Kallinvar descended the staircase into the sparring chamber, the sounds of ringing steel, shifting feet, and grunting resounding off the stone walls. Ruon and Varlin walked at his side, not a word passing between them.
As he stepped into the sparring chamber, Kallinvar cast his gaze over the sand-filled pits, of which there were ten – one for each chapter. With so many knights on task across Epheria, the pits were nearly empty.
Brother Gardan, Brother Vodrin, and Sister Firya occupied the sparring pit that belonged to The Eighth. They were arranged in a straight line a few feet apart, their blades in hand as they moved methodically through their sword forms, sweat glistening on their skin.
Sister-Captain Emalia was in the centre of The Tenth's pit, her palms flat down in the sand, eyes closed, arms tucked tight to her ribs, her muscles slick with sweat as she held her body parallel to the ground. Verathin had found Emalia almost two centuries before The Fall, holding herself up on her spear, blood pouring onto the stone of Faldara's throne room, bodies splayed about her. When the Aldurites stormed Faldara and forced their way into the keep, Emalia had killed thirty-four Aldurite soldiers in defence of her king, and then, as she bled out onto the floor, her king had fled, thanking her for her sacrifice. There were few souls in the world Kallinvar held more respect for.
As he turned his head left, Kallinvar found what he was looking for. Arden and Tarron were sparring in The Second's pit, the colliding swords ringing sharp through the chamber. The two knights came to a stop as Kallinvar, Ruon, and Varlin approached.
"Grandmaster," they chorused, drawing heavy breaths, sweat slicking their brows.
Kallinvar inclined his head. "Brother Arden, Brother Tarron." Kallinvar drew in a deep breath, turning to face Arden. "Lyrin has found the Draleid."
Arden stepped forward, his mouth opening, eyes widening a little. "He's found Calen?"
Kallinvar looked back to Ruon, who frowned. She had counselled against what Kallinvar was about to do, and she was more often correct than not. But in this, Kallinvar trusted his own judgement. It was he who had given Arden the Sigil, he who had seen into the man's soul. "He has. They are in Berona now."
Arden stood straighter, lifting his chin. "I understand, Grandmaster."
Kallinvar raised an eyebrow in surprise. "What is it you understand, brother?"
"That I cannot be with you when you go to him. Achyron must come first." Arden sheathed his sword and dipped his head.
"Yes, Achyron must come first. And with that in mind, brother, I would ask you to join Sister-Captain Ruon, Brother Ildris, Sister Varlin, and Brother Lyrin in forming the Draleid's honour guard, should he choose to accept it."
Arden lifted his gaze, meeting Kallinvar's. The look of shock on the young man's face was plain. His lips began to move, but it took a few seconds before words followed. "I…" Arden stared at the ground, drew in a breath, then dropped to one knee, bringing his fist to his chest. "Thank you, Grandmaster. I will do as Achyron needs."
Kallinvar stepped forwards, grasping Arden's forearm and lifting him to his feet, pulling him close. "I need you to protect him with your life, Arden. The Blood Moon will rise before we see winter, and he is the rallying cry. We will not survive the coming shadow without him."
Arden's stare was hard, his jaw set. He squeezed on Kallinvar's forearm. "I would give every drop of my blood for him."
The moon hung in the night sky like a chalk etching, pale and cold, its glow the only light as Calen took Erik's hand and pulled himself from the hatch at the end of the tunnel. In the hour or so they'd spent fleeing through the tunnel from Berona, the rain had stopped, but the sodden ground still slushed beneath his feet as he steadied himself, resting his hand on Erik's shoulder. "Thank you. The others?"
Looking around, Calen could see they had emerged at the edge of a pine forest. All about, men and women leaned against trees; sat on rocks, stumps, or down in the waterlogged grass. They were a motley array of characters. Some wore the black and red leathers of Lorian soldiers, others were garbed in silks and linens that spoke of wealth, while some looked as though they'd spent more than a few nights living on the streets. Calen even spotted three who wore the black plate and red cloaks he'd seen adorning the Beronan Guard. To his right, he saw Surin – or Gold as he'd known her – talking to Erik's contact, Ingvat, and a few others. Surin's vibrant yellow robes stood in stark contrast to the dark and gloomy night.
Erik nodded to Calen's left, over towards a patch of grass and trees where Vaeril and Tarmon stood, watching over the others. Lasch Havel sat with his back against a tree trunk, his eyes closed. Elia lay in the wet grass, her head rested on Lasch's lap, his hand trembling as he stroked her hair. Beside them Gaeleron sat atop a flat rock, Rendall's crimson cloak draped over his shoulders, his head hanging low, eyes fixed on the dirt. A blend of warmth, sorrow, and disgust twisted in Calen, burning, smouldering.
Calen's mind turned to Fritz, who was standing near Tarmon, leaning against a tree, his brown robes pulled tight, gazing around at the others that had escaped the city with them. Calen's chest trembled, and his fingers clenched into a fist. Even just the sight of Fritz standing anywhere near Gaeleron, Lasch, and Elia lit a fire in Calen. He felt Valerys readying himself to break through the clouds above, fury surging through him. He drew in a deep breath, trying his best to settle himself. I am not him. I am not him.Erik grasped Calen's arm, his fingers closing around Calen's bicep, tugging so that Calen looked him in the eye. "He's not worth the air he drags into those wretched lungs. But right now, the others need you more than they need your blade. I'll keep an eye on him."
Calen nodded, grasping Erik's forearm. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it. He has a very punchable face." Erik gave Calen a half-hearted smile.
"No, Erik. Thank you." Calen's throat tightened as his thoughts shifted to Rist. "We made a deal, and I'll do as I promised. We didn't find Rist, and there's nothing pointing towards him ever having been here. We can go back."
Erik sighed. "We'll find him. If he's out there, we will find him. This is us. Your family is our family. And we've found some of our family today." Erik nodded over towards Gaeleron, Elia, and Lasch. "Come on."
Calen and Erik made their way over to the others, and Calen dropped to one knee in the sodden grass before Gaeleron.
The elf lifted his head, his blood-and-dirt-matted hair clinging to the side of his face. The elf's lungs rasped as he drew in a breath, his broken body shivering. Gaeleron's eyes were two sunken wells ringed in purple, his cheekbones threatening to pierce through his brittle skin. He choked and coughed, spluttering as he tried to speak.
Calen caught Gaeleron as the elf jerked forwards from the coughing. "It's all right. We've got you. It's all right."
"Draleid…" Gaeleron's voice was harsh and rough.
"I'm here. So is Vaeril, and Erik." Calen didn't mention Tarmon. Gaeleron had only met the Lord Captain briefly. There would be time for introductions later. "We're taking you across the Burnt Lands. We're going to Aravell."
Gaeleron nodded weakly, as though Calen's words had barely even touched his ears. "I didn't break…" The elf shook his head. "I didn't break."
Calen clenched his fist and tears stung his eyes, but he held them back. "I know you didn't. I know. Det er aldin na vëna dir, myia yíar. Du é varno anis." It is good to see you, my friend. You are safe now.
Gaeleron's eyes became more lucid as Calen spoke the Old Tongue. "Du gryr haydria til myia elwyn, Draleid." You bring honour to my heart, Draleid.
As Gaeleron spoke, tears streamed down his cheeks, his eyes glistening. The sight of the proud warrior reduced to skin and bone broke Calen's heart.
"Ír, det er dir vol gryrr haydria til myiar." No, it is you who brings honour to mine.
Gaeleron grimaced as he tried to smile, but before he could speak, gasps and whispers rose around the copse, soon turning to shouts.
"Dragon! Dragon!"
Calen returned Gaeleron's smile and squeezed the elf's shoulder gently before rising to his feet and turning to meet Valerys as the dragon plummeted from the sky. From below, Valerys's white scales and black-veined wings blended with the clouds and the dark night. As those around him scattered, some hiding behind rocks and trees, others pulling swords from scabbards, Calen stepped out into the grass, allowing his and Valerys's minds to drift together.
Loose blades of grass, droplets of water, and small flecks of earth whipped up into the air as Valerys levelled himself with a powerful crack of his wings. The earth shook beneath Calen's feet as the dragon landed, pale lavender eyes glistening.
Pain and sadness radiated from the dragon, images of Gaeleron, Elia, and Lasch flashing between his and Calen's minds.
"It's all right." Calen reached his hands up, resting them on either side of Valerys's snout, pulling the dragon's head down to his. Valerys's warm breath swept over Calen, a rumble resonating in his chest. Valery's pupils, sitting amidst the seas of iridescent lavender that were his eyes, had pulled so narrow and thin, they were almost black lines.
Calen drew in a breath, feeling his and Valerys's hearts beat as one. "From here on out, we will not be separated. I promise you. Myia nithír til diar. Ayar elwyn, ayar nithír." My soul to yours. One heart, one soul.Valerys let out a rumble of agreement, nudging Calen backwards with his snout, a warmth spreading from his mind.
Whispers and murmurs sounded behind Calen as those who had run and hidden began to emerge, realising Valerys was not one of the Dragonguard.
Calen patted the scales of Valerys's snout, then turned to find Surin walking towards him, a few others following tentatively behind her, all eyes fixed on Valerys.
"By the gods," Surin whispered to the wind, resting her open palm across her heart as she walked. "It is true…" Surin stared at Valerys , a look of wonder on her face, before she shook her head and turned to Calen. "Where will you go?"
Vaeril, Erik, and Tarmon made their way over, each nodding to Valerys, who rumbled a greeting in return.
Calen wasn't sure how far he could trust Surin. He barely knew her. He had already talked to Vaeril and the others, and they had agreed they would go to the Aravell to seek refuge while they attempted to make contact with Aeson and Dann and all those in Durakdur. "We will cross the Burnt Lands and find a safe place to rest."
Surin nodded, looking back towards those who had gathered around her. She took a step closer to Calen. "If you'll have us, we'd come with you. There's no place for us in Berona, and Tarka knows every safe haven for four hundred miles. We'd all be in the Inquisition dungeons within a week."
Calen wasn't sure what to say. He looked around as those gathered moved closer. How in the gods would they be able to get them all through the Burnt Lands alive?
"I can connect you with other groups, here in Loria. They will take you in," Erik said, stepping up beside Calen. "There is one west of Berona, in the Firnin Mountains. I guarantee Tarka doesn't know of its existence. Coren likes to keep them separated."
Before Surin could speak, Aeson's contact, Ingvat, moved to her side, dark cloak hanging loose around her shoulders. "We'd never make it to the Firnin Mountains. Aside from the imperial patrols and the Inquisition, Uraks roam these lands like wolves now. Many of the towns and villages near Greenhills and around the base of the mountains have been razed, the people slaughtered." She turned to Calen. "We'd come with you, please. The reason we're here is because we believe in Aeson's cause. We are willing to fight." Ingvat looked over Calen's head, towards Valerys, who loomed behind Calen, scales glistening in the moonlight, lavender eyes watching. "If you'd have us, we'd follow you, Draleid."
"You don't even know me."
"You fought at Belduar," Ingvat said, turning to those around her, their murmurs rising. "You fought at Kingspass, even though the empire was hunting you. Even though you owed them nothing, you fought. The official story was that you fled, and the mages routed the Uraks. But the truth spreads like a wildfire. You have a name now, across the North. Did you know that? Those who saw you fight at Kingspass call you the Warden of Varyn. The man who fights alongside a dragon. The man whose eyes mist with the light of The Father." Ingvat fixed Calen with an intense stare. "It seems you make a habit of laying your life down for people you don't know. And if that were not enough, you crossed the Burnt Lands to find one of your own."
Surin stepped forwards. "We do not know you, Draleid. But we know your deeds. And we know Aeson Virandr. Besides, to turn us away would mean sentencing us to death. The Inquisition do not take kindly to traitors. We would share the same fate your companions were doomed to." Surin glanced towards Gaeleron, Elia, and Lasch, who were still over by the trees. "You crossed the Burnt Lands once. It can be done again."
"It's not that simple," Calen said, looking around at those gathered. There had to be nearly fifty of them. He and Vaeril had barely managed to shield three. There was no way they could shield fifty.
"How many mages are amongst your number?" Vaeril looked to Calen. The same thought must have crossed their minds.
"There are seven, including me. Two Scholars, a Battlemage, two Craftsmages, a Consul, and a Healer."
"That's not enough," Calen whispered to Vaeril. "We could barely shield ourselves. Seven of them could shield ten – eleven at most."
Vaeril pressed his fingers into his cheeks as he thought. "It's not a linear calculation, but if we halve the length of time we shield, then bind them and sleep, we could double the amount we can protect. We'll move slower, but we can take more… theoretically."
"It's still not enough." Calen ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head. "It's not enough, Vaeril."
"Better to save some than none," Tarmon said.
Calen let out a sigh, holding his hands at the back of his head. He'd lost so many. The Glade, Belduar, the tunnels, Drifaien… As Calen stared at the ground, thinking, Valerys shifted, eliciting gasps from those gathered. The dragon craned his neck over Calen so his head rested a few feet off the ground, his eyes level with Surin's. The woman's hair and robes rippled from Valerys's breath. To Calen's surprise, she met Valerys's gaze, unmoving.
Warmth washed over Calen, a protective instinct. Images of those they had lost drifted through Valerys's mind: Falmin, Ellisar, Korik, Lopir, Vars, Freis, Ella, Faenir… Each time, they were helpless. Each time they had been forced to stand by and watch as those they cared for were taken from the world. But they were no longer helpless. And they would no longer stand and watch. Valerys turned his head, his lavender gaze meeting Calen's.
Draleid n'aldryr. Calen nodded, energy rippling through him from the bond. He looked to Surin and the others. "We will take you with us."
"Thank you," Surin said,
"Crossing the Burnt Lands will not be an easy journey. Some of you will die."
The woman's face hardened. "All of us will die if we stay. We've been fighting this fight for years now. We know the risks."
Calen nodded. "You said you had a Healer with you?"
"I will have him tend to your wounded," Surin said, already knowing the intent of Calen's question. "Though he can only tend to the wounds of the body. Those of the mind they must overcome on their own."
"They won't be on their own."
Surin inclined her head. "I will have Sander tend them."
"What did I miss?" Calen turned to see Lyrin emerging from the hatch that led back to Raven's Ruin. The man's dark green plate gleamed in the light of the moon, marred by bloodstains along the breast and arms, spatters on his legs. Lyrin shrugged. "It doesn't matter. The others will be here in a moment. I collapsed the tunnel at the fletchery, so we have some time, but we should get moving as soon as we can."
"The others?" Erik turned, raising an eyebrow at Lyrin.
"The other knights." Lyrin didn't look at Erik as he spoke. Instead, he strode past him, Tarmon, and Vaeril, moving towards Calen and Valerys. The man lifted his right hand, the green plate gauntlet turning to liquid metal and receding back into the cuff that stopped at his wrist. In the same motion, Lyrin wiped the sweat from his brow, looking past Calen and up at Valerys, a smile spreading across his face. "He's incredible…"
Valerys lowered his head towards the knight, and Lyrin raised his hand.
"I eh… I wouldn't do that if I were you," Erik said with a shrug.
Valerys's lips pulled back, a low rumble resonating in the dragon's chest. A puff of air from Valerys's nostrils swept across Lyrin's face and through his hair.
The man immediately brought his hand to his head, smoothing out his ruffled hair before throwing a glare at the dragon, which quickly turned to a smile. He bent one knee and gave a slight bow at the waist. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Valerys answered with a rumble of recognition turning away from the knight, no longer interested.
"I don't know what your parents were feeding you," Lyrin said, turning to face Calen. "But I want to find out. You end up a Draleid, and Arden's the size of a mountain."
A knot formed in Calen's throat at the mention of Haem. He swallowed hard. He wanted to ask Lyrin about Haem, but the knight put his hand over the Sigil on his breastplate, his expression changing.
"They're coming."
A bright green orb burst into life a few feet to Lyrin's left, hovering in the air. The orb pulsated, wisps of light drifting into the dark of night, causing the pools of water in the grass to shimmer. Then, without warning, the orb flattened into a disk, spreading itself over twenty feet in diameter, its centre turning black as tar, rippling like water while the edges glowed with green light.
Silence hung in the air, broken only by the murmurs and the squelching of feet in the muddy grass as people shifted uneasily, faces illuminated by the green glow. Valerys lowered his neck, a deep growl resonating in his chest. The dragon's lips pulled back, nostrils flaring, his white scales painted in a green hue.
Vaeril, Erik, and Tarmon stepped closer to the green ringed pool of black that hung in the air, the tension clear in their movements. Calen felt Vaeril pulling on threads of Spirit and Fire. Steel rang as swords were pulled from scabbards and knives drawn. Threads of Air and Earth whirled around a man who wore the black robes of a Battlemage, a long-shafted axe in each hand.
Those who were not warriors stepped behind the others, fear evident in their glistening eyes.
The surface of the rippling pool pulsed, and Calen tensed. The black liquid bulged as though something was pushing through from the other side. The surface tension held for a moment before an armour-clad figure stepped through and out into the copse.
They wore the same smooth, green plate as Lyrin, golden trim running along its edges and outlining the white sigil emblazoned on the breastplate. A brilliant white cloak knotted at the pauldrons flowed over his shoulders.
The warrior stepped forwards, his armoured boot depressing into the sodden ground. In Kingspass, Calen hadn't looked closely at the armour the knights wore. But as the warrior stepped closer, Calen could see that, just like Lyrin's, the armour flowed over the man's body as though it had been poured into place, filling all weak points, moving smoothly with each motion. The warrior's helmet seemed as though it were a part of the rest of the armour, flowing up from the collar, over the neck, and forming tightly around the head, slits of green light for vision. There was no smith in the known world who could create armour like that.
The hovering well of black pulsed and bulged again, four more figures stepping through, one after the other, the black liquid sliding over them and returning to its rippling state. Their armour was identical to Lyrin's. Only the first warrior who stepped through bore the golden markings. Their leader. Calen's memory fell into place. The warrior who stood before them must have been the one who held the body of his companion in the central plaza of Kingspass after the battle — the one the other knights had called 'Grandmaster'.
Once the other three knights were through, a tremor ran through the gateway of black and green, and it collapsed inwards, the air around it shimmering as it vanished.
The Grandmaster took a step toward Calen, the other knights moving around him. Just as Haem's had at Kingspass, the Grandmaster's helmet turned to liquid, receding into the collar of his armour. Gasps and murmurs spread through the gathered crowd. Calen felt the Spark thrumming in the Air as each of the mages pulled threads into themselves, preparing for the worst.
Calen would have been in shock had he not already seen this unnatural armour at Kingspass. Even then, he couldn't help but think back to before everything changed. Seeing warriors like these would have shaken him to his core a summer ago, but now they were simply something else in a world that was constantly revealing itself.
The grandmaster's hair was short and black, speckled with grey, a beard covering the lower half of his face. His face held the weight of about thirty summers, but Calen had a feeling the man was far older than that. A number of thin, long-healed scars marred his face, and his eyes were a deep blue. He fixed his stare on Calen. As he reached out his hand, the metal along his right arm turned to molten steel, tumbling across his newly-exposed skin, melding with the main body of the armour. "Calen Bryer, it is an honour to finally meet you. My name is Kallinvar, Grandmaster of the Knights of Achyron."
His arm outstretched towards the young Draleid, Kallinvar's words echoed in the night, followed by silence and an owl hooting in a nearby tree.
Kallinvar hadn't gotten a good look at the man in Kingspass. He was tall, though still a head shorter than Arden. His shoulders were broad, and his frame was solid, but Kallinvar still saw the lingering effects of imprisonment and malnutrition in his face. The sword at his hip was of elven design — late First Age by the look of it, made long before even Kallinvar's time. Curious. An autumn-red scarf was looped through the young man's sword belt, vines of gold and cream sprawled across it.
As Kallinvar took the measure of the young man, his gaze fell on those that stood around him.
The dragon to which the Draleid was bound loomed over the young man, its gaze fixed on Kallinvar and his knights, a persistent rumble in its chest. The dragon was even larger than it had been at Kingspass. From head to tail it was almost forty feet, wings capable of spreading twice that size when fully open. It had been so long since he'd seen a dragon this close, he'd forgotten what devastatingly beautiful creatures they were. Power radiated from the creature, ridges of horns the length of Kallinvar's forearm running along his jaw and framing his face, dense muscle rippling beneath thick scales, teeth as long as daggers. The sheer presence of the creature was indomitable. He'd forgotten how fast they grew. From memory, many reached as large as fifty or sixty feet from head to tail by the time they'd seen two summers, though this particular dragon looked as though it would reach that size even sooner.
Two humans and an elf — the same three who had fought with him at Kingspass — stood at the Draleid's side. The taller of the men looked as though he had been chiseled straight from a mountain. He stood a measure for Arden in height, his shoulders broader, legs like tree trunks, his experience evident in his measured breaths and level stare. A long greatsword hung over his back, a short sword strapped at his hip, a clearly commandeered set of Praetorian plate adorning his shoulders.
Twin swords peeked over the shoulders of the second man, who was smaller in both height and stature than the first. He held himself like someone who was well acquainted with blood and steel.
Whereas the two men stood to the Draleid's left, close and ready to step across him, the elf was like his shadow. As Kallinvar had stepped through the Rift, he'd seen the elf move to position in front of the Draleid, hand drifting to the pommel of the sword at his hip.
The body language of the three warriors showed they were willing to die for the people they stood beside. The elf in particular would allow his body to be drained of blood quicker than he would allow a drop to be taken from the Draleid — of that, Kallinvar was sure.
Kallinvar had always believed you could learn the most important things about a person's character by studying those around them. And in those short moments, Kallinvar had learned several things, but chief among them being the Draleid inspired fierce loyalty. The kind of loyalty that could never be bought or earned through fear.
The Draleid stared at Kallinvar for a long moment, as though weighing the cost of the words he would choose. The heavy weight on shoulders so young was clear in every breath that Calen Bryer took. The young man let out a long-held breath, then clasped Kallinvar's extended forearm. "The honour is mine, Grandmaster Kallinvar."
The words held some truth, yet Kallinvar felt there was more to them — a question yet unasked. Either way the tension visibly drained from those around them. A quick glance told him that the those gathered had not expected to be where they stood at that particular moment; they were dirty and restless, bags stuffed and bulging. It was clear they had fled the city with little notice and in a state of panic. Through the Sigil, Lyrin had not been able to communicate the situation. They had agreed that he would reach through the Sigil once if he wished to return to the temple and twice if he had found the Draleid, but one look had told Kallinvar all he needed to know.
"You saved us at Kingspass." The Draleid locked eyes with Kallinvar. In his centuries, Kallinvar had seen eyes of many colours, from the shimmering green of the Bjorna Angan, to the crimson of the Bloodspawn, and the molten gold that touched the bloodlines of elves. But he had never before seen eyes such as the Draleid's: pale lavender, specked with spots of vivid purple and white. What's more, in Kingspass the young man's eyes had glowed with a bright light, mist drifting into the air as he moved. The light of Varyn. Just as the Soulblades of every knight shimmered in Achyron's green, in the old scriptures the colour purple had always represented Varyn, The Father, protector of all things, creator of dragons. It could have been a coincidence; the dragon's eyes held the same hue. Though Kallinvar had never before seen a Draleid inherit the eye colour of the dragon to which they were bound, and Kallinvar didn't believe in coincidences. Whatever the reason, there was significance in it. Of that, he was sure.
"We did what needed to be done," Kallinvar said. And we paid dearly for it.A lump formed in Kallinvar's throat at the thought of Verathin, Allenor, and Irythinia.
"Had you not come, we would no longer be drawing breath." A look of understanding crossed the young man's face. "Thank you."
Kallinvar gave the Draleid a half-hearted smile, inclining his head. "We have been searching for you since that night, Calen Bryer."
The Draleid's eyes narrowed, mud squelching as he shifted. "Searching for me? Why? Who even are you?"
"We are the Knights of Achyron." Kallinvar moved a step closer to the Draleid. "We fight in the name of the warrior god himself. There is much we must discuss. But for now, what is important is that you know we stand by your side. We have come here to offer you our aid." Kallinvar gestured for Ruon, Ildris, Varlin, and Arden to step forward. "There is a war coming, Draleid. A war that will eclipse anything and everything you've ever known, and I believe you have a part to play. I promise we will talk on this once you are safe, but for now I ask that you accept these knights as your honour guard. I assume your plan is to cross the Burnt Lands once more. My knights will make that task a much less arduous one. And they will stand by you in the war to come."
"Why?" A glint of pulsing light shimmered in the Draleid's eyes, his demeanour shifting. Behind him the dragon bared its teeth, frills on its back rising.
"Because I failed the Draleid once, and I won't do it again." Kallinvar allowed his anger at his failings to fuel him. "The same darkness that struck four hundred years ago is coming once more, but this time we are weaker, and it is stronger. It is behind you that the people of this continent will stand."
The Draleid shook his head, his gaze fixed on the ground. The smile that spread across his face held no mirth, and the rumble in the dragon's chest grew deeper. "You're just like him – Aeson Virandr. You don't care about me. All any of you care about is controlling me, using me, twisting me." As the Draleid lifted his head, his eyes glowed with purple light, mist rising in wisps. "What did you do to my brother?"
The question was one Kallinvar had expected. "Arden—"
"His name is Haem!" The Draleid's eyes pulsed, the air changing around him, thrumming with energy. Kallinvar could not touch the Spark, but the centuries had taught him to perceive the markings of its influence on the world. The dragon spread his wings and stretched out his neck, baring his razor-sharp teeth. The dragon and the Draleid were mirror images of each other, fury seeping from them. "His name is Haem, and he is my brother. You took him from us – from me."
The Draleid made to move closer to Kallinvar, but a bright green light burst into life, and Ruon stood at Kallinvar's side, Soulblade gripped in her fist, levelled at the Draleid.
"Take another step," she said, her helmet receding into her armour, her cold stare fixed on the Draleid. The dragon snapped its head down, rows of razor-sharp teeth inches from Ruon's head, eyes smouldering. Along with the dragon, the elf had drawn his sword and now held it level with Ruon's cheek. Ruon didn't flinch. "See who dies first. You may be a Draleid, but you are speaking to the Grandmaster of the Knights of Achyron. You will show him the respect he shows you. For it is a respect you have, as of yet, done nothing to earn."
Calen's heart hammered. His hands trembled. Valerys's rage blended with his own, amplifying it, thrumming through them both. His jaw twitched, teeth clamping as he tried to calm himself. Each breath felt like a hurricane in his lungs. The emotions had come like a flash flood, sweeping through him without warning. Ever since seeing Haem in Kingspass, Calen had pushed everything down, buried it in the depths of his mind where he kept all other memories of his family. There had been no time to grieve. No time to sit, and weep, and mourn. He had always had to keep moving, keep fighting. Everyone had either wanted to kill him, control him, or look to him for answers. But Haem is alive.
"You do not have to accept our help, Calen." The Grandmaster – Kallinvar – said, his voice level and calm despite the tension. "But the last time the Blood Moon rose, we stood divided and Efialtír broke us all. The Order fell, the empire rose, and my knighthood was brought to the edge of oblivion. I do not seek to control you, or to use you, or to place strings around your limbs. I seek to stand by your side when the Shadow comes. I seek to learn from the mistakes of the past."
"Why should I trust you?"
"Don't." One of the knights stepped forwards, moving to Kallinvar's side. A tingle swept across Calen's skin, hair pricking. A fist clenched his heart. The knight's helm rippled, turning to molten steel and crawling back over his skin and hair, melding with the armour's collar. Haem took another step closer to Calen, meeting his gaze. "Trust me."