnaen, Eltoar knew the precise moment Alvira had changed. When he looked through his mind’s eye, he could see it before him, feel it, viscerally, in his heart.

He could see Alvira standing amidst the raging battle, her níthral glowing bright, the blade pressed to Panakír’s throat. He had known in that moment that she would have killed Panakír if he hadn’t intervened. And so he had leapt from Helios’s back and entered the fray.

Panakír had deserved to die. But Eltoar had refused to allow Alvira to be the one to swing the blade. He had refused to allow her the weight of such a deed. She had been so young, her heart so strong. A heart that was his duty to protect.

On that day, he had thought that taking that burden would spare her in some way. But in time he had come to realise that he had waited too long. She had been in the right that day. The council’s words shouldn’t have mattered. The duty of the Draleid was to the people of Epheria. And there was no world in which standing by and watching those people burn would have been an honourable act. But it should have been Eltoar who had said as much. Instead, it had fallen to Alvira. And with that, all consequence of the choice had fallen upon her soul. Maquil and Carasín’s death had followed her for over a century. He could see it in everything she did, in her caution.

She had charged forth that day, and it had cost the lives of a Draleid and his soulkin.

Eltoar should have made that choice. He should have taken the weight of it. It had been his command. But he had hidden behind the words of others.

He had placed that weight on Alvira, and in doing so he had brought rise to this moment.

“I’m sorry, Alvira,” he whispered as he walked across the paved white stone beneath the light of the moon.

He continued to ponder that day at Vastillion as he passed the Great Ilnaen Library and the Temple of Heraya, carrying on towards the Path of Legends. He wasn’t quite sure why his feet had taken him there, but he trusted them nonetheless. The Path of Legends was Eltoar’s favourite place in all Ilnaen, alongside the statues of Nasríl and Ralcrain and that of Varahír.

As he stepped through the open gates, the four guards bowed at him, all whispering “Draleid” as they did.

Eltoar pressed a closed fist to his chest in return, inclining his head. At that time of night, only Draleid or a select few souls were granted entry to the Path. Which was a small part of the reason he preferred visiting under the light of the moon.

The greater part became evident within a few footsteps.

The Path of Legends was an enormous open area of forested land within the city of Ilnaen itself. And that alone was breathtaking. But a lake larger than Tanovar’s Arena occupied the centre of the Path, with statues of heroes long past lining the water’s edge and standing on plateaus that bisected the body of the lake.

And at that time of night, with a clear sky overhead, the moon’s light glittered upon the water like ten thousand diamonds scattered by Varyn’s hand.

Eltoar made his way to the water’s edge and to where the first statue stood, the countenance of Lavahîr Caelduin, the first Archon of the Draleid, gazing out at the waters with stony serenity.

It was said that Lavahîr stood six-and-a-half feet tall and wielded a greatsword large enough to cut a Bloodmarked clean in two. He had fought in the Blodvar for endless years and had apparently been the first voice to call for peace.

Eltoar had spent his youth swinging wooden sticks and pretending he was Lavahîr and that he rode upon the great Vathrixes, blood red wings spreading out beneath him. Oh, he remembered those days. They were far simpler.

He turned and joined the statue in looking out over the lake, closing his eyes and letting his mind drift into Helios’. The dragon soared over the hills to the north for no other reason than to feel the wind beneath his wings, to feel free. And for a moment, so too did Eltoar. That was until he heard the sobs.

Opening his eyes, Eltoar followed the soft sound to a copse of trees nestled near the lake’s edge. And it was there, at the base of a tall oak, that Eltoar saw something he’d not expected.

“Salara?”

The sobbing stopped almost immediately.

Eltoar approached slowly. Even with his eyes closed he would know Salara. Know the sound of her voice, know the scent of jasmine from the flowers she kept in her room. But as she lifted her head from her hands, he knew that face, knew those eyes.

He scanned about for signs of Vyrmír. The dragon rarely strayed too far from his soulkin and, despite his vibrant colouring, had a way of vanishing when he had no right to.

“What are you doing here?” Eltoar whispered as he approached, his heart clenching at the sight of the tears in her eyes.

Salara looked up at him, her lower lip trembling. She looked away almost instantly, brushing the tears with the back of her hand, and started to pull herself to her feet. “Nothing, Master.”

“Sit.” Eltoar kept his voice level but brokered no room for objection in his tone. He set himself down beside her, fighting not to sigh in relief as his back rested against the trunk of the tree, the weight of the world seeming to dissipate from his shoulders.

They sat there in comfortable silence, looking out over the water for some time, the sounds of the night growing louder with each passing second.