Page 50 of Of Empires and Dust

Maybe the world they had built was no better than what they had destroyed, but what was done was done. The old world was gone. But the elves had razed every city from Easterlock to Steeple. Half a million dead. Whether this world was better or not, he would not allow them to continue ripping it to pieces.

Chapter 13

Reclamation

6thDay of the Blood Moon

Elven encampment, east of Elkenrim – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom

Salara didn’t speakas she marched through the silent camp, lanterns atop posts illuminating the night. Red tents were pitched all about her, banners emblazoned with the golden stag flapping in the breeze. The sigil of the dead kingdom of Lunithír, reborn as the mark of Numillíon – of all free elves.

Every elf she passed bowed at the hip, placing a hand across their chest as they did, whispering the word, “Draleid.”

She returned their greetings with a nod, never stopping, never lingering. On the surface she was calm and still, her expression stoic. She knew this because she had spent centuries perfecting it. She was a Draleid, the beacon of hope her people looked to. In an ever-shifting world, she was their constant. It was tiring but necessary.

Contrary to the stillness she outwardly portrayed, her mind was chaos. She could feel Vyrmír’s heart beating, his lungs swelling with air, his talons slicing into the soft earth beneath him.

The dragon lay curled on the edge of the camp with Baerys and Nymaxes, but his mind was with her. Warmth flooded through the bond as he tried desperately to ease her pain, but she pushed him away. Seeing Eltoar alive after all these years, hearing his voice, feeling the weight of his stare… It had taken far more from her than she had ever expected.

Two guards stood to attention at the entrance to her personal tent. Both were armoured in gold and crimson, fingers wrapped around the shafts of long glaives.

They protested when she waved them away, but acquiesced.

The tent itself was rectangular in shape, wider than it was long, with enough space for three or four inhabitants. A small oil lantern sat by the side of her cot at the tent’s rear and two more on the small table to her right.

As soon as the flap closed behind her, Salara stumbled, her legs fumbling beneath her, her chest feeling as though it had been hollowed out and filled with stones.

She dropped to her knees on the rug by the entrance and ran her hands through her sopping wet hair, shaking. Gods curse him for doing this to her. She had been preparing herself for the day she would once again lay eyes on her old master, the things she would say, the things she woulddo. But how naive she had been to think that anything could have prepared her. There are some wounds so deep that nothing could fill them.

Queen Vandrien’s voice sounded behind Salara. “Narvír.”

Commander.

Salara hauled herself to her feet, wiping her eyes with the cold steel of her gauntlet. She straightened her back and brought a closed fist to her chest. “Myia’nari. Laël sanyin?—”

“There is no need for apologies, Salara.” Queen Vandrien Lunithír stood at the tent’s entrance, a flowing crimson dress threaded with gold reaching just past her knees. Vandrien was everything an elf should be. She was grace and beauty, hard as steel and strong as diamonds. Her arms were lean and muscled, her hair white as snow.

Vandrien raised her hand, looking into Salara’s eyes. She walked around Salara, her dress swaying as she moved, and stopped at the table. She raised an eyebrow at the glass bottle beside the candle.

Vandrien had gifted that bottle to Salara after they had destroyed the human city of Easterlock and finally begun the Reclamation. The grapes had been harvested from the vines in western Numillíon, the only such vines that could trace their lineage back to the soil of Caelduin. Under the dense canopy of Lynalion, grapes were not easily grown. That one bottle of wine was a rarity, a treasure, a taste of what had once been.

“I was waiting,” Salara said, inclining her head towards the bottle, pulling her gauntlet off and rubbing at her eye with the heel of her hand. “Until we have won the war. Until we have taken back what was stolen from us.”

“We have waited for four hundred years, Salara.” Vandrien pulled on the Spark, sliding thin threads of Air around the bottle’s cork and lifting it free. “I do think that is long enough. Don’t you?”

The queen pulled two wooden cups across the table, poured the wine, then passed one to Salara.

Vandrien swirled the wine in the cup gently, lifting her nose as she drew a long breath. She shook her head, a smile curling her lips, then sipped the wine. The queen let out a long, happy sigh. “It seems strange that something so…” She pondered, looking towards the tent’s ceiling, then continued, “frivolous can remind you of what you’re fighting for.” She stared intothe glass. “Though, I suppose wine is not frivolous. It is history and culture. It is time and hardship. Our ancestors in Caelduin worked the vineyards tirelessly, refusing to use the Spark, keeping to the old ways. This wine is their legacy, our heritage preserved in glass… In essence, it is everything we fight for. Our past, our way of life…” Vandrien lifted her gaze, a nod letting Salara know the queen wished for her to drink. “Forgive me, I’m wandering.”

Salara did as instructed, swirling the wine and inhaling the scents. Some said they could pick individual scents from wine – cherries, peaches, chestnut, oak. Salara figured they were full of shit. She smelled wine. It was sweet, fruity, pleasant. But not much else. The taste, however, was a different world altogether. She might not have known the individual notes, might not appreciate the subtleties, but that wine reminded her of home. It was full, and rich, and warm.

“We must allow ourselves these small things, Salara.” Vandrien gestured towards the cup in her hand. “We are at war now. We will never know when Heraya will choose to call us into her embrace. Don’t hold these things in hope for what might be. Embrace them, let them fill you with longing. Let them fuel you. We cannot wait for our destinies to unfold. We must forge them ourselves.” Vandrien moved back towards the table, looking down over the map that Salara had tacked there, red ink marking the land Numillíon had already reclaimed. Ice crept into the queen’s voice. “You went to meet with Eltoar Daethana.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I did, Myia’nari.”

“I’m assuming there was a good reason you did this without speaking to me first?” Vandrien looked from the map to Salara, studying her. “The young dragon and their Draleid. What did Eltoar say?”

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