Midhir watched the lands below from the open deck of the airship. The Old Growth spread as far as the eye could see, taking up much of Eldoria’s once fertile farmlands. His expression soured as his gaze scoured the forest. The cultist wearing that helmet had escaped, and he was clearly safe in the Old Growth at night. There was no telling which way he had escaped.
“He could hide there forever…” he muttered to himself.
“Indeed.”
Alistair’s voice startled him. His head jerked to the left, and his gaze landed on the young noble looking quite defeated.
“Did I startle you?” He asked with a wry smile. “My apologies.” He waved his hand downward aimlessly. “I feel our work was not done yet. We shouldn’t have returned so quickly.” He scowled and furrowed his brows. “Don’t you agree?”
Midhir hesitated. “No, I don’t.” He finally said, drawing a surprised gaze from his classmate. “The Enforcers killed nearly all of the cultists, and two of them are stationed in Bareon for the foreseeable future. All that remains is pushing back the New Growth and waiting for the escaped cultist to surface somewhere else.” He shrugged. “Our time is better spent elsewhere, learning.”
Alistair pressed his lips together, forming a thin line. He didn’t seem content with his answer. He let out a deep, troubled sigh, then stepped back from the railing. “Clearly, my father agrees.” He curtly said before heading back down to the lower decks.
Midhir waited for him to leave before dropping his fake smile. He could see why the young noble wanted to stay in Bareon – it was his home, after all, and his future hold. In a way, it was his responsibility to keep the city and its people safe. But it was also his responsibility to grow and learn, so he could be a good leader.
As things were now, Alistair was too emotional and too indecisive to rule.
Footsteps sounded behind him. “He seemed unhappy,” Arwen softly spoke as she walked up, then leaned on the railing. Her golden hair glimmered under the bright sunlight.
“Bareon is his home.” Midhir shrugged. His gaze remained fixed on her. An unpleasant feeling tugged at his thoughts, demanding attention. He wanted to push it away, but he didn’t.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Arwen nodded with a faint smile on her lips. “It’s a beautiful city – hard to imagine it was once lost to a tear in the veil.” She paused for a moment before lowering her voice. “And to think something similar could have happened had we not intervened.”
Midhir’s brows furrowed. “Indeed,” he spoke, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Isn’t it very lucky that we found the underground temple, and then the altar down there below the inverted lake?” He asked, watching her expression as he spoke. “And Lonan was so adamantly against using the altar too. It’s a good thing you knew more about it than he did.”
Arwen chuckled, her eyelids fluttered as she brushed a few strands of hair aside. “I’m just glad we got out of there in one piece.”
Midhir narrowed his gaze. “I’m glad too.”
Arwen’s smile vanished suddenly as she turned to look at him. “I wanted to apologise.” She said with a clear voice. “When the enforcers faced the false priestess and her men, I used your blood to get her powers to wane. I didn’t ask you – and I didn’t think of the consequences.”
Midhir felt a pit form in his stomach. “What do you mean, what consequences?” he asked with a dreadful voice.
Arwen seemed apologetic as she shrugged. “I don’t know.” She quietly said before drawing a sharp breath. “She had Authority on the chalk roots. The area around that monument had become her domain – or rather, the domain of the Old Faith. Since she acted as the priestess, it followed her commands.” She gulped before continuing to explain. “Since your blood was used to try and awaken the Old God, I thought maybe your Authority would outrank hers. A promise of another sacrifice would probably be more important to the Old God than some priestess.”
Midhir raised his hand to stop her. “Wait – a promise of another sacrifice?” He asked with a wary voice. “All you did was use a little bit of my blood. There was no sacrifice made.”
Arwen pressed her lips together. “… that is what may have some consequences.”
Midhir pressed his hand against his forehead as he took a few steps back. “Oh, gods…” he whispered without thinking. “As if I wasn’t dealing with enough…” He leaned his back against the ship’s mast and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry!” Arwen rushed after him. “It was either that or letting her kill the enforcers and probably drain your blood dry once she figured out who you were.”
“You know a lot about the Old Faith.” He said after a few moments of silence. “A lot more than the historian who dedicated his life to learning about it.” He opened his eyes to see Arwen’s worried expression. “What will those consequences be?”
“I don’t know-“
“Guess!” He pleaded. “You should have some ideas about it, right?”
Arwen sheepishly nodded. “I think I do,” she admitted. “It may simply want more of your blood – that’s the best possibility anyways.”
Midhir scowled. “What’s the worse one?”
Arwen pressed her lips together, clearly conflicted on whether she should speak her mind or not.
“Arwen?” he pressed. “What’s the other possibility?”
The young woman took a deep breath. “Some legends speak of people offering the Great Ones part of their flesh.” She fiddled with her hair. “Others speak of people who offer a part of their soul.”