Page 11 of Empire of Wrath and Ruin
But even here, in this place of beauty and peace, I could feel the darkness underneath. It flowed through the mountain like blood through veins, and no amount of careful cultivation could entirely mask its presence. The shadows knew I was here, and they approved.
I found Aytara where I had expected to—seated cross legged position on a stone bench beside the largest of the pools, her eyes closed in meditation. She had been my teacher, my surrogate mother, the only stable presence in my life since Sayven had been claimed by the Veyr-sha when I was fifteen years old. Even now, approaching my thirtieth year, the sight of her brought both comfort and a child's desperate need for approval.
Age had not diminished her imposing presence. Her shoulders were still broad and strong beneath the simple robes she wore; her arms corded with muscle that spoke of years spent wielding blade and staff before she had taken up the spiritual leadership of our people. Her white hair hung in a thick braid down her back, woven with beads of carved bone and precious stone that marked her rank and achievements. Lines mapped her face like a topographical chart of wisdom earned through suffering, but her bearing remained regal.
"Taveth," she said without opening her eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I wondered when you would come to me."
I approached slowly, settling beside her on the warm stone. The familiarity of the ritual comforted me—how many times had I sought her counsel in this very spot? How many crises of faith and spirit had she helped me navigate?
"Mother Aytara," I said, using the formal address even though we were alone. Some habits ran too deep to break.
She opened her eyes then, studying my face with the penetrating gaze that had always made me feel as though she could see straight through to my soul. "You look tired, child. And troubled."
The endearment should have rankled—I was a grown man, a warrior and a mage of considerable power—but coming from her, it still brought warmth. She was the only person left who remembered me as a frightened boy rather than the weapon I had become.
"There are rumours," she continued when I didn't immediately respond, "of an Imperial prisoner you've brought to our city. Tell me these rumours are exaggerated."
I had known this conversation was inevitable, but I still wasn't prepared for it. How could I explain what had driven me to bring Livia here? The compulsion had felt so right in the moment, so necessary, but now, faced with Aytara's expectant silence, it seemed like madness.
"They are not exaggerated," I said finally. "She is here."
Aytara's expression didn't change, but I saw her hands tighten slightly where they rested on her knees. "Tell me about the battle first. I've heard reports from the other warriors, but I would have your perspective."
Relief flooded through me at the temporary reprieve. The battle was easier to discuss than my own questionable decisions. "It was everything we hoped for and more. The Imperial forces were overconfident," I said, settling into the familiar rhythm ofa battle report. "They expected us to retreat into the mountains. Instead, we engaged them on the plains below Sarrak's Pass."
Aytara's eyes narrowed slightly. "A risky strategy."
"But effective. "They weren't expecting us to know their movements so precisely. My shadow scouts had been tracking them for days, reporting their numbers, formations, even which officers led which battalions."
Aytara nodded, her eyes gleaming with approval. "The intelligence was sound, then."
"More than sound. It was perfect." Pride crept into my voice despite my efforts to remain detached. "The Imperial column was stretched thin through the pass—supply wagons at the rear, cavalry unable to manoeuvre effectively on the narrow trail. We struck from behind taking out their supplies, and that drove them high up into the pass. Once we had them there, it was fairly straightforward. Their foot soldiers couldn't manoeuvre properly once I created the darkness. We attacked from three sides simultaneously, and they broke formation almost immediately."
I described the battle in detail—how our archers had rained death from concealed positions in the cliffs, how our warriors had emerged from hidden caves to cut the column into isolated segments, how my shadow magic had blinded their mages and sown confusion among their ranks. The telling came easily, the memories still vivid and satisfying.
"They broke," I concluded. "Over three hundred dead, twice that wounded, and we captured six supply wagons filled with weapons meant for the northern garrison. Our losses were minimal—seventy dead, thirty-two wounded, most of whom will recover fully."
"A decisive victory," Aytara said softly. "Perhaps the most significant we've achieved in this generation. The council will bepleased. You’ve grown as a tactician," she said. "Sayven would be proud."
The mention of my father's name sent a familiar pang through my chest. I had few memories of him, just fragments of a stern face softened by rare smiles, strong hands teaching mine to hold a blade, a deep voice telling stories by firelight. The Veyr-sha had taken him before I could truly know him.
“In all honesty, the plan to attack the supply wagons came from one of the lowland tribes. They were the ones who raised the alarms, and the attack itself was led by an escaped slave, or so I heard.”
"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "I've heard whispers of this mysterious leader—a former slave who somehow convinced Talfen warriors to follow him. Tell me about him. Did you get his name?"
"Tarshi, I think. It was hard to hear over the battle. I didn’t meet him myself, only saw his dragon form from a distance." I studied her face, noting the way her eyes had gone distant, but now there was something else there too—shock, carefully controlled but unmistakable. "You know something about him."
For a moment, Aytara went completely still. The colour drained from her weathered cheeks, and her hands gripped the edge of the stone bench so tightly her knuckles went white. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Tarshi." She repeated the name like a prayer or a curse. "You're certain that was his name?"
"Yes. The other rebels called him that repeatedly. Mother, what—"
"Nothing." The word came out too quickly, too sharp. She straightened, composing herself with visible effort, but I could see the tremor in her hands before she clasped them in her lap. "It's... it's nothing, child. Just an old woman's foolish thoughts."
But it wasn't nothing. I had known Aytara for over twenty-five years, had learned to read every micro-expression that crossed her face. She was holding something back, something that had shaken her to her very core. The name Tarshi meant something to her—something significant enough to crack her legendary composure.
"Mother—"
