Page 9 of The Truth

Vyldrar ended the struggle with a single mighty wrench, shattering scales on Doaxes’ neck, teeth sinking deep into flesh, hot blood spilling like rain. The kill was swift, cutting short Doaxes’ moments without his soulkin. Alvira’s entire body shook as Vyldrar opened his jaws, spread his wings, and let Doaxes fall.

The dragon dropped for but a few seconds before slamming down into the host of Antiloch soldiers on the opposite side of plaza and sliding through their ranks to crush everything in his path. Doaxes’s body came to a halt some twenty feet from the circle of soldiers who surrounded Eltoar and Alvira. Steam rose from the hot blood that still pumped from the wounds in his neck, but his soul already journeyed to Heraya’s embrace to find Panakír once more.

A great cheer rose up from the Vastillion soldiers as Vyldrar passed overhead, silent but for a single wing beat that carried him upwards.

Despite herself, Alvira did not share in that same sense of triumph. She truly hoped the two soulkin would find each other in death. Panakír had seemed lost, broken. Hers had not seemed the heart of a traitor… and yet, there Alvira stood, in the cost of Panakír’s treachery.

Roars tore through the sky above as Vyldrar returned to the fray, ripping one of the smaller dragons from Helios’s back.

Eltoar looked to the sky, then turned back to Alvira. “Go. Tell The Order what has happened here. The truth of this treachery must be known. I will see to it that you are long gone by the time they take chase.”

Alvira shook her head and clenched her jaw. “You stay, I stay.”

She would not be moved on this.

“I will not lose another soul. Do you hear me? I will not⁠—”

“You stay,” Alvira repeated, once more calling upon her níthral, its light shimmering in her palm, “I stay. They will die for what they have done.”

Both Alvira and Eltoar turned their heads as more shouts sounded around them.

To the west, Shinyara appeared, drifting between clouds and high peaks. And she was not alone. Tarast and his wing had finally arrived. A weight lifted from Alvira’s heart to see Farda return, to see him and Shinyara safe.

She looked back to Eltoar. “We will tear them from the sky, and we will raise a mountain where Maquil and Carasín fell. I promise you, Eltoar, they will know peace. They will.”

Eltoar nodded sombrely, but his expression didn’t change. “I should have been there. I should have kept him by my side. I will not make that mistake again.”

Eltoar closed his eyes, and in the distance, Alvira watched through Vyldrar as Helios wrapped his jaws around one of the traitor’s forelimbs and ripped it clean from the dragon’s body before tossing the creature through the sky to smash against a cliffside.

“Draleid n’aldryr,” Eltoar whispered.

“Rakina nai dauva,” Alvira answered back.

After a moment, Eltoar opened his eyes. “He had a good heart.”

“He did.”

That was the first time Alvira ever saw a tear in Eltoar’s eye.

He drew a long, slow breath. “You spoke to her before she died.”

Alvira nodded. “None of it made sense.”

“We will find out why this happened, Alvira. And we will ensure it never happens again. But now, fly with me. Let us end this day. There is much blood to be spilled, and I am tired.”

As the last word left Eltoar’s lips, a shadow swept over them and across the city beyond as Helios descended from the sky.

Chapter Four

The Price of Grief

City of Ilnaen – Spring, Year 2590 After Doom

Eltoar stood with one hand resting on the cold, white stone, his palm flat, jaw tight as wound wire. He ran his other hand down his face and stared at the mix of dirt and blood that coated his fingertips: Maquil’s blood. He closed his eyes, drawing out a long sigh as the rain drummed against the windows, the fire crackling in the hearth.

Every pull of air that swelled his lungs reminded him that Maquil no longer drew breath, of how Carasín had crashed into the ground with her wings wrapped around her soulkin. He had never taken an apprentice before, never considered himself worthy of such an honour. What opinion did he have of himself to think he was worthy of teaching another soul the correct path in life? Farda was a man of such ability, such honour. There was none in The Order who would question Farda. But Eltoar was still in the process of learning his own heart. He should have known better.

But when he’d seen Maquil in the Cradle of Fire, when he’d seen that young, brave, kind boy’s eyes light up as Carasín crawled from her egg, something within him had shifted. A need to protect that kindness, that light.