Page 28 of Of Empires and Dust

Calen could hear every beat of his heart thumping against his ribs, every breath his lungs drew.

Varthear craned her neck forwards so her snout hovered just off the ground only a foot from Calen. The dragon could have swallowed him whole with ease. Some of the horns that stretched back from her jaw were longer than Calen’s legs.

She stared at him with eyes red as liquid fire, warmth radiating from her scales.

Calen drew a calming breath and extended his right hand. He allowed his fingers to float inches from Varthear’s cobalt scales. Exhaling slowly, he rested his hand along a fused scar that stretched upwards from the dragon’s lip. A moment of warmth spread through Calen’s hand before the familiar ringing sounded in his ears and his vision blurred, fading to black before bursting with white light.

Just as they had when Queen Uthrían had grasped his forearm, memories flooded Calen’s mind. Memories that were not his own. Images of a time long past, fleeting and broken.

A light filled his eyes, then faded, feelings of comfort, warmth, and safety overcoming him as he stared up into the eyes of a young elf.

“Draleid n’aldryr, unwë ayar,” the elf whispered, cradling him in his arms. “Din navn væra Varthear.”

Dragonbound by fire, little one. Your name will be Varthear.

More memories flitted through Calen, emotions crashing into him: anger, joy, fear, hope. His pulse raced, his breath trembled, his heart sank. Of it all, one thing rose above all else: Varthear’s love of her soulkin, Ilmirín. The Draleid had been fierce and strong, yet gentle. Wise and learned, but always willing to listen. It was his heart that had taught Varthear how to love, his soul that had shown her what kindness was. She would have given anything and everything to have kept him safe. Shewould have given her life a hundred times over, endured any pain the world could conjure… but instead, she had been cursed to watch him die.

The world flickered, flashes of fire and lightning igniting the darkness around Calen. He was swerving through thick clouds, a storm raging on all sides. Panic and fear permeated every piece of his shared soul.

A bright flash illuminated the sky before him, and he watched as a dragon covered in brilliant yellow scales ripped another from the sky, blood dancing with the rain.

He swerved to avoid a column of dragonfire, its light burning through the dark. All around him, Draleid and dragons tore each other to pieces. Brothers and sisters, lovers and friends. Everything he had ever known was crumbling before his eyes.

The world blurred and shifted once more, and now he was on his side, solid ground beneath him. A blinding pain burned where talons had carved through his scales. But his pain was nothing, not compared to the terror that wracked his bones.

His soulkin lay bleeding on the rocks not fifty feet from him. Ilmirín had been ripped from Calen’s back and thrown through the air. He could hear Ilmirín’s heartbeat faltering, feel his consciousness fading.

Calen pushed himself upright with his forelimbs, urging every drop of strength he had into Ilmirín. If he could get his soulkin to a Healer, he could save him. No matter how many traitors filled the sky. He would carry Ilmirín through the void if he had to.

A heartbeat passed, the world flickering once more. An enormous weight crashed into his side, talons slicing through his shoulder, jaws wrapping around his neck.

He knew the dragon who attacked him. Hrothmundar, soulkin to Jormun Stonefist. Large as a mountain, with a heart that smelled of burning blood.

Calen thrashed and roared, swiping at Hrothmundar with his forelimbs, but he was wounded, his strength ebbing. Jaws closed around his throat. And while Hrothmundar held him against the rock, Calen felt Ilmirín die.

The world broke. Calen’s heart shattered. His soul sundered. There was not a word spoken in the tongues of living things that came close to the grief, agony, and emptiness that became him. He was hollow, and numb, and nothing.

As Hrothmundar tore into his side, all Calen could do was stare at Ilmirín’s lifeless body, blood seeping onto the stone.

A roar thundered overhead, and then Hrothmundar was lifted off Calen and sent crashing into a boulder. Two dragons plummeted from the sky, rivers of dragonfire pouring down over Hrothmundar and Jormun.

Listlessly, Calen pulled himself upright. He was empty, the world around him dull and faded. He hobbled to Ilmirín’s body and nudged his soulkin with his snout. Ilmirín simply lay there. His warmth was gone. His smile stolen.

Calen lowered himself, draping his wing over his soulkin’s body and resting his head on the ground. There was no joy without Ilmirín, no warmth or purpose.

The world spun around Calen once more, shifting and changing, flashing forwards. Something nudged him but he didn’t move. There was no point in moving, no point in breathing.

A pair of ice-blue eyes appeared before him, scales dark as the deep ocean: Lyara. Her heart smelled of lightning and fresh rain, her warmth was that of the morning sun. Lyara whined, pressing her snout into Calen’s jaw, begging him to rise, pleading with him.

After a moment, a hand rested on the scales of his cheek. “Din saleere er ourín saleere, Varthear. Din nithír er ourín nithír. Vir væra kanet tiastri du.”

Your pain is our pain, Varthear. Your soul is our soul. We will not leave you.

Calen stared into Aeson Virandr’s eyes before the world shifted again.

Time passed. Aeson kept Calen safe, brought him to the elves. Years turned to decades, turned to centuries. Every moment of life was devoid of purpose, or joy, or meaning. It was apathy unending.

Until one day something changed. A soul reached out to his. That soul offered purpose. It asked him to be a protector, asked him to save the ones it loved. The soul’s words stirred something within him, lit a fire long extinguished. He was still Rakina, still Broken, but now he was more. He was a guardian of one who was loved – all that Ilmirín had ever wanted to be.

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