Page 26 of Of Empires and Dust

If. If. If.

All that had separated Calen and Valerys from death was an ocean of ifs. Sensing Calen’s thoughts, Valerys nuzzled his snout harder against Calen’s body. The dragon matched Calen’s gaze, unblinking. Those enormous lavender eyes shone as they stared at him, images flooding from Valerys to Calen: Dann, Haem, Erik, Tarmon, Vaeril, Ella… so many more.

The images, no, the memories continued to flow like a river through a broken dam.

The white spires of Aravell, the crashing waterfalls, the trees, the elves.

It took a moment, but Calen finally understood what Valerys was trying to tell him: it didn’t matter what could have happened or what should have happened. All that mattered is whatdidhappen. Their friends, their family, and their new home were safe. Tens of thousands drew breath who otherwise would have burned alive in dragonfire.

Calen leaned forwards and pressed his forehead against the dragon’s scales, closing his eyes and allowing Valerys to take his weight. The dragon’s warmth seeped into him, easing the pain in his soul. “Du aendret myia viël, Valerys. Myia nithríen. I denír viël ar altinua.”

You changed my life, Valerys. My soulkin. In this life and always.

A deep rumble resonated in Valerys’s throat, the dragon’s scales seeming to grow warmer to Calen’s touch. They stayed like that, unmoving for minutes until a gasp broke the silence.

Valerys and Calen broke apart, shifting to see that one of the elven Healers had collapsed on his side, limbs splayed in all directions.

The other Healers knelt beside him, lifting his head and checking his eyes.

“He has nothing left, Draleid,” one of the Healers – an elf by the name of Namír – said as Calen approached. The elf bowed at the waist. “I will send for porters to carry him back and for another to take his place.”

“No.” Calen looked down at the collapsed Healer.

Namír stared back at him in confusion. “But your soulkin, Draleid. He still suffers. He cannot?—”

“We all suffer, Namír. There are thousands of injured in the city that need a Healer’s hand. You could save hundreds with what you give to Valerys. He will heal. All he needs is rest. Your gift to him is time, your gift to others is life. Valerys will not need any more healing.”

“But, Draleid…”

The elf trailed off as Calen shook his head, then gestured towards the collapsed elf. “Go. Ensure that he gets seen to. Valerys is strong enough to make his way to the ceremony.”

The elf gave a brisk nod, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, then turned back towards the others.

“Namír.”

The Healer looked to Calen, more than a touch of apprehension in his eyes. “Du haryn myia vrai.” Calen inclined his head to the other Healers. “Du aillin ata.”

You have my thanks. You all do.

Namír’s generally severe expression cracked, a half-smile touching his lips. He clasped his hands and inclined his head. “Du gryr haydria til ourín elwynar.”

You bring honour to our hearts.

As the Healers packed their things and set off, Calen dropped to the ground beside Valerys. He leaned against the dragon’s scales and took that precious moment of peace where there was nothing else but him and the other half of his soul. That peace was short-lived though as he lifted his gaze to the crimson orb in the sky.

In the days since the battle, he hadn’t had much of a chance to truly let that fact settle in, to truly think on what that red moon meant, the gravity of it. Much like everything else that had happened in the past two years, the Blood Moon had been nothing but a legend to Calen, a myth, something conjured by bards to lend weight to a tale. From all the stories, and fromwhat Chora and the others had said, it was the herald of death and devastation, and it would taint the skies for a full month.

Calen pushed his chest forwards, his back cracking, tense muscles stretching. And as he did, a roar tore through the night, echoing off the rock.

Calen sat up straight and Valerys shifted behind him. The dragon lifted his head, a blend of anger and sorrow seeping from his mind and causing Calen to clench his jaw. Across the way, both Sardakes and Varthear had stirred, their gazes fixed on the same thing as Valerys’s: a passage in the rock on the western edge of the Eyrie.

A second roar followed the first, resonating in the mountain basin. It reeked of pain and suffering.

Valerys pushed himself upright with his forelimbs, a deep rumble in his chest, his limbs screaming out in complaint.

“After the ceremony,” Calen whispered, standing. He rested his hand on the old wound from the Fade’s lightning that had marred Valerys’s side since Kingspass. “They will not have to wait much longer.”

A third roar erupted from the passage.

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