Calen's hands shook as the rippling gateway of black and green collapsed in on itself, the air distorting around it as it flickered from existence. He could feel the cold paths his tears left as they rolled down his cheeks. White-hot anger seared through him, numbing the edges of his mind to the point that words deserted him, and he could do nothing but stare at the empty space where his brother had been, a tremble spreading through his chest with each breath.
Haem was alive. He had been right there. He had not been a dream or an apparition or some figment of Calen's imagination. Calen had heard his voice and felt his embrace. Watched him walk away as if it were nothing. As if Calen were nothing. In that moment, Calen felt more alone than he ever had. Memories of his family flashed across his mind. Faenir saving him from Fritz, Kurtis, and Dennet; Ella sitting with him on the porch before the Proving; his dad handing him his sword; his mam hugging him when she had stepped into the feast tent.
They were dead. Gone. Saying it out loud had hit him like a hammer in the gut. He would never see their faces again, never hear their voices. But of everything, he could never have prepared himself for watching his brother turn his back on him. Haem had seen him, held him, spoken to him. And then he left.
When Calen was a child, Haem had always been the one he looked to. The strongest, the kindest, the most caring. All Calen had ever wanted was to be like Haem.
As Calen's thoughts threatened to consume him, an ocean of warmth flooded through his mind from Valerys's, filling the cracks, soothing the pain. The dragon craned his neck down, nudging Calen's shoulder with the flat of his scaled snout, a low rumble resonating in his chest. Anger had always been the emotion that Valerys amplified most, the dragon's rage feeding off Calen's, giving them both strength. But as they stood in the plaza of the still-burning city, death and loss all around them, Valerys's warmth tempered the fires of Calen's anger, allowing sorrow to seep through and touch depths Calen had never known existed.
Closing his eyes, Calen leaned his forehead against Valerys's snout, wrapping his right arm around the side of the dragon's head as his left arm hung limp at his side, the pain burning brighter as the rush of battle ebbed. He ran his hand along Valerys's scales, his fingers brushing the ever-growing ridges of horns that framed the dragon's face. Calen's voice shook as he spoke, starting as a hushed whisper, then fading to nothing. "He was right there…"
A low rumble resonated from Valerys's chest in response. The dragon pushed his head harder against Calen, trying his best to comfort his soulkin. Calen could feel the loss filling Valerys's mind as much as it did his own. The dragon felt the fullness of Calen's sorrow. Every moment of longing, every lingering doubt. And yet, every thought, every sensation, and every image that flowed through the dragon's mind was to ease Calen's pain, conveying a single message: You will never be alone.They stood like that for a few moments, wrapped in each other's minds as though they were the world's only two occupants. And that was precisely how Calen would have stayed had he not felt a hand on his back.
Calen took a breath in through his nostrils as he opened his eyes, turning to see Erik standing before him. Erik looked as though he had been dragged through the void and back. Cuts and wounds laced his body. Dirt and blood crusted into his clothes and skin. Tarmon and Vaeril stood by Erik's side, neither looking any better off than Erik. But they were alive, and that was all that mattered.
"I know it's a stupid question, Calen, but are you all right?"
Calen shook his head, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. "No."
Erik reached out, pulling Calen into a tight embrace. After a few moments, he spoke. "Back in Ölm Forest, when I asked of your family, you never mentioned a brother."
"Because he died over two years ago." The words echoed in Calen's mind as he pulled away, a lump catching in his throat, his mouth going dry. Haem is alive. Calen should have felt relief, comfort. His brother was still alive. But instead, it was all he could do to keep his anger smouldering below the surface. He'd had so many questions, needed so many answers. And Haem walked away like it was nothing, leaving him there.
Before Erik could ask one of the many questions Calen knew he had, a familiar voice broke through the silence.
"Draleid."
Calen's first instinct was to reach for his sword as soon as Arkana Vardane's voice touched his ears, but he had dropped it when he ran to Haem. He reached out to the Spark, but the pulsating strands floated just out of reach, the drain sapping at him for even trying. His knees trembled, struggling to keep him upright. In the rush of battle, with Valerys's power flowing through him, he had felt almost unstoppable. But now, his blood cold in his veins, his body laced with cuts and wounds, his left arm dangling at his side, he was reminded just how weak he truly was.
"Don't take another step." Calen poured as much strength into his words as he could muster, feeding on the rage that burned within. He held his chin high, turning to face Arkana. The woman had promised she would let them leave unharmed, but people broke promises, and Calen's trust was thin at that moment.
As soon as he turned, Arkana dropped to one knee, bowing her head. Calen would have been surprised had he not felt Valerys looming over him, wings spread, teeth bared, a low rumble resonating from his throat. Even then, weak as he was, Calen could feel the dragon's heart thumping and anger swelling. He could sense the smell of blood thick in his nostrils. Valerys moved his head so close to Arkana that his breath swept her hair back over her shoulders.
Arkana lifted her head, her azure eyes striking against her pale, blood-streaked skin. Despite the scene that lay before her, she didn't flinch. She held Calen's gaze. "I mean you no harm. I seek only to honour my word."
Calen's chest trembled as he looked down at the woman, his jaw tensing. Images of Artim Valdock flashed through his mind. Of the cell, the hunger, the emptiness. His rage redoubled; Calen could hear the low rumble resonating from Valerys's chest, the dragon's nostrils flaring.
Calen glanced back at Tarmon, who gave the slightest nod, grimacing in pain as he did. There was no council he trusted more than Tarmon's. He had no doubt Erik and Vaeril would follow him to the void and back, as he would them, but Tarmon always seemed to know the right course, even when the path ahead was clouded.
Taking a deep breath, he forced his rage down, burying it in a dark corner of his mind. When the Bloodmarked had leapt from the buildings, and the Urak horde had poured into the plaza, Arkana had charged at Calen's side. She had stood by them. And Calen knew in his heart that she had been willing to die alongside them as well. She is not him. She is not Artim Valdock. Even as his mind warned him away, Calen extended his hand, offering it to Arkana. "Then keep your word, Mage."
He thought he could a hint of a smile curl the woman's lips as she reached forward and took Calen's arm, wrapping her fingers around his forearm and pulling herself to her feet, a flash of pain passing through her eyes as she did.
"Thank you." The words took Calen by surprise. Of all the things he had expected to leave the woman's mouth, a thank you was not one of them. "Every soul within this city owes you a debt, Draleid. Had you and your companions not been here, we would have died long before those warriors arrived. It was an honour to fight by your side. Thank you for trusting me."
If the woman's thanks had caught Calen off guard, those words took the air from his lungs. An honour? Calen looked around the plaza, illuminated by the light of the moon and the dying fires. It was in ruins. Bodies lay everywhere, twisted and broken, armour torn to ribbons, blood staining almost every inch of shattered stone. They may have won, but it felt nothing like a victory.
His gaze slowly shifting from the dead, Calen watched as groups of Lorian soldiers surrounded them. Men and women in the red and black of Loria; soldiers garbed in heavy plate and coats of mail. Many carried bloody wounds and scars from the battle, pain etched into their faces, dirt and blood marring their skin. Twenty or so feet behind Arkana, a clutch of riders sat astride the Varsundi Blackthorns, their gazes fixed on Calen. At any other time, Calen would have feared for his life. But as he looked out at the soldiers, he felt no fear. Many closed their fists across their chests, nodding as his gaze met theirs. Calen could hear Tarmon's words in his head. 'Tonight, those men and women are not empire soldiers. They are just people. People who don't want to die. And they need us. They need you. They need a Draleid.'"I don't know where you are heading, Draleid, and it is better if I do not," Arkana continued, pulling Calen's attention back towards her. "All I know is that you arrived alone, burned a path through the Uraks, and escaped in the chaos as the creatures were routed."
Calen let out a soft sigh, shaking his head. He looked into Arkana's eyes, understanding the meaning of her words. "Thank you."
The woman nodded. "I only wish I could do more. But word of this battle will reach the other cities soon, and I cannot guarantee anything once that happens."
"You have already done more than I would have expected from any Lorian."
The words cut into Arkana. Calen could see as much, but she didn't argue, and he didn't apologise. "There is a house a few days' ride north of here, nestled into a small wood near the fork of the river Kilnír. The man who lives there will give you sanctuary, at least for a few days. His name is Rokka. Tell him I sent you. I would offer you to stay a night here, but even with everything you have done, it isn't safe. I will have horses arranged and left at the gates for you, along with food and supplies. If you stay along the river, you should be safe. The soldiers will follow the Uraks back towards the mountain, and I will set patrols through the night."
"I…" Calen couldn't find the words. This woman was his enemy. Her robes alone embodied everything he wanted to destroy, and yet there she was, treating him as though he were an old friend.
Arkana smiled, her eyes softening as though she had read his mind. "I will leave you to gather yourselves. The horses will be ready when you are."
With that, the woman gave a short bow before turning and striding towards a group of men and women who stood waiting for her, black robes draped over their shoulders. Battlemages. At the sight of the group, Calen once again felt the urge to reach for the Spark but stopped as each of them inclined their heads before turning and matching Arkana's stride.
"She was true to her word," Tarmon said as Calen turned to face his companions.
"She was." A look passed between Calen and Tarmon. It wasn't something that needed words.
"I still don't trust her." Erik limped closer to Calen, his left leg dragging a little, a gash along his calf.
"We don't have a choice." Calen grasped Erik's shoulder. "We'll take the horses and go. We don't yet have to decide whether we seek shelter with this… Rokka. For now, we can follow the river north and make for the Burnt Lands."
"As good a plan as any," Vaeril said, nodding at Calen. "But whatever we do, we will need to find somewhere to rest and lick our wounds. If we enter the Burnt Lands in this condition, there is no chance we will emerge on the other side."
"Agreed."
Calen turned to Valerys, patting the scales on the right side of the dragon's neck. "You will need to fly alone," Calen said, tracing his hand along the dragon's neck and under his winged forelimb. Valerys had gotten so big that Calen actually had to duck beneath the dragon's wing to reach the long wound of fused scales that ran from just below Valerys's right wing, along his side, and down to the joint of his hind leg. A shiver ran down Calen's spine as the memory of purple lightning crashing into Valerys's side filled his mind. The pain. "You're not strong enough to carry us both."
A rumble of disagreement drifted from Valerys. The dragon snarled as he craned his neck around, nudging Calen with his head.
Calen pushed down on the throbbing wound in the dragon's side, wincing as Valerys whimpered, their pain shared. Valerys let out another snarl, but Calen rested his forehead against the flat of the dragon's snout. "I'm sorry," he whispered, running his hand along horns that trimmed Valerys's jaw. "But you're too stubborn to admit when you're hurt. You're not strong enough to carry me."
Valerys snorted, pushing his snout into Calen once more, baring his teeth.
"Fly north along the river. Find a place to sleep for the night. Don't go too far. I'll find you."
Were it up to Calen, he would have climbed onto Valerys's back in a heartbeat, but he could feel the dragon's strength ebbing. Even aside from the wound, the battle had taken a lot from him. He wouldn't make it past the city walls with Calen on his back.
"Go, Valerys. Haryn asatrú en mir." Have faith in me.
For a moment, Calen thought Valerys might continue to argue – the dragon was certainly stubborn enough – but then a defiant acquiescence touched his mind. A jolt of pain struck Calen as the dragon stepped backwards, spread his wings, and lifted into the air, the light of the dying fires glimmering on his scales.
"Is he all right?" Erik asked, his gaze following Valerys's flight until the dragon disappeared into the clouds above.
"He's weak. He needs rest." Calen looked towards Vaeril, who inclined his head.
"I will do my best to heal what I can when we find him, Draleid. But I must recover my own strength first."
Calen nodded. "Du haryn myia vrai, Vaeril." You have my thanks.
Vaeril gave a weak smile, inclining his head once more.
Calen tilted his head back and let out a sigh, grunting as a flash of pain ignited from a wound in his side. Valerys wasn't the only one who needed rest. Calen was tired enough to sleep for days on end, and he had no doubt that he could eat enough food to fill the belly of a horse. He cast a cursory glance across the ground, his stomach twisting as his gaze passed over the ocean of death and blood that filled the plaza before finally finding what he was looking for: his sword. Walking past the others, Calen knelt beside the sword his father had given him. The intricate spirals that ornamented the blade scintillated in the ebbing firelight, dulled only slightly by the blood that coated the steel. He wrapped his fingers around the emerald-green handle, feeling the familiar touch of the leather against his skin. For a moment, he was back in The Glade. Back in his father's forge the day Vars had given him the sword. 'There is no need to thank me, Calen. You have filled me with more pride than I ever thought possible. The man you have become is thanks enough.'
'Calen's grip tightened on the handle of the sword. He could feel his eyes welling up once more. Shaking his head, he rubbed the corner of his eye against his shoulder, then wiped both sides of the blade against his trousers, taking off as much of the blood and dust as he could. Standing, he slotted the sword back into the scabbard at his hip. "Let's get moving. We still need to gather our things from the Cosy Daisy."
As Calen made to turn, Vaeril grasped his wrist, a look of concern on the elf's face as he looked Calen over.
"I'm fine," Calen said, shrugging Vaeril away. But the elf simply gave Calen a knowing look. "I'm not fine. But I can hold until morning. You need rest."
Vaeril's eyes were heavy and tired, but he shook his head. "Your arm is dislocated. We need to reset it before we do anything else."
Calen grunted as he attempted to move his arm. Reluctantly, he nodded. "All right. But anything else can wait."
The simple fact the elf didn't argue was a sign of just how much the battle had taken from him. "Lie on the ground."
Madame Olmira had actually smiled at each of them when the group returned to the Cosy Daisy. Calen had been surprised the muscles in the old woman's face remembered how to form such an expression. Judging by the glassy look in her eyes and the drunken stupor of the other patrons, Calen had guessed the woman had been drinking from the moment they left the inn.
The group didn't linger in the Cosy Daisy. They stayed long enough to gather their supplies into their satchels and head back towards the central plaza, then onwards to the northern gate where the Uraks had destroyed the section of wall. It wasn't as if Calen had much to carry; his satchel, the coat and spare clothes Alleron had gifted him, the coin purse – which Alleron had also gifted him – along with the pendant and letter he had found in the abandoned dwarven city of Vindakur. He still hadn't figured out if the pendant and the letter were of any use, but something told him they were important. He just didn't know for what.
As the group made their way down the long street, Calen felt a physical pain aching in his chest, his heart twisting as his eyes fell on the sheer number of the dead. It was the same street they had retreated down when the wall had collapsed. The smell of burnt flesh and leather clung to the air, heavy as fog. The stone was a mixture of black char, blood, and shards of bone. The mangled bodies of men and Uraks alike decorated the ruined path, their bodies twisted and burnt, some barely recognisable as to what they once were. So many dead…
Without a word between them, the group trudged through the long corpse-filled street, the fetor of death filling their nostrils, their silence only broken by the tortured cries of those clinging to life. After they traversed the small chasm Arkana and the mages had created with their lightning during the retreat, they stepped into the square that fronted the city gates.
If Calen had thought the plaza destroyed, he didn't have words to describe the devastation before him now. Men and women, some in the colours of the empire, others in simple shirts, coats, and nightgowns, ran about, pulling soldiers from beneath rubble, carrying the injured on stretchers of wood and tarp, and releasing those who could not be saved from their pain. Each of the statues that had once bounded the grass periphery of the square lay shattered, indistinguishable from the rest of the rubble.
Past the dead and the dying stood the broken remnants of the city walls. The gates themselves still stood, the pair of crenelated bulwarks framing the massive arch. But the section of wall to the left of the gates lay in ruins, the moonlight illuminating a mound of crumpled stone.
"They will be helpless if the Uraks return." Calen moved his gaze along the walls as the group passed through the gates, noticing other collapsed sections that must have come down after the first blast.
"They will," Erik said, following Calen's gaze. "But if they don't have any Craftsmages left alive in the city to repair the walls, I'm sure some will be sent by ship. If not, I won't cry over spilt Lorian blood."
"Blood is blood." Calen was taken by surprise at his own anger as he rounded on Erik. He slowed his breathing, shaking his head. "These people aren't responsible for the suffering the empire has caused," Calen said, gesturing out at the men and woman who lay weeping over their dead. "They are burying their children, their fathers and mothers. Theirs sisters… brothers..." Haem's face flashed in Calen's mind, but he shoved it away, buried it. "They suffer too."
"I'm sorry." Understanding filled Erik's eyes as he looked over the square. "You're right."
"Come on," Calen said, resting his hand on Erik's shoulder. "We all need rest."
Just as Arkana had promised, the horses were tethered to a fence no more than twenty feet from the outside of the gates, saddle bags brimming. Four bay geldings, each standing at least seventeen hands tall, coats sheening in the soft light of the moon.
"She holds to her word again," Tarmon said, running his hand along one of the horse's muzzles, touching the flat of his head against its cheek. "And these are no pack horses either," he said, pulling away from the horse and patting its neck. "They're fine animals."
"Hidranians," a small voice said, a young boy emerging from behind the farthest horse. He could not have seen more than fourteen summers. His hair was black as night. The beaming smile on his face seemed at odds with the misery within the city walls. "My mistress told me to tell you that her mistress says thank you. Although, I don't know why her mistress didn't just say it herself."
On any other day, Calen might have laughed boy's candour, but not this day. Calen let out a grunt, a flash of pain tweaking in his ribs. "Tell your mistress she has my thanks."
"Will do, m'lord."
The boy was about to make himself scarce when Vaeril called out. "Child, have you any need of a horse?"
The boy froze, his eyes flitting from Vaeril, to Calen, to Tarmon, then to Erik, and back again. Calen knew the look of confusion on the boy's face. He knew it well. It was the same look he was sure he had given his mother every time she offered him something too good to be true. Were these horses a gift, or a trap?
"I ehm…" The boy's eyes narrowed at Vaeril, his back straightening. "I was told to run if I ever saw an elf."
A flash of anger rose within Calen, but Vaeril's face was the picture of calm.
"We are often told to fear the things we don't understand," the elf said, untethering the horse from the fence. He rested his head against the flat of the animal's cheek, whispering something to it, before leading it towards the boy. "But it is from those things we learn the most."
The boy tilted his head, his expression shifting, more than a hint of scepticism filling his eyes. "What do I have to do in return?"
The elf looked down at the boy for a moment, contemplating, then held out the reins. "Take care of him, feed him, bring him water when he is thirsty, and give him shelter. Understood?"
"That's all?" the boy asked, his eyes narrowing even further.
"That's all."
The boy nodded, still seeming slightly hesitant at a deal that was too good to be true. "I'll take good care of him, I promise."
"On your honour?"
"On my honour," the boy said, stuttering.
"Where I come from, there is nothing more important than your honour. But honour is not determined by the perception of others. It is in how you see your own deeds. Treat him the way you believe he should be treated." Vaeril reached down, handing the reins to the boy. "You should never mount an animal without first knowing their name. Without forming a bond. His name is Elminsûl. It means 'heart's pillar', or 'pillar of the heart'. But you can call him Min if you like."
"Min," the boy repeated, staring at the horse that towered over him. "I like it." He took the reins, patting the horse on its muzzle, then nodded and made to leave. He stopped and turned back towards Vaeril, bowing his head. "My lord elf… thank you."
With that, the boy led the horse back through the gates, the clip-clop of hooves slowly swallowed by the crackling of fires and the wails of the dying.
"Oh," Erik said, swinging himself up into the saddle of his horse. "My lord elf?"
A melancholy smile rested on Vaeril's face as he pulled his gaze from the boy and looked up at Erik. "The damage between our two peoples runs deep here. Children can be taught to hate, but they can also be taught to think. I have no use for a horse. I simply hope the gift gives him something to think upon."
The sound of horse hooves against the stone drew Calen's attention back towards the gates.
Seven riders approached them, armoured in dark steel, curved swords strapped to their hips, their helms tied to the saddles of enormous obsidian-black mounts. Blackthorns. Even amidst the ruin and destruction of the city, the horses somehow lost none of their majesty. Their black coats shimmered in the moonlight, heavy muscle rippling with each step. Before him, unobscured by the rush of battle, they seemed somehow even more gargantuan. He was now certain he had been correct in his initial judgement before the battle; the horses were at least nineteen hands tall, some of them even larger. The crest of the animals' shoulders easily stood as tall as Calen, some even higher.
"Maybe the mage changed her mind," Erik whispered, his eyes fixed on the advancing cavalry, his hand hovering near his sword.
The rider at the head of the group looked to have seen nearly fifty summers. Patches of greyish white dappled his thick head of dark hair, dried blood stained his scarred face, and he held himself with the composure of a man who had seen more battles than warm meals.
Calen fixed his gaze on the man, his hand dropping to the thick coin pommel of his sword. A sense of calm touching him as his fingers brushed the steel. He could feel Valerys in the back of his mind, the air rolling over his scales. The dragon wasn't far. Wait. A roar of defiance was Valerys's only reply as the dragon swept around, riding the currents of wind back towards the city.
Back through the gates, Calen could see some of the people in the square lift their heads to the sky, searching for the source of the roar. He wrapped his fingers around the leather handle of his sword, a knot tightening in his chest. Both Vaeril and Tarmon did the same, and Calen could feel the elf reaching out to the Spark.
To Calen's surprise, the lead rider inclined his head, fixing his gaze on Calen, greeting him with a gruff, "Draleid."
The other six riders followed suit, inclining their heads towards Calen and calling him by his title before riding into the night, their obsidian mounts blending with the darkness.
The air left Calen's lungs in a heartbeat, as though a hundred coiled ropes had just come loose. He lifted his hand from his sword and rested his palms on his knees, pulling air into his lungs.
"Come," Tarmon said, heaving himself into the saddle. "It's best we leave this place."
Calen wasn't sure how long they had been riding – maybe an hour. Barely a word had been exchanged between them as they rode through the dark. The constant clip-clop of the horses' hooves becoming nothing more than a dull drone in the back of Calen's consciousness, blending seamlessly with the burbling of the river that flowed to his right, dark water rushing over smooth stones.
Calen closed his eyes, gripping the reins in his right hand, his left arm tucked against his body. His shoulder burned with a dull pain that twinged with every step the horse took. He swayed in the saddle, moving with the motion of the horse, not having the strength to keep himself steady. He didn't need his eyes to find Valerys. He could feel the dragon's soul pulling him, drawing him in. They weren't far apart now.
Over and over, Calen played the same scene in his mind: Haem stopping for a moment before walking through that shimmering gateway. His brother was alive. All this time. More questions took residence in Calen's mind than there were flakes of snow in all Drifaien. But one rose above them all. Will I ever see you again?"Is it much further?" Erik's weary voice pierced through the monotony of clopping horse hooves and running water.
Calen let out a soft sigh before opening his eyes. "Just ahead," he said. He could feel Valerys's soul pulsating from a dense patch of trees that hugged the river ahead and to the right. The dragon's heart beat with a slow thump, pain burning in his side.
Erik only grunted in response.
As they reached the trees, Calen slid from the saddle, stumbling as his feet hit the ground, a jolt of pain running up through his arm. He groaned.
Leading his horse into the clutch of trees, Calen glanced around, looking from Vaeril, to Erik, to Tarmon. Dirt and blood crusted their clothes and matted their hair. They each looked like they could sleep for weeks. They had nearly died. And were it not for those warriors who fell from the sky – for Haem – they likely would have. And it was Calen who had brought them to Kingspass. Brought them on a wild goose chase. He wasn't even sure Rist was in Berona. That was just where Aeson and Therin had said he would likely have been taken. The thought of it left a sour taste in Calen's mouth. When he had told them he was travelling north to find Rist, none of them had even hesitated. They had stood by him. And in return, he had almost cost them their lives.
No more than fifty feet inside the dense wood, they found Valerys curled up, his wings folded, his snout resting on the ground, his lavender eyes watching them. Calen could feel the pain surging through Valerys's side with every draw of his breath.
Letting go of the horse's reins, Calen dropped to his knees beside Valerys, resting his forehead against the flat of the dragon's snout. "I'm here."
A low rumble resonated from Valerys's throat, and comfort touched Calen's mind.
"The sun will rise soon." Tarmon tethered his horse to a nearby tree before doing the same to Calen's without a word of complaint. "We should get some rest. It will take at least two days to reach the house the Battlemage spoke of. Even with horses."
"Are we really going to keep trusting her?" Erik unfurled his wool-lined sleeping sack, unbuckling his sword belt from his shoulders. "I say we just keep going."
"She's kept her word so far." Tarmon shrugged. "Get some sleep. We can decide our course when we wake." With that, Tarmon turned his attention back to the horses, inspecting the contents of the saddlebags. He rummaged through the bags strapped to his own horse and produced strips of dried meet, some hard cheese, and some bread, passing them around to the others. "Eat. We'll need the strength."
Erik grunted and took some of the food from Tarmon, chewing on a strip of meat, shuffling himself into his sleeping sack. He let out a long sigh. "I would do horrible things for a fresh meal. Horrible, horrible things."
Calen let out a soft laugh and unfurled his sleeping sack beside Valerys. He climbed into the sack and lay with his head resting against Valerys's hind leg, ignoring the aches and pains that assaulted his body. A sense of calm washed over Calen as Valerys's wing extended over him, blocking out all but the faintest glow of moonlight. Am I doing the right thing?