Thanks to my beta reader and editor, GlassThreads!

Tessia Eralith

Arthur always seemed so far away. From the moment I’d met him, I’d struggled–clawed and scraped and heaved my way forward, just for the chance to stand beside him. Yet for every step forward I took, he leapt five, leaving me behind; never granting me the chance to reach his level. To say that I had made it.

And as I cradled his body in my arms–breathing once more, as if blessed by an angel–he felt so small. Not the broad, impossibly strong warrior-mage. Not the Lance, the general, or the quadra-elemental. He was so painfully human. Not the larger-than-life shadow he cast.

He was just… just Art. I clung to him, my fingers digging into his skin as I held on. I was afraid. Afraid to let go. That if I let his body shift, he’d just… vanish. Disappear again, leaving me alone. Leaving me cold.

I stared mutely at Spellsong’s back as he limped away, the mage appearing as if he was being carried by someone. And beside me, the words he’d uttered–the strange, nonsensical words–had made Sylvie stumble backward in shock and horror.

“By my grandfather,” she cursed. “By all the dragons of the Indrath. Oh, no,” she said, curling inward on herself as whatever Spellsong had said rattled her so, so deeply. She sounded scared. I hadn’t even known she could speak until recently, but the tremble in her voice sounded so wrong.

“What… What was he talking about?” I asked, my mouth feeling as stuffed with cotton as I clutched Arthur’s body. He felt so heavy. I was used to him hugging me, holding me in a way that made me feel safe. But his arms were limp. His smile–which lit up the world and banished the darkness in my life–was a simple pinched line. “What… reincarnation? Second lives? And who is King Grey?”

It had all happened so fast. I couldn’t even begin to process it all. After my fight with Spellsong, I’d taken Caria, Darvus, and Stannard up one of the many branching pathways that led up toward the surface from the boss room. Captain Drogo had managed to carve away a small hole through the rubble that had blocked their forward path, and I’d given him a hurried report before using a transmission scroll I kept in reserve to send an emergency message to the Council.

But then I’d felt the explosion of power that seemed to grip the entire dungeon in its icy claws. It had felt like my heart was being seared; that despite my distance, I was standing right next to a star.

And I’d turned back. Against Drogo’s protests, against all rational thought, I’d surged back toward where Spellsong and Art battled. I didn’t know why: some inborn instinct, part of me knowing that Art needed me. Maybe the foolish, stupid thoughts of a teenage girl. But I couldn’t leave Art down below to face that power without me.

And when I’d lowered myself down through the expansive hole in the bottom of the decimated boss room and slowed my fall with wind magic, I’d seen Arthur facing off against that Asclepius hybrid. The levels of power being thrown around had sucked the breath from my lungs, robbing me of any sort of sense. I’d felt doubt, then. As both combatants radiated power fit for the asura themselves, I’d recognized what I was. A foolish, foolish girl trying to make herself seem more important. Bigger; stronger, worthy.

But what was I except a speck compared to such power? How could I ever hope to catch up to Arthur, to stand by his side, when this was the extent of his strength?

And then Arthur had fallen, and every self-deprecating thought in my mind had washed away. I knew it from looking at him, from pulling him to my chest. He was dying, and… and nothing Sylvie or I could do had helped. Those brilliant cerulean eyes of his would go dull and lifeless, like all the soldiers I’d failed to protect.

But then Spellsong had stepped forward, asking what we were willing to sacrifice.

“Sylvie,” I said again, if just to hear something. To push away the encroaching silence that held us all like a vise. “Sylvie, I… I don’t understand,” I begged, feeling heady. Lost, like I was a kid again and stranded in the midst of Elshire so far from home. “What is going on? What does all of this mean? With Arthur and… him having some sort of other life?”

The massive black dragon only turned to look at me, her topaz eyes carrying a deep, endless abyss within them. She didn’t speak, only continued to stare at me with that sad, solemn expression.

And as I focused on those eyes, it all started to align. My thoughts had been like grains of sand swirled through a glass of water, each flitting speck unable to be captured and maintained by the constant flurry of information and overwhelming events transpiring. But as the silence lingered, each grain began to settle into place along the seabed of my mind. They formed an image that was strangely clear. That made everything fit, and…

“Oh,” I said weakly, feeling a shock of cold run through my body. I thought my face must have been as white as bone. “Oh.”

A memory popped into my head of its own accord. I remembered how I’d listened in on Arthur and Grandpa’s conversation in the depths of the castle about Cynthia Goodsky’s death. Grandpa had been against telling me, of course. He wanted to keep the news of my mentor’s death from me. To protect me.

And Arthur had told me that the reason Virion didn’t tell me–that he wouldn’t have told me, until whenever he couldn’t hide it–was because he thought I’d do something stupid. Like a child.

At that moment, I’d been so furious. Arthur was younger than me, wasn’t he? I’d worked and worked and worked to be seen by those around me as an adult. So that… So that I could stand beside him, and all those around me who constantly sacrificed themselves. So that I wouldn’t just be another damsel to protect.

“Because you are a child!” Arthur’s angry, enraged voice echoed across my mind. I’d rarely ever heard him raise his voice, and the sharpness of it drove a lance of pain through my skull. The recollected words painted my vision in a blur as tears began to gather at the edge of my eyes.

I stared down at the boy I still clung to as he rested in my lap, feeling my lip tremble. But he wasn’t a boy, was he? He never had been.

“He wanted to tell you for so, so long,” Sylvie said quietly from above me, her voice soft and sad.

“Then why didn’t he?” I asked, my voice coming out raw as tears streamed down my cheeks. I didn’t know what I felt. Betrayal? Despair? Or anger? Maybe some mix of them all? “We grew up together. We were as close as… as close as family.”

“He was afraid,” Sylvie said, her head lowering so it was just above Art’s. Her words pierced my mind, spreading through me like molten blood. “More afraid of telling you than nearly anything in either life he lived.”

All around us, lingering fires still burned.

“He’s only ever told two people about his previous life,” the dragon eventually said, her voice a solemn croon. “And none since.”

I knew who they were the moment Sylvie said the words. Alice and Reynolds Leywin–Arthur’s parents. I’d been able to tell that something had changed between them. After he’d gone off to train, the Leywins had been practically devastated. I’d assumed at first that they were grieving his departure; that they couldn’t wait for him to return. Every conversation I’d had with them about Arthur felt stilted and dry, as if I were stepping over unlit tinder just waiting for a spark. And when Art had returned from his training, a sort of tension electrified the room whenever he was present with them. If I hadn’t known Art for so long, I might not have been able to tell, but…

“They rejected him,” I said into the smoke, suddenly sure of my words. “He told them right before he left for Epheotus, didn’t he?”

Sylvie didn’t respond. And in that quiet answer, I had a single thought.

He was afraid, I realized. Afraid that I’d reject him.

A stilted laugh escaped my lips as I clutched Arthur closer. Sweet, self-sacrificing Arthur, who always worried for others before himself. Arthur, who always put my safety before his. Arthur, who could do anything he set his mind to. Swordsmanship, magic, troop tactics, speeches.

And Arthur, who in the core of his heart, was afraid of what I might say in response to his great secret.

Sylvie stared at me askance as the laughter–a strange mix of ironic, maddened, and sorrowful–tumbled from my lips. “Why do you laugh?” she asked, tilting her head. “I’ll admit, I’m better at being a person than Arthur is most times, what with all his emotional suppression but… I don’t understand. It’s not funny, is it?”

I sniffled, wiping a tear away from my eye. I felt a smile stretch across my face, and I couldn’t decide if it was from happiness or sorrow. “He’s afraid that I would reject him,” I said, my breathing finally coming back under control as the irony of it all–the true, painful irony–cemented itself in my mind. “Sylvie, I’ve been practically throwing myself at Arthur since I was eight. And he thought I would…”

I felt my smile falter and slip. I’d always thought I wasn’t pretty enough. Or maybe I wasn’t strong enough. Or perhaps I needed to do some sort of elaborate ritual to prove myself old enough for him. But if this was the answer all along, then…

My tears continued to streak down my cheeks as I leaned forward, pressing my lips to Arthur’s forehead. I squeezed my eyes shut, immersing myself in the sound of his steady breathing. I used that. I held onto it as I counted to ten over and over in my head. Grandpa had taught me this when I was young as a technique to clear the mind of excess thoughts. He’d always said it was the only thing that had gotten him through the war with the humans so long ago. The ability to think clearly.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

And as my mind cleared, there was one other thing I recognized I didn’t understand. So, so many things I didn’t understand. Spellsong’s parting words, where he’d pointed at me as if he were a judge levying condemnation. My core ached from where that dark mass had exited it, the Elderwood Guardian’s Beast Will strangely light and unresponsive. “Sylvie, who is your father?” I asked aloud, not moving from where I kept my forehead pressed to Arthur’s.

There was a long, dreadful silence as I waited for the dragon to reply. The only sounds I could hear were the crackling of fires and the occasional tumble of loose stone around us as this strange underground city’s buildings collapsed from the aftermath of Spellsong and Arthur’s fight.

Back when I’d been the President of the Student Council in Xyrus Academy, there had been times when I’d cornered noble brats breaking rules. Sometimes there were idiots who would graffiti over the Triunion memorial. Or sometimes spoiled upstarts who thought they could get away with picking on some of the elven or dwarven students.

I had a specific routine I played out with them. I’d ask them what they were doing, of course, using my best “Student Council President voice.” They’d stutter and make an excuse, or perhaps try and brush it off. But we both knew what was happening, so I would continue to press until I got my answers, my chin held high and my arrogance writ clear on my face.

It was strange to admit, but those moments made me feel so mature. I was the adult in those situations. Even now that I recognized how childish I had acted in intimidating a confession, the moments were still crystal clear in my head.

But as I waited for Sylvie to answer a question I suspected I already knew the answer to, I felt decidedly small. Weak. Insignificant.

“Agrona Vritra,” the dragon said. Her voice was small enough it could hide amidst the low grass of the Elshire forest, undetected by all but those with the greatest senses. And like a serpent hiding in the dark, the words sent venom through my veins and into my heart.

—

It was a long time before reinforcements finally reached us. I spent the preceding hours in mute silence, trying to wrap my head around everything. So when I saw a dozen rope ladders drop from the hole in the ceiling far above, unfurling themselves as if in slow motion, I found myself grateful for their intervention. Not long after, a team of mages hurried down the ladders, all outfitted in armor and ready for battle.

I spotted Grandpa first, but not because he was familiar. No–he looked decidedly unfamiliar. Overtop his usual loose robes, Grandpa wore plate gauntlets and greaves that gave light protection, the dull metal seeming to glow in the low light of the underground city.

Around his shoulders was a fur mantle with a long, red cape that made him seem almost regal, a word I rarely ever used to describe him. His expression was a severe mask of determination and suppressed awe as he stared around at the aftermath of Art and Spellsong’s battle. Even now, hours later, the lingering traces of mana and remnants of their destruction still made my temples ache when I focused for too long on them. I found myself subconsciously straightening from where I’d been slouching, the aura of quiet resolve and battle-ready strength practically palpable on my skin. This wasn’t my Grandpa. No, this was Commander Virion, leader of the Triunion forces of Dicathen. The elf who kept us all together as a continent.

And then he spotted me. Sheltered in Sylvie’s dark wings and with Art held protectively in my grasp amidst fields of ice, fire, and rubble, we must have appeared quite the sight. And I saw how his expression softened, even as it warred with worry and fear.

Grandpa jumped the rest of the way to the ground, clearing the fifty-foot drop with a bare application of wind magic. The rest of the accompanying mages followed suit, each landing with a solid thump of metal and armor as they arrayed themselves around my grandfather.

Grandpa turned to a few of the leading mages, each covered head to toe in armor that marked them as elite guards. “Delta squad three, four, and five,” he said, pointing to each battle group in turn, “Perform a perimeter sweep with your specialized magic. Make sure there isn’t anything lurking or ready to fight us. If you sense anything amiss, report back to me immediately.”

Each of the mages nodded in turn, then began to fan out in small groups as they started trying to cover the perimeter. Virion watched them go for a moment, his gaze hard.

And then he turned back to me. I felt a chill run down my spine as he approached. As he neared, he nodded respectfully to Sylvie, who responded with a bare nod of her own.

He let out a weary sigh as he laid eyes on Arthur, his expression pinching slightly. “When I received your report that Lance Arthur was engaged with Spellsong, I immediately prepared a contingent of elite mages to assess the scene, and if necessary, try and assist in battle,” he said seriously. “But it appears that was not entirely necessary. Does he need medical attention, soldier?” he questioned firmly, staring down at me.

I swallowed. Grandpa had promised to treat me like a soldier. It was what we had agreed upon as one of the conditions for joining this war. Yet I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into his arms. To be comforted and told everything would be alright. That the darkness was just a children’s tale; not the reality I had to face every morning.

“I do not believe so,” I said shakily, keeping my chin high. I must have looked like a mess. No doubt my eyes were still rimmed red from crying. My hair was a mess, and I was caked with dirt and grime. My clothes bore tatters on every inch, revealing dark bruises and splashes of blood. “But it would be a good idea to get him checked, Commander,” I continued, hoping the tremble in my voice wasn’t too obvious.

There’s no point, Tessia, a voice that sounded too much like the “Student Council President” said. They’ve already seen you graceless and battered. You can’t act like a princess now.

I pushed those thoughts away as a few emitters approached hastily, both wearing long robes and bearing top-of-the-line mana-focusing wands. I felt a surge of reluctance as I gently released my hold on Arthur, allowing them to take him away for treatment. The healers started in surprise as Sylvie shifted, giving me an affectionate nuzzle before trailing after them like a grim shadow. Even covered in blood, she made the emitters quake nervously in their boots.

And without her sheltering wings and the warmth of Art’s body, I felt cold.

Grandpa knelt in front of me, taking me by the shoulders and looking me deeply in the eyes. I stared back, the weight of all I’d learned–all I’d witnessed in these past few hours–covering me like the world’s greatest funeral shroud.

Something in Grandpa’s eyes cracked at whatever he saw in my own, his fingers clenching on my shoulders. “Oh, little one,” he said softly, pulling me into a hug.

I tried not to cry again. I was a soldier, not a little girl. I shouldn’t get weepy over something as trivial as the sensation of my jaw resting on Grandpa’s shoulder, or his strong arms as they wrapped me in an embrace.

I failed. Tears streamed out of my eyes anew, regardless of the many mages streaming about who could see. I clawed at my Grandpa’s back, the weight of it all suffocating me as if I were sinking in quicksand. Each event in the day was like another hammer blow slammed into my gut, driving the nails of pain and confusion deeper and deeper with each strike.

Grandpa’s soft embrace reminded me of when things weren’t so hellish; when every day wasn’t spent in war. I was reminded of my childhood in Elenoir and the days of training under his careful tutelage in mana manipulation.

How naive I was then, I thought with a wrenching sob. How truly naive.

It took me some time to gather myself. Grandpa was kind, allowing me this time to just let it all out. But I wasn’t just Tessia, granddaughter to Virion. I was also Princess of Elenoir and a soldier in this war. And I had critical information to convey.

“Little one,” Grandpa said softly, pulling away from me, “What happened here? I heard from Captain Drogo that you and your team were targeted; attacked specifically. It appears that Arthur somehow knew or predicted this, but what happened after?”

In that instant, I thought about telling Virion everything. Even the words that I’d sworn on his name. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t say everything here. Not where there were so many ears present.

“Spellsong infiltrated my squad, posing as a new recruit,” I said after I took a moment to gather my thoughts. ”I figured out that he was an Alacryan, but didn’t realize just who he was. It… didn’t go well for us. And at the end…”

I swallowed, my mind flashing to the horrible, wrenching agony that tore itself through my body as Spellsong did whatever it was to my core. At that moment, I didn’t understand what exactly was happening: I only felt fear and terror. But combined with what he had said afterward and the writhing black mana that he’d pulled from my core…

I shuddered imperceptibly. Somehow, my Beast Will had been infected. Tainted. And Spellsong had cleansed it.

“Art intervened,” I said, unable to look my grandpa directly in the eyes. Instead, they tracked the emitters as they hovered over Art’s body, casting their spells and working to assess the Lance’s injuries. “I didn’t see the fight, just the end of it. Art just… fell from the sky. And Spellsong left once the stalemate was reached.”

Virion’s brows furrowed as he stared at me, sensing that I was leaving a great deal out. “Spellsong did nothing else?” he questioned, sounding skeptical. “Nothing noteworthy? Or said anything that could hint at his motives for trying to get to you?”

He knows something I don’t, I realized as his gaze probed me for answers. Something about Spellsong and the Alacryans.

I made a show of looking at the mages around us, before turning back to my grandpa. “Not here,” I said quietly, my voice shaking. “Not right now.”

Grandpa stared at me for a second, his eyes darkening in a way that scared me. He opened his mouth to respond, but one of the emitters who was tending to Arthur rushed over with hurried steps, their face a mask of confusion and worry.

“Commander Virion, sir,” he said in a clipped tone, standing straight and tall. “There’s something strange with Lance Arthur’s body. We don’t know how to explain it, but we’re reaching dead ends in every spell we try to diagnose him.”

Virion gave me a stern look, before orienting on the emitter. “What is it, soldier?” my grandpa said, his short gray hair seeming to lighten even further as worry threatened to escape his voice.

The healer frowned, seeming more confused than worried. “None of our spells can find purchase on him, Commander,” they said after a moment. “One of the things we need to do before we heal any patient is assess their status so we know what to do and how to correctly proceed with treatment. This usually involves threading a spell into their bodies.”

Grandpa nodded, and I found myself listening with rapt attention. My initial worry had simmered away as the healer seemed more confused and bewildered than panicked, leaving me to question whatever this was.

“But whenever we try to push our mana through General Arthur’s body, we just… lose control. It’s as if it’s suddenly not our mana anymore. We don’t think the mana disappears or is really absorbed, exactly. It’s like our connection to our spells is just severed the moment it enters Lance Arthur’s body. Outwardly, he appears to be in perfect health. This doesn’t feel like some sort of malevolent force, but…”

“This effect isn’t something you must worry about, healer,” Sylvie’s voice rumbled out tiredly. The man startled, his eyes blowing wide as the obsidian dragon loomed over us. We were cast in a long, dark shadow that seemed to move and twist with its own life as the scaled beast blotted out the light. “During the course of his battle, my bond manifested a new power. An asuran weapon that is fused with his very body, down to the cells.”

The healer blinked rapidly, seeming overwhelmed as they tried to process that the looming dragon was speaking to them. “O-Oh,” they said nervously. “Then I suppose, mighty dragon, that he is well?”

Sylvie snorted, her topaz eyes flashing. “I allowed your magics to touch him to confirm what I already knew.” She turned knowing eyes toward me next. “Your priority should be the princess now,” she said, her voice a low, irritated growl.

The poor emitter swallowed, chancing a glance at Virion. My grandpa simply nodded, bowing slightly. “It will be done, Lady Sylvie,” he said respectfully. “Is there anything else you wish to tell us?”

Sylvie’s tail flicked, smashing against the ground in an aggravated way as we locked eyes. She wasn’t angry at anyone, I knew. She felt as I did. Powerless. Confused. Scared. And when a dragon felt fear, it manifested as fits of anger.

“Princess Tessia can brief you once you all return to the castle on what she can afford to say,” she said, turning her massive bulk back toward where Art–where King Grey–laid in slumber. “I must tend to my bond now.”

Sylvie’s shadow trailed after her like a cloak as she plodded back toward Arthur like a guardian deity. It made a striking image–the battered dragon, nearly broken from battle–settling down to shelter their bond in a protective embrace.

Virion exhaled as the emitter began to run his healing magic over my body, soothing my wounds and closing what cuts, scrapes, and injuries weren’t already mended. A somber atmosphere rested over everything around us like a heavy layer of snow after a winter storm. Grandpa understood that, even if Arthur, Sylvie, and I made it out of this battle alive, it wasn’t a true victory.

“We are going to return to the castle,” Virion said as the healer left me. “And when we get there, I will receive a full mission report from you.”