Page 8 of The Truth

All sense of reason left Alvira’s mind. This was madness. Every second of this was insanity. She threw Panakír to the ground and summoned her níthral once more, the blue light glistening in the trails of the elf’s tears. “You turned your back on your kin. You burned innocent people alive, people you had sworn to protect. And when you are called to answer for your treachery, you feign madness? Why, Panakír?”

The elf lifted her chin and allowed the glowing blade to press into her throat. “Because I love this world.”

Before Alvira could respond, a roar filled the air, so powerful it shook the ground beneath her. She tilted her head to see Helios finally taking to wing, having mourned over Carasín and Maquil’s bodies.

The sight of the great dragon lifting into the sky sent cheers through the Vastillion ranks. Helios, The Black Sun, was legendary. Where his wings filled the sky, salvation followed. But Alvira knew what the soldiers of Vastillion did not: that even Helios could not stand against six of his kin, not even with Vyldrar at his side, not already bloodied and weary, his heart broken.

Alvira looked back down at Panakír, a slow realisation setting in. “You planned this... You…” Images swirled in Alvira’s mind of the dragon who had separated from the fighting to burn the city, that same dragon who had fled for Shinyara and Farda to chase, leaving Vyldrar and Helios to stand alone. “How… how could you have⁠—”

“It is as he said.” Panakír shook her head as she spoke. “I doubted, Alvira… I did, but again and again he showed us the truth, showed us the path we were walking down. This was the only way.”

“The only way for what?” Alvira roared, losing her patience entirely.

“To stop the world from burning.”

Above, Vyldrar and Helios swept across the city, casting shadows large as mountains. They flew outwards towards the encroaching dragons, prepared to face what was to come.

“It is you who has set it afire,” Alvira whispered as she felt Vyldrar’s wings beating, his heart thumping against his ribs. He held no fear within him. To protect was his purpose. But Alvira, she felt fear. Fear for the loss of the other half of her soul. She set herself and drew back her níthral. To end Panakír now would be to take Doaxes from the fight. “You brought this upon yourself.”

Gasps sounded around Alvira, and she heard one of the soldiers about her whisper, “By the grace of Varyn…”

Alvira lifted her head to see Eltoar descending from the sky, threads of Air whirling about him with such control as to make Achyron himself brim with jealousy. Those on all sides stared in awe at Eltoar’s armour gleaming in the light of the blazing fires, his white hair flowing over his shoulders, not a helmet in sight.

Eltoar landed only a foot from Alvira without so much as a whisper. He stared down at Panakír. There was something different in him. This was not the same Eltoar who had spoken to her of understanding before the battle. This was a soul that raged with the fires of loss.

He took a step forward, and Alvira placed a palm against his armoured chest, stopping him in place, her níthral still levelled.

With every measure of calm, Eltoar rested his hand on Alvira’s arm and lowered it. He stepped past her and grabbed Panakír by the throat, lifting her to her feet. Even as the fighting raged throughout the city, Eltoar paid it no heed. The entirety of his focus was on the elf.

Overhead, Helios and Vyldrar crashed into the others, moving as one.

Eltoar stared into her eyes; his voice spoke of frozen fury. “Maquil is dead.”

Panakír’s entire jaw trembled, tears redoubling. “I am sorry, Eltoar.”

Eltoar smiled. But the look in his eyes was sorrow and only sorrow, the corners of his lips never quite rising. “Carasín wrapped herself around his dead body as they fell, her heart broken with her soul.” Eltoar leaned closer so that his nose brushed hers. “That was your doing.”

Panakír choked and coughed as Eltoar tightened his grip on her throat. “I… didn’t…”

“I have no need for your words. There is nothing that could wipe the darkness of your deeds. I once called you sister, called you kin. But now I call you nothing, for you are nothing. May Heraya turn you away, and may you wander with no sight nor senses.”

The Spark surged from Eltoar in great pulses, threads of all elemental strands weaving about him in a maelstrom of light and power. Alvira watched in awe as he pushed those threads into Panakír, watched as she writhed and screamed, watched as her skin crackled and burned while the threads of Fire separated and turned her flesh to barren, blackened bark.

But when Panakír’s eyes began to glow with searing white light, Alvira grabbed Eltoar by the shoulder.

“Stop.” She pulled harder. “Eltoar, stop.”

“No.” A surge of the Spark erupted from him, and light burst from Panakír’s eyes, bright as stars, her sockets melting. When her screaming finally ceased, Eltoar dropped her to the ground like a broken doll, and a new scream pierced the sky.

Above, Doaxes peeled away from the fighting and plummeted towards the city. The dragon’s roars set ice in Alvira’s veins. Another Rakina. Another soul shattered.

Doaxes dropped low, kicked back his head, and unleashed a river of fire over the southern quarter of the city before rising again and tearing straight towards Eltoar and Alvira.

Panic set in to the soldiers about them, shouts and roars rising into the night, but as Doaxes drew closer, the burgeoning clouds above him began to take on an incandescent glow. Alvira inhaled sharply, feeling that pressure build within her, shaking her bones and clenching her lungs. She closed her eyes, allowing her mind to drift into Vyldrar’s as the dragon burst through the clouds, a river of fire spewing from his jaws.

The flames crashed over Doaxes’ back, knocking him off balance in the air before Vyldrar descended upon him and drove savage talons into his back. As Vyldrar closed his jaws around Doaxes’ neck, all he felt was sorrow. His heart wept.

Doaxes thrashed and unleashed plumes of blazing fire into the air, trying desperately to twist his head. Pure, unfettered rage flowed from him, permeating through Vyldrar and into Alvira. Loss and anguish followed, as though Doaxes’ soul was crying out.