In his moment of solitude, Calen looked up at the words carved into the rock. He swallowed, his hand resting on the coin pommel of the sword at his hip. “Draleid n’aldryr, Rakina nai dauva. Ikin vir vänta. Ikin vir alura. Marai viel alanín til ata ilynír abur er kerta.” Calen whispered the words, as he had done the first time he’d read them. Now, though, with all he had seen, they held new meaning. Dragonbound by fire, Broken by death. Here we wait. Here we rest. Until we are called to make whole what is half.
