Page 133 of Of Empires and Dust

Undrír gave a short bow, grimacing at the sight of the Onarakina tearing the remnants of the Lorians apart.

“Sankyar,” Salara replied with a nod.Captain.“What news?”

“The queen wishes you to move on the keep. She has taken the western sector of the city with minimal losses.”

“It appears the majority of the city’s mages were sent to reinforce Elkenrim, Draleid.” The galdrín mimicked Undrír’s welcoming gesture. “We have moved through the city with little resistance. The plan has worked even more smoothly than we had hoped.”

“Hmmm.” Salara nodded her head slowly as she looked at the butchery around her. “It appears so.”

With The Traitor’s moon overhead, the Lorian mages had a distinct advantage over those of the Elven galdrín. Their Blood Magic was the strongest it had been since the night of the Cuendyar. When Vandrien had proposed the four-pronged strike, she had theorised the Lorians would send perhaps athird of their mages and warriors to reinforce Elkenrim. But from what Salara had encountered, they had sent all but a fraction. The city’s walls had fallen in minutes, the garrison routed into the streets. And through all the bloodshed, Salara had encountered but three mages where she had expected a hundred. Something wasn’t right. The city had fallen too easily.

“You seem displeased, Draleid.” Captain Undrír tilted his head, trying to catch Salara’s gaze. “Is this not the victory we had hoped for?”

“It is not a victory yet, Sankyar. There is still much death to come.”

Undrír straightened, lifting his chin. “Yes, Draleid. Forgive me.” The elf swallowed. “Queen Vandrien offers you the honour of reclaiming the city alongside her.”

“She offers too much.”

“Respectfully, Draleid, I do not believe so.” Undrír gave a slight bow at the waist, pressing a closed fist against his breastplate. “She asks that you send word to Draleid Taran and Indivar. No more fire is to be cast on the city, and she wishes them to be there when you take the keep.”

Salara released a short breath through her nostrils, then nodded. “It will be done. First, I would have fifty of your warriors escort the Onarakina away from the fighting.”

She cast her gaze around the street. Many of the Onarakina sat on the ground, their backs resting against broken walls or piles of shattered bodies, blood dripping from their hair, their faces, and their hands. They were the living dead. Only a handful still stood, and one knelt over a body, slowly dragging a knife from the flesh before lurching forwards and driving it back in.

“They have seen enough of this day.”

“As you command, Draleid.”

As Undrír turned and called out to his warriors, Salara cautiously approached the Onarakina who knelt atop the savaged corpse, his blade buried to the hilt in its ribs.

“Akar,” she whispered.

Brother.

The word drifted on the wind. The elf remained where he knelt, slumped over the corpse, one hand on its chest, the other on the pommel of the knife.

“Akar,” she whispered again, dropping to one knee and resting her hand on his back.

The elf roared and lunged at her, a frenzy in his eyes, a rabid hunger.

Salara caught both his wrists mid-flight and twisted left, dragging him from atop the body and slamming him against the stone.

When she looked down, she saw tired, rage-filled eyes staring from a gaunt face marked by scars and lines born of a life in servitude, in slavery. The elf’s hands shook in Salara’s grasp, his breaths trembling.

“Alura, myia’kar. Alura. Du é varno. Inyen væra sâre du anis.”

Rest, my brother. Rest. You are safe. Nobody will hurt you now.

The elf stared back at her wordlessly.

“Of course,” Salara whispered, bringing the elf’s hands lower, one to his side, one against her breastplate. “I am sorry, brother. They took our language from you, our heritage, our history… You are safe. You are loved. You are Evalien.”

She let go of the elf’s wrist, slowly, holding his gaze the entire time. “What is your name?”

“Tu…” He hesitated a moment. “Tualin, Draleid.”

“Stand with me, Tualin.”

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