Page 74 of The Truth

“Uora!” he roared. Rise!

Lyara swept upwards, her wings cracking against the night, the rain pummelling her scales. Upwards and only upwards as the flames washed over the city. Everywhere Aeson looked, dragons climbed towards the sky, desperately trying to outrun the devastation.

He glanced over his shoulder. The flames climbed with them, relentless. He saw neither of his pursuers in the chaos. But what he did see broke him.

The small silver dragon tried desperately to climb, but his wingbeats slowed, exhaustion taking over, and Aeson watched as the rising flames consumed him.

Within a heartbeat, the young Draleid who sat before Aeson screamed and thrashed, and before a thing could be done, the young man threw himself from Lyara’s back and fell into the flames.

“Uora,” Aeson whispered, closing his eyes and pressing himself to Lyara’s scales. Up and up they rose, until the flames finally ceased their chase, and Lyara’s warmth was the only thing keeping Aeson’s body from freezing. He surrounded himself with threads of Air, helping him to breathe as they broke through the dense clouds to see an ocean of shimmering pink and the Blood Moon hanging like a wound in the night.

After a moment, Lyara dropped back into the clouds, using them as cover as she flew north. She dared not drop below, both for fear of the flames and of the ruin they would witness.

When they were many miles clear of the city, Lyara dropped lower in search of the forest and the forked river to which they had sent the other young apprentice and his soulkin. But they found only ash, and char, and ruin. For miles upon miles, the flames had left nothing in their wake. Aeson would not have believed such power was possible had he not seen it with his own eyes.

Onwards they flew until Lyara’s wings ached, and eventually they spotted trees in the distance by a sloping hill. She alighted at the forest’s edge, her legs giving way beneath her, exhaustion setting in. Aeson slid from her back, every bone in his body shaking.

Only then, as they stood alone so far from home did Aeson collapse, a hollowness in his chest, a chasm the size of all those they had lost. It took every ounce of his strength to haul himself to his feet and walk to Lyara’s head. She lay listless, images of fire and death and fury and loss cycling through her mind relentlessly. Again and again she watched dragons die, watched her world unravel a single thread at a time.

For the first time since Lyara had hatched, Aeson wanted her to feel rage. He wanted that fire to ignite inside her and burn away her pain. But in that moment, loss and sorrow were all she could find.

Aeson knelt beside her and rested his palms on her scales, allowing their minds to drift into one another. He carried her pain, and she his. Together they would find a way forward. They would because they had to, because they would not allow all that death to have been for nothing. But for now, they needed a moment to bleed, to mourn, and to simply lie still.

They must have fallen into slumber at some point because Aeson jolted awake at the sound of wingbeats, unsure of how much time had passed, and through Lyara’s eyes, they saw something moving in the clouds.

Aeson closed his eyes for a moment, begging the gods to grant his soul some respite, then dragged himself to his feet and readied himself to die with his blades in his hands. Her heart heavy, Lyara stood behind him, her forelimbs spread wide, her frills on end, her fire reigniting within her heart.

That was when the scent of hammered silver and fresh rain touched her nostrils, and a cold air filled her lungs. Their shared heartbeat thumped once and then twice in hope, until the clouds broke, and, with crimson light spraying behind them, Thorandír and Seynarí took shape in the night. Harken and Atara’s soulkin.

Aeson’s body almost melted with relief as he pressed his hand over his heart and thanked Varyn for listening to his prayers.

The two dragons descended slowly, Seynarí wobbling in the air. And when they finally alighted on the grass, she collapsed, the membrane of her right wing torn to ribbons, a vicious gash along the left side of her skull.

Aeson sprinted to them with all that his body would allow. Harken dropped to the ground before him with Chora in his arms. The woman was unconscious, her head cradled to Harken’s chest. The moment Aeson took her from Harken’s arms, the man collapsed, his palms flat against his thighs, and right there he wept. From relief or from pain, Aeson didn’t know. He set Chora down on the grass and knelt beside Harken, pulling the man’s head to his shoulder.

“Laël sin’vala, akar.” He squeezed Harken tight, encouraging the other man to do the same, to let out his loss. “Du é varno.”

I’m here, brother. You are safe.

After a moment, Harken pulled away and sat back in the grass against a large rock, bringing his knees his chest. “Myia nithír til diar, Aeson.”

My soul to yours, Aeson.

“Ar myialí du.”

And mine yours.

Slowly, Aeson pulled himself to his feet, looking over to where Atara had dismounted along with the two apprentices she had taken with her. His soul brightening at the sight of their hatchlings, collapsed but breathing on the grass. “Havaríl?”

Harken shook his head. “We lost him in the flames. I do not know.”

Aeson nodded. “Rest, brother. Rest.”

He walked to where Atara stood by Seynarí’s side urging the dragon to drink from a small stream that meandered across the meadow at the forest’s edge. Lyara walked with him, a low pulse leaving her throat as she brushed her snout along Seynarí’s neck, the two dragons finding comfort in one another.

“She will live,” Atara said, staring at her wounded soulkin. “But she will need time before she takes to wing again, even with healing.”

Aeson examined the deep wound that had claimed Seynarí’s left eye. He looked at the two apprentices who lay in the grass, the small dragons curled at their sides. “You saved their lives.”