Page 63 of The Truth

“Use your mind, Eltoar. For so long we have simply chosen not to challenge the most brittle of lies. Why was Efialtír branded The Traitor? What heinous crime did he commit?”

“He turned his back on the other gods. He broke the oaths sworn and entered the mortal world. He violated the pact of the gods and attempted to rule over this world, Fane, you⁠—”

“Listen to your words. In one moment you admonish Varyn and the others for ignoring our plight, for turning their ears to our prayers… and in the other moment you disavow Efialtír for doing the opposite.” Fane tapped into the gemstone, watching it pulse with power. “While the other gods watched in silence as war consumed our world, as we brought ourselves to the brink of extinction, as they turned their backs upon us, it was Efialtír who found his heart broken. Efialtír who sacrificed so that we would suffer less. He gave everything, Eltoar, sacrificed everything, to once more slice his heart and create a tether between our worlds, to create a bond that flowed in both directions – to give us a chance to seize our own future, a gift not born of the other gods.”

Fane lifted the gemstone a little, drawing deeper from it and pushing it so that it floated from his palm, its surface shimmering with red light.

“It was branded Blood Magic so that we would fear it. It is not a magic of death, Eltoar, it is a magic of life. Within this stone is the Essence of life itself. It is his gift to this world, a way of finding something good in all the darkness, in all the death.” Fane allowed the gemstone to fall back into his palm, and he extended his arm, offering the stone to Eltoar. “Take it. Do nothing more but simply hold it in your palm. Trust me as I have trusted you, and together we will break the chains on this world.”

Eltoar extended his hand but made no motion to take the stone. Fane made up the distance between them and planted the stone in his friend’s hand, closing Eltoar’s fingers around it.

“I know that you are a soul who values actions over words.” He took a step away from Eltoar. “I will tell you everything, I will answer any questions you have. That stone contains the power to bring so much light into this world, Eltoar. We have been lied to. Efialtír is not The Traitor, he is The Saviour. He is the only god who was willing to burn himself so that we might feel his warmth, the only god willing to sacrifice. He never betrayed us. Achyron, Varyn, Heraya, Neron, Elyara, Hafaesir – they are the traitors.” Fane looked into Eltoar’s eyes. “I will take the leap so that you do not have to. You can save me. My life is in your hands.”

Eltoar narrowed his eyes at Fane, but before he could utter a word, Fane slipped his hand to his belt, pulled a knife free from its sheath, and drove it into his own gut. His flesh parted at the steel’s touch, burning.

Fane stumbled backwards.

Eltoar’s eyes widened, and he made to pull Fane’s hand from the blade, but Fane pushed it deeper and twisted, grimacing in pain, his body begging him to stop.

“I trust you,” Fane said as he dropped to his knees, blood spilling over his fingers. “Open yourself, use that which you fear to save a life. Prove yourself wrong. Show… yourself…”

Eltoar dropped to the ground as Fane fell backwards, sliding a hand behind his back to catch him.

“What have you done?” Eltoar shook him. “Fane, what have you done?”

The burning in Fane’s abdomen ignited with a fury that soon became numb, his head growing light, his lungs heavy. His vision blurred, and he choked out a laugh, the taste of blood touching his mouth. This had been a dramatic choice even for him, but he had weighed it, and he had deemed it the only path. Eltoar would need Efialtír in what was to come, to take him those last final steps. It was the only way to ensure the Draleid would not falter at what must be done.

Eltoar’s voice rang in Fane’s ears, muffled and out of reach. He felt himself fading, felt his body numbing. Something jerked and twisted, and then a warmth flooded through him like the birth of lightning. His lungs filled, and the world burst to life around him, the sounds returning, his vision clearing, the pain gone.

He lay on the ground before the statue of Varahír with Eltoar’s hand under the back of his head and the smouldering eyes of Helios burning against the night sky above him.

Fane glanced to his right to see the knife glinting on the ground beside him. He touched his abdomen to feel his skin knitted together. And finally he looked up at Eltoar, who stared back at him with a mixture of wonder, fury, and disbelief.

“I told you,” Fane whispered. “The only truth in this world is the truth you believe.”

Part Seven

The Night The Order Fell

Chapter Twenty

On My Honour

City of Ilnaen – Winter, Year 2682 After Doom

The cold rain tapped at Alvira’s exposed skin, drowning out the world around her, and in it she found a moment of serenity. The scales of Vyldrar’s snout were warm against her forehead and her hands, the world dark around them with their eyes closed. In that moment, beneath the shadow of Tanovar’s Arena, for the first time in years, she felt as though she wasn’t drowning.

Eluna had taken many of the eggs to safety in Vindakur, Kollna had placed the runes, and perhaps, with just a little bit of luck, Tarast would bring her what she needed before the games closed. Eltoar’s faith in her may have been at its lowest, but she would find his trust again. She would show him that there were many ways to fix what was broken, and that the way they chose mattered. If the Draleid simply turned against the council without proof of their actions, Epheria would see them as nothing but traitors. She would do as Eltoar wanted, but she would do it the right way.

Alvira let out a long breath and opened her eyes, staring up at her soulkin. Vyldrar stood before her, his eyes blazing like the sun, the warmth of his breath holding the chill of the rain at bay. About them, people ran through the downpour, garbed in heavy cloaks or holding coats above their heads, many stopping to bow or hold their hands to their hearts. The dragon paid them no heed. The entirety of his focus belonged to Alvira.

They would make things right.

After some time, when Alvira’s hair was soaked to her skin and her tunic was saturated, wingbeats sounded overhead. She lifted her gaze to see Tarast’s soulkin, Antala, descend into the open plaza, her copper wings glowing with the setting sun at her back.

Antala touched the stone with practiced grace, her wings spreading wide, her eyes fixing on Vyldrar. The rain continued to sheet as Tarast dropped from his soulkin’s back, a thick, hooded cloak shielding him. The man jogged to Alvira, untying the strings of his cloak as he did. “Archon, what madness has you out here in only a tunic?”

Alvira gestured for him to keep his cloak. “Sometimes it’s just nice to feel the world around you. Did you bring it?”