“Whatever’s out there, in the night, is coming to the capital,” Ahna declared, though the amplitude of her voice did not match the gravity of her words.
Jules sighed again. “What’s next, Ahna?”
Ahna opened her eyes and sat up straight. “I might have a way to stop it.”
“Do tell,” Jules said, not convinced at all.
“Before I tell you, you have to know that this might be our one and only chance, so you have to let me take it.”
Jules bit the inner side of his cheek to silence himself. Ahna was probably about to say something crazy, pitch one of her insane plans. And she knew he would instantly try to talk her out of it. But what good would that do? There was a war at Bravoure’s door. There was a monarch incapable of ruling and a bloodthirsty army that still thought the dokkalfar genocide was a brilliant move. And to make things even worse, there was an undead tide rising, and some kind of Avatar of Death ready to reap the city of what little it had left. So no, he would not dissuade her this time. No matter what she would do or how far she would go.
Whatever it takes.
From one Resistance to another.
Jules’s face softened. His eyes gleamed with a calmer light. “Whatever it takes,” Jules recited. A beautiful smile drew upon his face.
Looking at him, Ahna noticed just how much he had changed. His gaze had hardened. His allure always seemed tense. He even had a new scar above his lip.
“I’m going back to the Dwellunder,” Ahna declared. She expected a rebuttal, but instead, Jules took a deep breath. His curved eyebrow showed that he did not particularly fancy her words, but he remained quiet nonetheless. “There is something there that will lead me to what we need.”
To say he despised that idea was an understatement, but did they really have a choice? Whatever it takes. Jules needed to repeat that mantra to himself long enough until he started believing in it.
Luky was so silent, both Ahna and Jules had almost forgotten about him. He found a few pebbles at his feet, which he cast into the river one by one, without thinking.
Jules looked over his shoulder to look at him. He was not mad anymore. Just...worried. Worried about his favorite catling’s future. Luky deserved much more than what Bravoure had become. Luky deserved to grow up in the Bravoure of legends, the beacon of unity. And it was most certainly not undead or Bravan soldiers that would take that from him.
Jules turned back to lock eyes with the elf. “Godspeed, Ahna,” he bid with a smile. “I trust you know better than anyone what you should do.”
Ahna was surprised by Jules’s reaction. Her eyes rounded, but she eventually smiled back. Then something else popped into her thoughts. “Cayne is right, by the way, about the cultists. And I think I met some of them. I believe the cultists and those followers of Mort are one and the same.”
“I figured,” Jules said with a distant nod. “But what’s their stake in all of this?”
“Maybe it’s exactly what Cayne said. They want Bravoure destroyed.”
“But why?”
“Power?” At that instant, Ahna remembered something the priestess of Mort had said. Her voice had left a remnant echo in her mind. Bravoure’s hour of reckoning has come. “Revenge?”
Jules pushed a flow of air out of his lips. “I bet there are many who want revenge on Bravoure. More than I could count on my hands...and feet!” Jules smirked at that last part.
Gods be praised—his sense of humor had returned!
Ahna chuckled. She wanted to say something else, but Jules laid a hand on her leg.
“Let me handle the city,” he said. There were no tremors in his voice, only the solemn intonation of resolve. “You make your way to the Dwellunder. Find what you need to stop these Mort guys, and come back to me.”
Jules looked over at the river to check on Arrow and Coal. Both steeds were ready to go. They looked at him expectantly.
“I’m never riding a horse and leading one at the same time through a dark forest again,” Jules pledged. “Never make me do that again.” He sent an exaggerated glare toward Ahna before saying, “Let’s go.”
Ahna stood up. She was able to walk now without feeling dizzy. Her migraine was now but a slight headache. It was curious how Jules had almost said the exact same words as her mother in her vision. Let your friends handle the Bravoure part. Let me handle the city. Ahna took that as a sign that her vision had been real. She had to. For Bravoure’s sake, she had to believe it was real. And maybe if it had all been a dream, it had been her own subconscious working to solve this problem.
Because there was indeed something in the Dwellunder that could lead her to that place, the Hollow Earth. Ahna recalled words she had heard on Luna from a being older than gods. The Rover was not to be touched, the Shadow had said. So it had been true. And it made sense that such a soul, having no place to exist, would end up in the plane of waste.
Jules and Luky rode Arrow together, and Ahna was granted partnership with Coal again. Before following the two insurgents onto the plains of Bravoure, she observed them as they rode against the wind. There was something she had not told Jules. Something else her mother had said in her vision.
This is how you allow him to die.
The only way to undo the Undead’s Curse was to let the bearer die. It made sense, of course, to her logical mind. The undead exist because the soul can neither ascend to the Heavens nor descend into Hell. Cedric’s soul had done neither.
Cedric was a fault that had set the Fabric of Realms off course. An error that needed to be rectified. Ahna’s walls protected her from feeling anything at this point, but deep down, the idea of letting him die, after all this time, all these years, was devastating.
7
Wolves
It was on the third floor above ground in the Castle of Gold that most of Bravoure’s leadership, the Senate members, convened. At the end of the hallway, where a long red carpet unfolded underneath an endless series of crimson and gold tapestries, was the wooden door that led to the Chamber of Choices. It was there that all decisions pertaining to Bravoure’s fate were made.
The monarch’s agitated voice could be heard from beyond the door. Her companion, General Corax, reclined in his assigned seat at the varnished oak wood table. They were alone in the Chamber of Choices.
“William, you cannot possibly go through with this,” Azera said. Her severe tone sounded forced. “You will be sending your army to their deaths.”
William Corax, Bravoure’s Great General, the symbol of glory and pride, brushed his black beard with his fingers. The man had long and curly dark brown hair tied in a knot. He had the broad shoulders of a veteran and the wrinkles of a father. His nose peaked down in an aquiline curve. William was born south of Sud, and his tanned skin and wavy hair of the sea showed it.
He took a sip of his drink and placed the cup back on the table. “What does a woman like you know about war?”
Azera swallowed. The general’s words came as a poignant insult. She crossed her arms and stared him down. “Enough is enough, William. I won’t let you force Bravoure into another mistake.”
William chuckled wryly. “Are you referring to the cleansing or Iskala? Because, Azera, I’m confused. Aren’t you supposed to be our monarch? Aren’t you supposed to pledge glory and all of that? To me, it looks like you’re more focused on shame than leadership.”
Azera breathed in and out slowly to keep her calm. She had enough of William. She had enough of all of this. How dare he speak to her that way?
“People are angry,” she accused. “We’re on the verge of civil war, don’t you realize that?”
William frowned and grunted. “That Wolf Pack is weak! Let them roam the sewers like rats. We have an army. We have blackiron.”
“So does Galies. Not blackiron, but they have cannons, assassins, sorcerers—”
General Corax rose to his feet, knocking his chair back, interrupting Azera. “We have a dragon.”
Ah, so there was h
is grand plan! Use the golden dragon that sat there to rot in Sud’s Arena to achieve victory. Corax’s eyes lit with pride. He seemed more than convinced of the declaration of war that dawned.
But Azera was not. She took a step back, her eyes still fixed on the general. “Good luck getting him to fight for you after what was done to him, to his kind,” she scoffed.
“He owes us the least of that.”
William pushed his chair back to the table and turned around. This meeting was over. Only the fading sound of his footsteps from beyond the door lingered.
Azera remained there, her arms crossed. She looked over her shoulder, at the window behind her. She could see the sea far in the distance, despite the clouds of rain that loomed over Bravoure City. The kingdom was at its darkest hour—she had to find a way to stop the general before it was too late.
Jules tethered his horse by the entrance of the Gold Monk. He waited for Luky to get down and headed for the wooden door. He was utterly exhausted and had not said a word since Ahna had left for the south. Luky tailed behind him, his head down, still feeling like he had done something bad. He had let his impulse guide him to follow the mysterious blue elf into the night. He had not thought of the repercussions his actions could have. And how mad Jules would get.
Jules’s sigh made Luky gaze up and meet his eyes. Jules had a smile on his face. He rubbed his hand on the fur of Luky’s head and flattened his ears with a few strokes.
“I’m not angry anymore, Councilor,” Jules said in a warm tone. “But don’t you run off again alone like that.”
Luky’s yellow eyes sparkled, and he stretched his lips in a smile that matched Jules’s. His pink heart-shaped nose twitched with glee.
“Promise!” Luky exclaimed with newfound joy.
Jules took him in his arms. He lifted him up and held him like he once had when Luky had not yet learned how to wield a dagger. Maybe Jules saw a little bit of himself in the catling’s yellow eyes. Luky had been born in rebellion; Jules had joined one so young. The two climbed down the stairs to the basement.
Jules found Cayne in the Gold Monk’s speakeasy, seated at a booth with two men and one woman. They seemed to be in deep conversations. When Cayne noticed Jules and the catling, she motioned for them to come closer.
Jules set Luky on the floor. “Go get some sleep. You need it,” he said. They had, after all, traveled the whole night without sleeping. Luky rubbed his eyes and ambled away in the direction of the dorms. He did not even complain once.
Jules repressed a yawn before reaching Cayne’s table. He recognized two of the people she spoke with. The woman with long red hair and black leathers was a contractor from the mercenary clan of Dalgon. She had tied her hair in a high ponytail that drew out her high cheekbones. She was no elf, but she could have definitely passed as one. The man facing her was none other than the mayor of Sud. A veteran from the Iskalan Conquests, who had witnessed too many atrocities committed by the Bravan Army. The slaughtering of a people, for one. The last man, the one who sat next to Cayne, was a man Jules had never seen before. But he could guess where that man came from. The long and pointy mustache gave it away. The braided goatee was yet another hint. His broad and delicate brown eyes gave him this intense glare. His light brown skin was the final clue.
“Jules,” Cayne began. “You’re familiar with Helena Finch and Edgard Lark.” She extended her hand in the stranger’s direction. “This is Anir Qarqan, he is the chieftain of the Iskalan tribe of Angao.” Anir nodded in Jules’s direction. “His tribe has allied with others, and they wish to join arms with us.”
Jules took the free seat next to Helena. Cayne only noticed now how tired Jules looked.
“You look like shit,” she commented, not caring for the fact that the others heard her most gratifying compliment. “Go get some sleep or something.”
Jules ran his fingers through his blond hair. “Tell me about it,” he said. Then he spotted Cayne’s goblet full of rum on the table, seized it with one hand, and chugged it instantly. He winced, feeling the liquid flare against the sides of his throat. It was a great feeling. Exactly what he needed.
“You’re welcome,” Cayne said with a chuckle. “Anyway, the clans are coming together. The Wolf Pack is coming together.”
“Hang on, Falco,” Edgard said. “We’re not all here yet.”
“But it’s a start,” Cayne affirmed.
Jules pointed at the four. “When did this even happen anyway?”
Anir remained silent. Helena stared at Jules with her piercing green eyes. Edgard was busy fiddling with his cup of tea while Cayne caught the attention of an attendant and ordered some bread and oil.
She turned back to Jules and cleared her throat. “The threat of war indeed incited some of us to unite.” She pursed her lips and looked at the table. “But Edgard is right. Not all Wolves are willing to fight. Not now.”
Jules yawned again. He really needed sleep. But he was not done here. “Even Iskalan forces have joined you,” he observed, then he nodded at Anir. “That’s remarkable.”
It was. Iskala was a land of ice and nomads, not a land of war. That was the entire reason why it had been crushed so easily by the Bravan Army.
Anir responded with a single, obliged nod.
“Tomorrow, there will be a convoy sent to Sud,” Cayne explained. “They will hold the declaration of war.”
Edgard leaned in closer to the table. “They will board a ship to Galies. Who knows, maybe some of the guards will make a pitstop at the Arena.”
“Why’s that?” Jules wondered with a frown.
Cayne sighed and welled up her sarcasm. “They’re probably going to beg for a golden dragon.”
Jules slid his arms on the table, and his forehead crashed on the crude wood. He inhaled deeply and exhaled and groaned at the same time.
Good luck with that, he thought. Jules’s memories took his mind to an old image of what he remembered of Sonny. Ahna’s little brother—handsome, if he may say—who was afraid of everything. He had never really spoken to him. He recalled Thamias being shy and silent most of the time. In these two past years trapped in New Bravoure, Jules had not yet ventured to Sud. But he had heard the stories. What people said about the golden dragon and the dark elf champion that ripped his opponents apart. People loved to see a dark elf fight. An enraged animal dancing for the hungry crowd. Most souls still alive had never seen a dark elf before. But they damned well loved seeing one with blood all over himself. If they only knew the Arena’s dragon and the dokkalfar gladiator were one and the same…
“We’re going to target the convoy,” Cayne announced.
Jules instantly raised his head, realizing he had almost fallen asleep to his whirling thoughts. Something else hit him. What Ahna had discovered at the ruins. He had to tell Cayne about it, but she seemed too busy with other plans to worry about that right now.
“I’m sending a few men to take it down,” she added.
“My men will help,” Helena added. Her booming voice shook Jules awake. When she saw the disoriented look on his face, she cast a suggestive smile in his direction. “Do you need someone to bring you to bed, Jules?” she teased.
“If it’s your brother, yes,” Jules retorted.
Helena laughed as Jules counted just how many times she had hit on him in the past. Edgard chuckled nervously. Cayne simply raised an eyebrow, but Jules could swear Anir had a faint smile on his face.
He would tell Cayne about the undead, but not right now. He needed to think first how he would exactly deliver the news, and he was way too tired to do it in an elaborate fashion.
Jules rose to his feet and clapped decisively once in his hand. “Alright, I’m off to bed. Come get me when you need me, Cayne, but please give me at least one hour!”
He laid a brotherly hand on Cayne’s shoulder before heading beyond the arch in the back, toward the exit tunnel. He made his way to his room, where he found the door ajar. Jules frowned, wondering if he had left the door ope
n. He pushed it slightly to peek inside, then he noticed the furball that lay on his bed. Luky was wrapped in cotton sheets, with little snores escaping his nostrils. Jules smiled, observing the boy-lynx in this tender moment. Luky meant more to him than he would admit. He was the councilor of his memories, but he was also the sindur catling of his present. The cub he had practically raised and trained for two years. Like a little brother, perhaps. No—like a son.
Jules undid his leather tunic and pants. He stood in the middle of the room in his underwear, trying not to wake the boy-lynx who seemed caught in dreams. He looped his clothes over the nearest chair and headed to the side room where he could get a bucket of water to clean himself.
While he kept his hands busy with a wet linen towel, his mind traveled far, far into the past. Further than the memories of Luna. Even further than the Resistance. Jules was but a boy when he lost his parents. He could barely remember their names. Damien and Zina Halcyon, traders in the city of Dalgon. Jules had been taken under the Resistance’s wing at the age of thirteen Sols. He had known nothing else but the war. He had first been driven by the thirst for vengeance until the Mother Divine at the time, Astea, had taught him to let go of his pain. And to use its mark as guidance.
Perhaps Jules saw in Luky what Astea had seen in him. Even if this sindur cub descended from a line of rebirths after rebirths, he still was but a boy today. And a boy needed a parent. Jules had lost his, but Astea had been like a mother to him. Maybe he could be a father to Luky, even if he had no idea what a father was supposed to do. He grew up without one, so he would be the best one he could be. And that was the whole reason why he needed to get Bravoure out of the hole it had dug itself into.
The sun was about to set over the plains of Bravoure. Ahna could feel its golden light fading behind her. She loped along the coast, toward the edge of the forest that separated the capital from Sud. North of where she and Coal galloped was the Chasm, the fissure in the ground that led deep beneath it. It was a rift caused long ago by the tremors that birthed the mountains of Gurdal. It is through this same rift that the dokkalfar found a way home. The Chasm was the entrance to the Dwellunder.
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