Page 112 of Of Empires and Dust

My dearest Eluna,

I apologise for the secrecy,but it is needed. I sense what we have feared may come to pass. Fane grows bolder. He has followers within The Order’s ranks. I do not know how many, but it’s only a matter of time.

I have movedeverything to the place where we first met. The pendant remains the key. Kollna knows. She cast the runes. Trust nobody else. Eltoar struggles enough already. I would not burden him further.

With hope,this will all be for nothing.

Alvira

Only the soundof breathing broke the silence as Calen read the last word.

“We need to show to this to Aeson… and to Haem.”

Chapter 25

Old Wounds

10thDay of the Blood Moon

Tahír un Ilyienë, Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

Thunder rolled across the sky,the rain falling so heavy that the basin’s waterfalls flowed like broken dams over the top of the ledge. Therin drew a long breath, his tunic and trousers clinging to his body, droplets streaming down his face.

The twisting branches of the Ilyienë tree sprawled above him, sheltering him from the worst of the rain while the glow from its purple flowers illuminated the dark night. He’d always thought the name to be as fitting as it was beautiful: Ilyienë –remembrance. There had once been over twenty of the sacred trees across Epheria.

The empire burned them all.

He took a few more moments to gaze up at the shimmering lights that hung in clusters, then walked forwards, traversing the closest bridge that crossed the moat.

The five statues that framed the central island from which the Ilyienë tree grew stood proud and tall. Each was easily a hundred feet tall, though the tree dwarfed them all.

Despite the statues’ obvious beauty, Therin couldn’t help but notice their flaws – or lack thereof. Líra had always told him that beauty in art was often mistaken for the objective meaning of the word. That true art was not something that simply existed in perfection, but something that came alive because of the flaws that made it unique.

Each statue was beautiful, crafted to perfection. The Jotnar was stoic and wise, the human strong and proud, the elf noble and graceful, and both the Dvalin and Fenryr Angan portrayed an air of ancient power.

But none of them feltalive. They had each been crafted from necessity, without love, without feeling. Perhaps that wasn’t fair on the Craftsmages who’d created them, but it was true. Líra had often taken him across Epheria to show him the meaning of art and creation. He remembered when she had walked him through the Wood of the Lost near Jukara, where Jotnar had sung trees into the shapes of their loved ones. And he remembered their visit to the renowned gallery in Caelduin, where each painting and tapestry had been created by hand over months and years. When visiting these places, she always enjoyed weaving stories from the art, trying to imagine who that person had once been, whom they had loved, why they had died.

As he looked up at these statues, he felt nothing of their past, of their love, of their life.

Therin lowered himself to his knees, running his hand through his soaking hair.

“I’m tired,” he whispered, closing his eyes. A drop of rain rolled from his hair, down his forehead, and over the bridge of his nose, eventually dripping onto the stone. “I’m so tired.”

The basin was mostly empty, but in the distance, footfalls echoed from the terraces as people came to pay their respects. He wasn’t sure how long he knelt there before the sound of boots drew closer, crossing the bridge behind him and stopping a few paces short of where he knelt.

Whoever had approached didn’t come any closer, nor did Therin turn. What did it matter who it was?

If it was Calen come to talk about his father, a man who had given Therin so much and whose life had been snuffed out with such little reason? If it was Aeson come to tell him that their fight was finally here, a fight that had cost Therin everything?

It did not matter.

What had happened in the chamber in Mythníril still pulled at his heart. For centuries, Galdra and the others had simply treated him as though he didn’t exist, as though he were a ghost. And so in some way, the simple fact that the elf who Therin had once called a friend had finally spoken to him had lifted a weight from his shoulders. Perhaps there was some small, minute chance that old wounds could be mended. Perhaps.

But with that, the mention of Líra and Faelen had taken him off guard. He saw Líra everywhere he looked in Aravell. She was in the sweeping arches, the broad plateaus, the open valleys. She was in every vein of erinian stone that gave the city life. Every piece of beauty was by her hand. Without her, Aravell would not have existed. And without her, Therin was hollow. And no matter what stories he wove or how many battles he survived, he could not bring her back. Sometimes Aeson forgot that although Therin did not know what it was to be Rakina, that didn’t mean he did not know loss enough to crack his soul in two.

After a time of silence, a voice sounded behind Therin.

“You never came.”

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