The hour had grown late, and sleep stubbornly eluded Alaric as he lay in his bed amidst the darkness. Rikka was by his side, her breathing steady, clearly asleep. He had been tossing and turning and staring up at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, his headaches and the looming war keeping him from a restful night.
Letting go a soft breath of resignation, Alaric gave up on sleep. With great care and doing his best not to wake Rikka, he extricated himself from the bed sheets, first sitting up and then swinging his legs over the side. As he moved from the bed, the stone floor cold against his feet, her breathing remained steady, rhythmic. Alaric glanced back at her, wrapped in the sheets, sleeping peacefully on her side, her back to him.
Their chamber, large and ornately furnished, once belonged to his parents. Upon his assumption of earl, his mother insisted he take these quarters as his own, as was his right, relocating herself to a lesser room within their ancestral home. After many months, it still did not feel like his own.
Clad only in breeches, his upper body bared, Alaric moved silently across the room, carefully watching where he was walking. By the pale moonlight spilling in from the windows, his feet whispered against the cold stone floor as he navigated toward the back of the suite. Pushing through a barely ajar door, he entered a secluded, windowless chamber, so small, it could barely accommodate more than two souls at any one time.
Located here, in this intimate alcove, was a small shrine to Eldanar, a sacred space dedicated to the earl’s patron deity. At the room’s heart, upon a modest altar, a single candle flickered—its flame never waning, an eternal light, one fueled by enchantment.
The sparse light cast by the magical candle faintly lit the contours of the small room, just barely pushing back the shadows. Made of stone, the altar, a modest structure embedded into the back wall, was draped with a pristine white cloth. Resting on the altar were a tarnished bronze compass that once belonged to his grandfather and a holy lantern. The two items were symbols of enduring faith and guidance in the divine.
Carved into the stone over the altar was an inscription, a sacred invocation that read, “Lord, above and beyond, by your holy light, I am guided.” The chamber’s walls were adorned with intricate, geometric patterns, carefully painted to embody the enigmatic and transcendent nature of God. These designs, complex in their symmetry and meaning, seemed to pulse gently under the flickering candlelight, enhancing the room’s sanctity, not to mention the mystery.
Alaric was moved just being here, for as a child, he had prayed with his father in this very place. At the floor in front of the altar, a round metal kneeling plate was set into the stone—a place for supplication and humility before the divine. Alaric had encountered similar kneelers during his travels in the holy lands, especially in old churches and temples.
In the north, their rarity added to their sacredness, each one a precious conduit for the penitent seeking communion. The silver kneeling plate, its surface polished to a mirror finish, reflected the faint light of the candle.
With a deep, steadying breath, Alaric lowered himself onto the plate, bowing his head in reverence as he prepared to surrender his spirit to the guidance of his god. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. The ring on his finger warmed.
“Lord, above and beyond, by your holy light, I am guided.” A familiar tingling sensation spread across his skin, a gentle yet profound touch he learned to recognize and welcome—a sign of his god’s presence—and the magic of the chapel. He lingered in the sensation of his god, allowing it to envelop him fully, to seep into his very being, his marrow. Alaric found it soothing in the extreme. “Lord, above and beyond, by your holy light, I am guided. Show me the wisdom of ages, show me the light.”
The tingling sensation intensified. It was followed by a humming sound, then an audible pop. The tingling fell away, leaving Alaric feeling, for a moment, bereft and alone.
He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly. The austere confines of the chapel had vanished. He found himself kneeling in the middle of a well-lit library. Alaric glanced around. No one else was present. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, ink, and binding glue. Feeling a sense of awe, Alaric grinned slightly. This place had become his personal escape, his sanctuary.
He stood, gaze sweeping across the small library, his heart quickening with the thrill of ancient secrets and magical whispers. Dragon Bone’s library consisted of five rooms, and this was the largest and central room.
A fireplace to his left that was set into the wall flared to life with a welcoming burst of light and an accompanying whumph. Almost immediately, the fire drove the chill of the stone walls away, the flames dancing merrily without the need for wood or tinder.
The logs resting within the fireplace never seemed to need replacing, for the flames, as far as Alaric could tell, did not consume them. The mantel over the hearth was stone and intricately carved, depicting a dragon facing a lone warrior. The dragon’s head was drawn back to strike. The warrior stood bravely with sword and shield in hand. Above that, also carved into the stone, was Alaric’s family sigil.
Overhead and hanging from the ceiling, magical lanterns glowed softly, casting an amber light over rows of shelves and racks, laden with scrolls and books—some bound in weathered leather, others in strange materials he could scarcely identify.
There were no windows to the outside world, yet the air was fresh and clean. There were no doors either, giving the library an air of seclusion that felt both comforting and confining, sometimes eerie.
Alaric loved it, for by coming here, he could escape from nearly everyone. The only entrance was the magical transport plate upon which he had arrived, a thin disc of metal set into the stone floor. It was a match to the one in the chapel, the kneeler. More importantly, only one other could use it.
Under the glow of the lantern light across towering bookshelves stood a stately oak desk. This desk, positioned at the very center of the room, commanded the space with its solid, imposing presence. It rested upon an intricately patterned rug, woven with the deep reds and golds that spoke of old wealth and wisdom.
The surface of the desk bore the marks of countless hours spent in study; its top was a landscape of nicks and scuffs, ink stains, each mark telling a silent story of the past. Upon this venerable platform rested two ancient tomes and an unfurled scroll, the pages a rich yellow hue that only the passage of centuries could bestow. There were also two stacks of parchment, each filled with Alaric’s notes, along with a quill and inkwell.
Beside the desk, a pair of high-backed chairs stood sentinel. These chairs, crafted from the same dark oak as the desk, featured plush upholstery that contrasted sharply with the rigid wood, offering a haven of comfort in the midst of scholarly austerity. Directly in front of the desk, an upholstered armchair invited restful contemplation, its fabric worn smooth by the passage of many who had sat there before Alaric, poring over the knowledge of the ages.
Looking around, Alaric felt a profound sense of awe. Not for the first time did he have the feeling it was as though the library had been waiting just for him, ready to unveil its deepest mysteries. The works around him seemed to await their chance to speak once more, to share their secrets with someone worthy of their knowledge. Here, in this sanctum of hidden truths, Alaric had become not merely a visitor, but a pilgrim.
Guided by Rikka, he recalled his first visit. The discovery of this hidden library was her revelation; neither his mother, his father, nor even his grandfather had been aware of its existence. It was Rikka who recognized the true nature of the silver plate in the chapel—a conduit for magical transportation, a gateway to this secluded and private archive. She had unlocked the secret of its use for him, and for that gift he was profoundly grateful.
“This place has not been used in centuries,” Rikka had remarked during their initial exploration, her voice echoing softly amidst the towering shelves.
“How can you tell?” Alaric had inquired, his curiosity piqued as he gazed at the endless rows of shelves, books, and scrolls.
Rikka had paused, taking in the volumes that held the forgotten knowledge of ages. The magical light that illuminated the library shimmered in her eyes, lending them an otherworldly glow. “The magic is old. It speaks to me,” she had said and then hesitated, glancing around once more. A sorrowful note entered her voice. “The library is lonely.”
Alaric sucked in a breath, shaking off the memories of those early days, and padded over to the chair before the desk. His fingers traced the contours of its sturdy, ancient backrest. With a gentle sigh, he sat and positioned himself before the open scroll, the contents laid bare under the ambient glow of magical light overhead.
The scroll was titled Urban Sanitation Systems and Health. It was penned in the old tongue—the tongue of the Ordinate, a language of intricate syntax and dense vocabulary that connected Alaric directly to his ancestral lineage. His grandfather had been adamant he master this archaic form of communication—writing.
At the time and as a boy, Alaric had not seen the need to learn a near dead language, one only spoken by the priests on the high holy days. However, his grandfather had other thoughts, foreseeing the utility of such knowledge, perhaps not just in ritual faith or tradition, but in practical governance, knowledge of the past. At the threat of a thrashing, Alaric had learned from an old and doddering priest not only how to speak the old tongue, but to read and write it. Looking back, for that gift, he was now eternally grateful.
Leaning forward, Alaric admired the craftsmanship of the scroll, the neat and orderly script. The scroll was meticulously constructed, its parchments—sheets made of refined animal hide—stitched together with threads spun from the sinews of beasts long passed from this world.
Each end of the scroll was secured to elaborately carved wooden rollers, both of which were made in the like of a ram’s head. These rollers facilitated the handling and reading of the document, without needing to touch the parchment itself and risk damaging it, and allowed the reader to seamlessly transition between sections by simply rolling the text back and forth as needed. It wasn’t as practical as a book, but it more than sufficed, at least for Alaric’s needs.
The scroll was open to where he’d left off the night before. As his eyes moved over the ancient script, Alaric’s mind delved into the complexities of early urban planning and how it applied to public health. This scroll, like the library itself, was a portal to the past, offering solutions that might be applied to the challenges of the present. In his mind, the knowledge contained here was worth more than all the gold in Dekar, maybe even Kevahn. His fingers brushed against the wood of the rollers, feeling the grooves worn by generations of scholars who had sought wisdom in this text.
Most evenings, for several hours, Alaric came here to read and learn. He was deep into his study of the systems outlined by Thelonicus, a scribe of the middle Ordinate era. The scroll detailed an impressively sophisticated approach to public health, a far cry from the simpler methods employed in Alaric’s current time, or really a lack of any.
The more time he spent here studying, the more it became clear the Ordinate had been a beacon of enlightenment and advancement, with its citizens enjoying amenities such as expansive public baths, clean water, well-maintained latrines, public toilets, and an elaborate sewer system designed to efficiently manage waste, instead of simply dumping it directly on the street or in the nearest body of water, like what occurred in Dark Forge or Smuggler’s Landing.
Alaric had a flash of Hawkani’s stinking and murky waters, the putrid bay, as Bramwell’s ship put to sea, taking him home. He sucked in a breath and let it out. As his eyes momentarily wandered across the library, he was once more struck by the realization that he was surrounded by a measure of the cumulative wisdom of the ancients, each book and scroll an irreplaceable repository of ideas that once helped build and shape a mighty civilization, one that had conquered the known world.
He returned his focus to the scroll, pondering the profound impact of the Ordinate’s fall and how far humanity had slid. With the empire’s decline, much of its knowledge and technological prowess had been lost. Civilization collapsed into disorder, and the sophisticated sanitation practices detailed so meticulously by Thelonicus had been largely abandoned and forgotten as the knowledge needed to maintain them had also been, over time, lost. That alone, Alaric thought, was a tragedy.
This realization was not just academic; it bore significant implications for his own leadership. The decline in sanitation practices likely contributed to current health issues within his own lands, not to mention others, the contagious diseases and plagues that routinely sprang up and burned through whole populations. At least Thelonicus thought so, and he, though long dead, had convinced Alaric.
Studying ancient texts like the one before him, Alaric saw an opportunity not only to reclaim lost knowledge, but revive some of these practices within his domain. The more he read on Thelonicus, the more he became convinced he could improve public health and, by extension, grow a more prosperous and stable society.
Leaning forward, Alaric started reading and soon lost himself in the text. Occasionally, he would pause to dip the quill into the inkwell, and make a note or two on the parchments he had set aside of the scroll. As he worked and the hours passed, he made more notes, sometimes writing furiously until his hand hurt. His study was not merely an exercise in historical curiosity, but a quest to bring ancient wisdom to bear on contemporary challenges, to restore a fragment of the grandeur that an empire was once built upon. He’d already started that process in Smuggler’s Landing and throughout Dekar.
Though he had not yet communicated it to the mayor, he already had plans to upgrade Dark Forge’s infrastructure, and in a big way too. Among these plans were the construction of proper sewers and the building of an aqueduct—innovations that had not been seen in his lands, let alone most others, for centuries. Ultimately, his plans required the aqueduct be constructed first, and such an effort alone might take years of construction.
Thelonicus’s work wasn’t the first Alaric had read on the subject, but it was the most thorough, outlining how such public places functioned in minute detail. This was his third read through. He had become determined to overhaul Dark Forge’s approach to water management by moving beyond the limitations of wells and streams. His vision was to introduce a sustainable system that would bring fresh water into the city, efficiently disposing of waste, and even creating a public bath to improve hygiene, much like the great cities of the empire had once done. Thelonicus’s work highlighted how such advancements in sanitation enabled urban centers of the empire to flourish, supporting larger populations and fostering greater economic activity.
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This hidden trove of knowledge had become more than just a retreat; in Alaric’s eyes, it was a beacon of hope, a source of solutions for the myriad challenges his people faced. From road-building techniques to the rediscovery of the concrete formulas that were being actively employed at Smuggler’s Landing, every discovery brought him closer to a renaissance of the old ways, adapted for the current age.
The chair creaking in protest, Alaric leaned back and rubbed at his tired eyes. He’d been reading for several hours, and already he had several pages of fresh notes. He glanced around once more, as he had no idea of the time with there being no windows, though he was beginning to get hungry. He supposed, outside, it was nearing dawn.
As Alaric contemplated the sheer volume of untapped wisdom that surrounded him, he realized he had only just begun to uncover the secrets held within these walls, the true magic here—knowledge.
A humming behind him caused Alaric to look around. Rikka, wearing a white, almost translucent nightgown, shimmered into existence on the silver plate. The gentle hum of the transport plate faded as she stepped off, her appearance almost ethereal under the magical light of the library. Her black hair, tightly braided, swayed slightly across her back as she moved with graceful steps toward him, the hem of her nightgown whispering against the stone floor.
Her hand came to rest warmly on his shoulder.
“You could not sleep,” she observed, her voice soft, yet carrying an undercurrent of concern. Alaric’s gaze lingered longingly on the scroll before him, his hand instinctively touching the wooden handle, the head of the ram. He looked back up, meeting her eyes. He had lost himself within those very eyes more than once.
“Not after the feast,” he confessed, the events of the evening still echoing in his mind, laden with both celebration and the looming shadows of duty, of the coming war.
“How long have you been here?”
“What time is it?” Alaric countered.
“Shortly after daybreak. Missa is setting breakfast down in the hall. It should be ready soon.”
Alaric gave a nod, then looked back at Thelonicus’s work. “There is so much to be done and yet”—he tapped the desk in irritation—“I will soon march to war. By god, I wish I didn’t have to go. There is just so much to be done, so much to learn.”
“The empire went to war. It was quite good at it. Some of these scrolls contain tactics, discussions, and treaties on war, how to handle a multitude of situations.” Rikka removed her hand and stepped away. The movement of her nightgown across the rug made her look like she glided over the floor. She gently touched a thick scroll hanging on a rack, protected by a leather cover, one of many waiting for attention. “The empire studied war ‘til they understood it intimately, killing—better than anyone else.”
“I know,” Alaric acknowledged, his voice a mixture of fatigue and resolve. “There is an entire room within this library devoted to the art of war, the pure study of it. I have read a few works on the subject, Timmeran, Shoc’aku, Delanis. They were quite enlightening.”
“Timmeran became emperor,” Rikka said, her gaze going distant for a moment before focusing back upon Alaric. “I remember him, you know—”
“You knew him?” Alaric asked, surprised. He occasionally forgot just how long-lived her species were. There were times like this one where it rocked him.
“Not personally,” Rikka admitted. “I saw him once, during his triumph, as he led his victorious army on parade through the capital. Ultimately, his martial prowess brought him to the very pinnacle of power. Though he was a better general than he was an effective emperor. At least I recall people saying so.”
“I did not know that he became emperor. I thought he was just a general writing about his campaigns, his time in the field.”
Rikka gave a slow nod. “He was assassinated by his own guard.”
“Why?”
“I do not recall,” Rikka admitted. “It was a very long time ago and memories tend to fade with the passage of time. I imagine he was unpopular.” She looked around again before fixing her gaze back upon him. “Perhaps it is time to focus more of your attention on the military side of things. Become even better at war and leading men into battle.”
“The empire’s armies were organized differently than those today; my companies,” he remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of lament. Alaric let go a sigh. “They were also far larger than what is generally put into the field these days, a few thousand on both sides, where the empire regularly sent fifty thousand to battle.”
“What you say is true. Humanity has fallen far in just a few short centuries. But—does that make my words any less true?”
Alaric considered what she had said. His expression was one of a man caught between the ideals of peace and the necessities of war, a struggle Alaric believed was soon to be upon them. Her counsel wasn’t just about martial prowess; it was about leadership and efficiency, about minimizing loss and maximizing effectiveness when it came to a fight.
“You are already good at war. Become better at leading men into battle, making your enemy pay for crossing you,” Rikka reiterated, her voice steady. “When it comes to a fight, end it quickly and return home to take up your work again, resume what you have begun here in Dekar.”
Thinking about her words, Alaric nodded slowly. “When war comes, I will not be in charge, not this time. I will be but one component of the king’s army. The decision as to what is to be done will be up to others. I will only command my men, and locally at that.” His words reflected a sense of limitation, a reminder of his role within a larger hierarchy. “The king will either command himself or choose someone to advise him, and that person will not be me.”
“Then work at becoming the man the king relies upon for strategy,” Rikka countered sharply. “Learn all you can so that you are indispensable, someone not easily shoved aside or relegated to the background. Fight and lead your men so well, he has to listen to your counsel.”
Alaric rubbed his jaw and considered what an uphill battle that might be. His experiences at Roderick’s royal court had ingrained a cautious realism in him; he understood the complexities of influence and power. At the royal court, it had become plain he possessed very little, if any. The vivid memory of his last visit to the king, the previous fall, where his time and concerns were barely acknowledged, lingered sharply in his mind. It had pissed him off, for even the Cardinal King had given Alaric more attention.
The king had had little time for him, a minor noble in a court packed with powerbrokers. The king’s bureaucrats had even less time. Dekar, though burgeoning under his leadership, was still a minor player in the larger scheme of the kingdom’s politics, the games that were played amongst the nobility. In truth, like Kanar, Dekar had always been an out-of-the-way place, remote and far from the capital.
Rikka, sensing his doubt, crossed the room once more, coming back to him, her presence a silent pillar of support. Her gaze briefly touched upon the ancient scroll of sanitation before returning to Alaric. “With all that you are doing, Dekar will soon become the most powerful and influential earldom within the kingdom, maybe even rivaling the powerbases of the dukes themselves. Already, you are able to muster nearly as many men as Laval can. The day will arrive when the king directly turns to you for advice and your influence, maybe even the loaning of funds to keep his kingdom running. Then, you will become the power behind the throne, someone to be reckoned with.”
Her words were meant to inspire, to paint a vision of what could be if the seeds he’d planted were allowed to flourish. Yet Alaric’s doubts cast a long shadow. Dekar was still a small piece of the king’s puzzle, with others having greater sway, at least for the time being. All the king and his advisors cared about was that Alaric paid his taxes on time. That, and furnished troops in the event of war.
Yet Rikka’s optimism was not without its own weight. Alaric considered her perspective: If Dekar could rise as a sentinel of innovation and stability, it might force the king’s hand, compelling him to recognize Alaric’s value not just as a vassal, but as a valued counselor. This would not be easy; it would require a delicate balancing act of diplomacy as Dekar grew in strength and power.
At the same time, he would become a direct threat to the other nobles of the realm, a challenger, an upstart who might need to be put in his place. That alone spoke to the need for a strong military, something Alaric had worked hard at developing.
“With your ancestry, you should be more than an earl,” she asserted, her voice carrying both a declaration and a challenge. “You know that to be true.”
Alaric’s attention snapped back to Rikka, her words slicing through the ambient quiet of the library with a sharpness that belied their profound implication. The ring on his finger pulsed with warmth and heat.
“You were born to rule, and rule you shall.” Her eyes, fairly blazing with intensity, were locked on his. “You have a destiny that is greater than us both, and deep down, you know it.”
“So you keep telling me,” Alaric replied.
“Were you not of the proper bloodline, a Set’Tangenica, I would not now be carrying your child. Such is the way of things.”
Alaric’s family rarely if ever mentioned their line, and only in private, for the last emperor was a Set’Tangenica. It would be incredibly dangerous to do so, to call attention to their lineage. As the warmth of the ring intensified, bordering on discomfort, Alaric felt the ancient magic bound within it reacting to the moment, to the truths being spoken. This artifact, an heirloom, seemed to be affirming Rikka’s assertions, signaling that his destiny was indeed intertwined with the history, with the destiny, and with the future of his bloodline.
This convergence of duty, destiny, and personal legacy forced Alaric to reconsider his position and the broader implications of his actions—not only for himself and Rikka, but for their unborn child and the realm that might one day look to him as more than just an earl, and perhaps even those beyond. The weight of leadership and what destiny demanded of him loomed large. Alaric was not prepared for that.
Then again, who was?
“Your ancestry is why you are able to sense Eldanar’s magic, to feel your ring, to access this library, as is mine… ours…” She paused, her voice trailing off as Alaric’s gaze sought hers. The air in the ancient library seemed to grow thicker, charged with a sudden tension that spoke of worlds colliding and secrets unearthed.
In this moment, Rikka shed her guise—an enchantment that cloaked her true form, the statuesque beauty hidden from all but Alaric. The magical façade dissipated like the morning mist under a newborn sun. She stood before Alaric not just as Rikka, but as a creature from the lore of ages past. Her eyes, now wider and almond-shaped, shimmered with a depth that hinted at ancient experience, a life long-lived, one that eclipsed a human’s.
Her face, more elongated and refined, was framed by high cheekbones and tapered to a delicate chin and nose. She was a goddess come to life, an absolute stunning beauty that sucked the breath from his lungs and made his heart ache painfully. Her ears, elegantly pointed, confirmed her heritage.
She was an elf.
Believed to be nothing more than a figment of bardic imagination or myth, Rikka was a being of legend. Alaric, confronted with her true visage, felt a mixture of awe and a peculiar sense of familiarity. The woman he had come to know, love, and cherish was indeed the same person as the one who stood before him, yet the revelation of her true nature added layers of complexity to his feelings and their relationship. She was a member of one of the elder races, whose histories were intertwined with the very magic and roots of the world, the gods themselves.
It had taken him time, and not a small measure of soul-searching, to reconcile the image of the woman who had fought and stood by his side with the unearthly figure now standing before him. Yet, as he observed her under the magical light of the library, surrounded by ancient tomes and the scent of timeworn parchment, he realized that her essence—her soul—was unchanged. She was still Rikka, the woman who had become dear to his heart, not to mention a fixture in his life.
This newfound understanding of her identity only deepened the mystery and allure of the bond they shared, a connection that seemed predestined by the intertwining fates of their disparate lineages.
“And what will our child be?” Alaric’s question lingered in the air, his eyes tracing the subtle contours of Rikka’s belly, which was just beginning to swell. A mix of wonder and concern shadowed his features as he considered the implications of their child’s mixed heritage and breeding. Rikka’s fingers lightly caressed her swelling belly.
“She will be a half-cast,” Rikka confirmed, her voice imbued with a blend of pride and solemnity, “as once your ancestors were and you nearly are.”
“Half-elven and half-human?” Alaric echoed, seeking clarity, perhaps hoping to understand not just the nature of their child, but also the future that awaited them.
“More or less.” The gravity of their shared future was reflected in Rikka’s eyes. “She will bridge our worlds, Alaric, elven and humankind. Like those before her, she will carry both the gift of human resolve, strength of will, and elven magic and lore. She will be a blend of two legacies—much as I am.”
“Are you certain the child will be a girl?” The question, though previously asked, felt necessary as he sought to anchor himself to a tangible detail amidst the swirling unknown of what was to come.
“HE has recently shown me it will be a girl,” Rikka replied with a confidence that only deepened the mystery. “Like her mother, she will become a lumina, a wielder of holy magic with a destiny all her own. Such is the desire of Eldanar, HIS will.”
“And what about an heir? You have made clear, a lumina is set aside from such things, a servant of all that is holy. Will you give me an heir as well, someone to succeed me?”
Rikka bit her lip and did not immediately reply as she glanced away.
“Well?” Alaric asked.
“Such is likely not my destiny,” she admitted, her voice tinged with a heavy sadness that betrayed the personal cost of their circumstances. “That will be another’s responsibility, another’s duty.”
Alaric’s heart tightened at her words. “And if I do not want another? What if all I desire is you, Rikka?”
“You will have no choice in the matter,” Rikka responded, her tone resolute, echoing the decrees of fate and duty over personal desire. “You will marry a human, one who will rule at your side. She shall be the one to produce an heir, not me. It should not be me. That is not the path I walk. So Eldanar has decreed.”
“And what of you?” Alaric’s voice carried a weight of concern, unwilling to accept a future where she might be relegated to the shadows of his life or worse. “What will become of you?”
Rikka’s response was a simple shrug, a gesture that belied the depth of emotion it masked. “It does not matter. I, like many others, have a part to play in what is to come. Long ago, I accepted my fate.”
He reached out, taking her hand firmly in his. “It matters to me,” he affirmed, his voice low and earnest.
Her eyes, pools of ancient sorrow, watered as she stared down at him. A single tear broke free and traced a path down her cheek. “I know. But—but—what is more important is the next generation, the next lumina. There are only a handful of us left… fewer than there should be.”
“And what of the other elves?”
“What other elves?” Rikka asked.
“Your people, where are they? The other luminas? What are they doing? Eld seemed pretty sure he’d met others of your kind.”
Rikka hesitated, appearing uncertain. “The other luminas… that… I do not know. Eldanar and another guides their steps, their paths through this life. As for my people as a whole—they are mostly gone…”
“Gone? Where?”
“To other shores. Long ago, they traveled to a distant land, a place where humans cannot go, a place my people can live in peace, prosper, and thrive. Only a few of us remained behind…”
“Wait… another?” Alaric’s mind was spinning as it caught up to what she’d said a moment before. “Do you mean another god? There are luminas that answer to other gods?”
“Ashanar specifically,” Rikka said.
“Ashanar.” Alaric sat up straight. “The god of the enemy?”
“The enemy during the Crusade, yes. But that is over now, done with.”
“Sunara sent assassins to kill me the other day. They nearly succeeded. What if your people are helping him with that?”
Rikka looked troubled by the suggestion. “I do not know. My people worship both gods. However, I have dedicated myself to Eldanar, as he spoke to me first. It seemed right, correct.” She paused as she sucked in a breath. “Both gods were honored by the Ordinate, the empire. Religious belief was not only tolerated, but accepted.”
While Alaric had known that, his mind still reeled at what she was telling him. He glanced down at the scroll, Thelonicus’s life’s work, then around the library, considering the store of knowledge at his fingertips. Were there other libraries like this one? Eld and Torrin had found the great library, a place hidden for an age when the gods had punished humanity for its temerity and destroyed the empire. He looked up at her as another thought struck him, a troubling one.
“What if there is another heir?”
“I don’t know about that,” Rikka said.
“Is it possible?” Alaric pressed.
“I suppose it is, as you say, possible.”
“What if there is another lumina, one who follows Ashanar, one who is helping a second heir to the throne?”
“I doubt there is more than one heir, one direct descendant of the last emperor. As far as I know, you are it.” She shook her head. “No, there can be no other.”
“You are certain about that? Me being the only heir?”
“Though Eldanar guides my path…” She paused a moment, glancing at her feet before looking back up at him. “I concede it is possible, for the ways of the gods can be mysterious and I do not know Ashanar. I cannot speak to that god and his plans, nor of any luminas worshiping him.”
Alaric absorbed her words, the silence stretching between them as he contemplated the looming complexities of his future. His thoughts wandered over the imminent conflict between Averndale and Kevahn, a war that threatened to redraw the boundaries of their world and change it in ways that were as yet unclear. He pondered the plans he had made for Dekar, for Rikka, their unborn daughter, and the legacy that awaited them.
His voice, when he spoke again, carried a heavy note of reluctance. “I did not ask for any of this.”
“That does not matter.” Her voice took on a tone of gentle firmness, one filled with surety. “You are destined to claim your heritage. All you need to do is pick up the gauntlet and seize it.”