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‘To survive, is not to live,’ he could hear Naia whispering in his mind. But they must first survive to live, my love.
Every time we stoke the fires of rebellion, every time someone fights back, the empire grinds them to dust.
“All hope ever does is convince us to do things we know we shouldn’t. It isn’t worth dying for.”
“Pain doesn’t make you weak, Ihvon. It makes you human. Sometimes the only thing that reminds me I’m still human is how much everything hurts.”
She swivelled on one foot, winking at Verma. “I can show you how much I care, Talissair. Just say the word. I’ve had one or two mages before.” “I would sooner lick a Jotnar’s balls, but thank you for the offer.” “Oh Verma, ever the lady. Please, keep whispering sweet nothings in my ear.”
He could not fail to do the one thing he had promised the fire of his heart. He could not fail to protect his children.
He drew in a long breath, meeting Malari’s gaze. “They may not want us here, but they have no choice in the matter. We are here. And if they come, we will send them to the void wishing they never laid eyes on us. When I am done with them, they will call us demons.”
Aeson allowed himself a weak smile. He pulled a long icy breath into his lungs, releasing it slowly. “For a long time, I didn’t. I pulled away from everything and everyone. You can’t lose the things you love if you don’t love anything. At least, that’s what I told myself.”
“I met your mother.” For the first time since they had set foot on the ice, the smile that adorned Aeson’s lips was warm. “She taught me that without love there isn’t much point in anything. Nothing to fight for, nothing to live for.”
“She and your father were like rock and water. He was immovable and stubborn, and she just flowed around him, wearing down his armour, pushing her way in.
She said when it came to some things, how you got there was more important than the end result.
Aeson stumbled forwards, his legs like reeds in the wind. It had been a long time since he’d drawn that heavily from the Spark. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like. He rested his palm on Verma’s shoulder, drawing in a slow breath to ease the struggle in his lungs. “You age like oak, old friend. Stronger with every passing summer.” Verma turned to look up at him, sweat rolling down the bridge of her nose. “Four hundred years and you’re still no better at speeches.” Aeson grunted as he laughed. “I’ve been busy.”
There was a subtle difference between weeping and crying. There were a thousand reasons to shed a tear, but weeping was born of grief and grief alone.
“The fellensír,” Alvira had said as she stood in the training yard all those years ago. “The lonely mountain. When your brothers and sisters are nowhere to be found, when you stand alone, you must make yourself a fortress. You must become both the immovable object and the unstoppable force. There are few who have ever truly mastered the fellensír. Join those ranks, and you will be one of the greatest swordsmen to have ever lived.”
It was one of the most magnificent creatures he had ever laid eyes on. But what truly caused Aeson’s heart to stop, what truly caught the air in his lungs, was that the dragon was no more than thirty feet from head to tail. Everything they had hoped for was true, every word Malari had said. There was no possible way that dragon had hatched more than four years past. The eggs are hatching.
Without words or thoughts, Aeson knew that these creatures had felt the ache of what had happened in Epheria four centuries ago. They had felt the death of their kin, the breaking of the eggs, the sundering of the bonds. They knew his pain, they knew his anger, and they knew his loss.
“Du gryr haydria til myia elwyn, as haryn myia vrai, ydilír ayar.” You bring honour to my heart, and you have my thanks, ancient one.
‘Our legacies are in the lives we change, the words we keep, the legends we create, and the people we create them with.’
‘Keep your legends at a distance, because up close they are full of holes.’
“Even amongst millions, one still matters. No death is made insignificant by more death.
He looked thin as a reed, with a shock of dark hair and an utter unawareness of the world around him. His eyes were fixed on a stack of books that sat atop the merchant’s table.
That egg would be the spark. And when Aeson was done, the empire would be nothing more than ash and dust.
