"And we came as killers." Meliora lowered her head. "We—her sons and daughters—came here not as priests, not as holy pilgrims, but as warriors. We do not cleanse Requiem with light but with blood."
Jaren nodded, his eyes damp, and his voice was soft. "Thus has been our lot. In all our history, men of peace—from King Aeternum to King Benedictus to Queen Fidelity—were forced to blow dragonfire. To raise swords. To become warriors. Killers. Our enemies not only slew our children, but they forced us to slay theirs. That has ever been our greatest curse."
Meliora stared at her father, eyes burning with tears. "But they did not slay their own people!" Her voice rose louder, hoarse. "Vale slays the seraphim with pride, perhaps even with a sort of painful joy. But . . . . oh, Father. The seraphim are my people, just as much as the Vir Requis are. As our ancestors beheld the destruction of Requiem, here do I behold the destruction of Saraph. How are we different from Ishtafel who slew so many in Tofet? Here we too kill. How can we rebuild a holy, pure kingdom when so much blood stains our hands?"
Jaren stared ahead into the distance. The forests rolled for many leagues, fading into hazy mist, and the mountains soared to their left. Even as they flew here, the warriors of Requiem were battling several last seraphim who flew above the mountains.
"We will not be those who rebuild Requiem," Jaren finally said, speaking softly. "Not my generation, nor yours. We have bled too much. We have spilled too much blood. Our souls are forever scarred, our hands forever bloodstained. Our task will not be to rebuild Requiem, daughter. That has never been our task. We—the generation of the whip, of the desert, of the collar—are those tasked with staining our hands, our souls, our homeland. Only those born here, in a land we kill for, can rebuild the marble halls of our forebears with clean hands and clean souls."
Meliora closed her eyes as she flew, and Leyleet's words again echoed in her ears.
You will never see Requiem.
Perhaps Meliora finally understood that curse. She had seen the land of Requiem, but Requiem had always been more than soil and sky. Requiem had always been something beyond the physical. An idea. A dream. A home. Peace. These Meliora would never see, for even should she claim this land and defeat Ishtafel, her soul could no longer be mended. Her hands could no longer be cleansed of blood, even should she cleanse Requiem of the seraphim.
So no, I will never see the true Requiem, a Requiem rebuilt and pure. I will forever be the warrior, the column leading the camp, the one who slew.
"Then let us sin," Meliora whispered and looked at her father again, and tears streamed down her cheeks. "Let us kill. Let us bear this burden. We will sin so that our children do not. We will kill so our children can live in peace. We will destroy so they can build."
They flew onward until Meliora saw it ahead—a great forest of birches, their branches still coated with snow. Countless birches, the holy trees of Requiem, spreading for miles. They had reached the fabled King's Forest, the heart of their nation.
We are near King's Column.
Shrieks sounded behind her, and Meliora cringed. As she flew closer toward the pillar of Requiem, so did her brother.
With blood and fire, the Vir Requis had found Requiem. Soon the great battle to reclaim it would flare.
VALE
"We're near." Til, flying as an orange dragon, pointed with her claws. "We'll be there by sundown."
Gliding on a cold wind, Vale stared ahead but saw only leagues of snowy birches rolling into the horizon. It was so damn cold here in the north. Vale could not imagine how the ancient Vir Requis had ever tolerated this weather. For the first time in his life, he saw snow and ice, felt the chill of true winter, as cruel as the blazing sun of Saraph in the south. Yet he would endure a thousand blizzards for just a sight of it on the horizon—a marble pillar rising, the heart of his nation, the column of his first king.
He turned to look at the orange dragon again. "You saw it," he said. "You actually saw King's Column."
The orange dragon lowered her head. Til had joined their forces on the southern coast, along with her younger brother, a small black dragon named Bim. At first, Vale had not believed her story. Vir Requis who had survived the fall five hundred years ago, who had hidden here all this time, no collars around their necks, avoiding both death and slavery? It seemed impossible, yet for the past few days, Til had predicted every landmark—every old ruin, every mountain, every river and plain. All Vale knew of Requiem's landscape came from old maps; Til knew the kingdom like her own scales.
"I saw King's Column." Til lowered her head, and smoke trailed from her nostrils in two thin streams. "It still stands, but the seraphim have profaned it. They painted its white marble with the blood of dragons, and they hung the skeletons of Vir Requis from it on chains, turning it into a macabre maypole."
Vale grimaced, remembering the mountains of dead the seraphim had raised in Tofet. If some guilt at slaying the immortals had filled him over the past few days, it now burned away in his rage.
"We will cleanse the column," he said. "And we will build many more columns around it, raise the old palace again, and worship the stars. We—"
A yawn interrupted his words.
Til stared at him with wide eyes, then laughed. Vale felt the scales on his cheeks heat up.
"When's the last time you've slept?" Til asked.
Vale considered. "I can't remember. Over Castellum Luna?"
Her eyes widened further. "That was two days ago! And—" Now it was she who yawned. "I don't think I've slept since then either."
Vale looked over his shoulder at his back. Lucem and Elory lay there, cuddled and sleeping soundly. They had been sleeping there since before dawn. Vale curled up his tail and tapped them.
They rose, yawning and stretching and blinking.
"Hey!" Lucem said, shoving Vale's spiky tail away. "I was sleeping."
"You've been sleeping all day," Vale said. "Take a turn flying."
The young man grumbled but dutifully leaped off Vale's back, and Elory followed. Both turned into dragons. Quickly, several young dragons above—Vale recognized Meliora's former handmaidens, as well as the young Bim—landed on Elory's back, shifted into human form, and instantly fell asleep.
That left Lucem's red, scaly back. Vale flew higher, dipped down onto the red dragon's back, and released his magic. He lay down in human form, his muscles aching.
The orange dragon hovered above, released her magic, and landed on the dragon too. For the first time, Vale got to see Til's human form up close. She was a young woman with long hair the color of her scales. She wore pelts of fur, many leather belts and straps, and assorted plates of rusted armor, no one piece matching the other. A sword and quiver hung at her side, and she carried a bow.
Vale knew that he was gaunt, haggard, bruised, that he looked about as healthy as any man who had lived through slavery might look. Til looked just as haggard and weary. Ash stained her freckled skin, dry leaves filled her fiery hair, and haunting pain filled her eyes.
Her life here in Requiem was no easier than ours, Vale thought. And yet she is beautiful. And noble. As fair and proud as Queen Gloriae of old.
Sitting before him on the dragon, she reached out and touched his neck, her fingers slender and callused. The skin around his throat was still chafed from the cursed collar.
"I'm sorry, Vale," she whispered.
He tilted his head. "For what?"
She looked down at the forest. "For not being there with you. With all of you. For hiding here. While so many Vir Requis suffered in slavery." She looked back at him, eyes damp. "I should have been there with you, fighting the seraphim. My surname is Eleison; I am descended from the great knights of Ancient Requiem, who had fought forever at the side of your family, the Aeternums. Yet . . . I failed my duty. I failed to protect you." She lowered her eyes. "My family remained here and hid. We should have been there to overthrow the shackles with Meliora. With you."
Vale caressed a bruise on her cheek. "You
too bear the marks of war, of Requiem's suffering. I do not think, my lady, that you fought any less nobly, nor that your task was any less important for our people. In years to come, if we survive this war, the books will speak proudly of the courage of Eleison—the family that stayed, that survived, that fought for Requiem for five hundred years in shadow."
She yawned again. "I fought in shadow. Now I will sleep in daylight." She lay down. "And you sleep too!"
He lay down beside her. Lucem's back wasn't particularly wide, forcing Vale and Til to press together, slinging their limbs across each other. Her red hair tickled his forehead, and their faces were but an inch apart.
"Sleep well, Vale Aeternum, my prince," Til whispered, smiled, and touched his cheek. "Dream of dragons."
"Sleep well, my lady," he replied. "Dream of something nicer than dragons. I suggest fluffy bunnies."
She laughed softly and slept, her arms around him.
Vale was weary yet sleep eluded him. He lay on his side on the red scales, holding Til close.
If I sleep, she'll fall off the dragon, he thought. I have to protect her. To hold her close. Or she'll fall. She'll die. I'll lose her like I lost Tash, like I lost my Mother, and—
He clenched his jaw. The pain flared through him.
Again Vale saw it, the sight he had never stopped seeing. Ishtafel thrusting his spear, impaling Tash, and the young woman dying in his arms, smiling softly, her soul departing.
Vale's chest began to tighten, his heart to beat faster, his mind to storm with grief. Remembering Tash's death seemed worse than all his battles, and in his mind, he saw the rest of them dying. Til slipping from his grasp and falling. Meliora burning. Elory perishing under the lance. Countless dragons dying before the harpy horde and—
He forced himself to breathe.
Breath after breath.
He looked at Til again. She still slept, smiling gently. The wind ruffled her hair, and she nestled closer to him, her leg tossed across him. As Vale gazed at her, slowly his anxiety faded, replaced with soothing warmth.
Til is still alive, he thought. So are my sisters and father. So is our nation. There is still hope here, still life, still love.
He closed his eyes, and he slept too, but he did not dream.
ELORY
Blood.
Searing sunlight.
The crack of whips on flesh.
With cries of agony, with sand and tar, with twisted shoulders and breaking backs, the children of Requiem toiled.
"Faster!"
The flaming whips flew, ripping through skin.
"Up!"
The chains rattled. Slaves fell. Masters roared.
"Toil!"
Elory cried out in pain. She struggled to walk across bubbling bitumen that burned her soles. Chained to her neck, the yoke nearly crushed her shoulders. The baskets of bitumen swayed from the yoke, their fumes burning her nostrils. The whips of fire lashed, again and again, tearing into her back. She screamed. She wept. And around her they died. Her dear friend Mayana. Her mother. A hundred thousand others.
"You will be mine," Ishtafel said in his chamber of gold and jewels. The tall, handsome prince reached out to caress her. "You will be my slave. Your body will belong to me."
Elory trembled, begging, but he showed her no mercy. He hurt her. He burned in fire, rising, covered in metal, shrieking for her blood, and all of Requiem burned around Elory.
"We see it!" cried a voice.
"They have defiled it."
"Curse them! Curse the seraphim!"
The voices danced around her, torn in mourning, and a cold wind moaned.
Elory opened her eyes, shuddering. She forced a deep breath.
A dream. Just a dream.
She was in her human form, lying on a dragon. When she looked up, she saw a night sky strewn with stars, brightest among them the Draco constellation. The moon shone there too, full and silvery. Many dragons flew all around, fire flaring in their mouths, crying out.
"Curse the seraphim!"
Elory blinked, turned around, and stared north.
She lost her breath.
Her hands curled into fists.
With a deep breath, she leaped off the dragon she rode, shifted into her own dragon form, and rose higher.
Curse them.
Ahead of her, it rose from the forest, hundreds of feet tall, the moonlight upon it. King's Column.
In the old tales they had told in Tofet, King's Column was a great monument, purest white, rising from the forest as a beacon for all Vir Requis. Elory's ancestors, King Aeternum and Queen Laira, had raised the column to summon all those hunted for their magic, and the stars had blessed the column with their magic. So long as a Vir Requis lived in the world, the column would stand. Through endless wars—against the demons, the griffins, the phoenixes, and many other enemies—this column had stood.
Like many others before them, the seraphim could not fell nor even scratch King's Column. Yet they could profane it. Even in the moonlight, Elory could see that old blood stained the marble, hiding its shine. Many chains were attached to the column's crest, draping downward toward the forest like ropes from a tent pole. Upon those chains they hung—hundreds of skeletons. The skeletons of Vir Requis.
Requiem's greatest artifact had become a monument to death.
Elory expected to feel rage. All around her, the dragons blasted their fire in fury, and voices cried out for revenge. Elory wanted to feel that anger. She wanted to feel hatred.
But more than anything, she felt grief.
She didn't know who those dead Vir Requis were. The original inhabitants of Requiem, their bones hanging here for five hundred years? More resistors like Til, those who had stayed and fought?
Each had dreams, hopes, people they loved, Elory thought, staring at the skeletons. They did not deserve this.
"We'll bury them," Elory said, flying toward the column. "We'll bury them with honor."
Lucem flew up to help her, and soon other dragons joined their task. Elory had spent years burying the dead in Tofet; she did not shy away from these bones. For long hours, the dragons labored, unchaining the skeletons and gently laying them down upon the holy ground of Requiem.
When the remains had been removed and the chains tugged off the column, they counted over a thousand skeletons. A thousand martyrs of Requiem. A thousand who would finally be at peace.
Requiem was cold, far colder than anything any of them—aside from Til and Bim—had ever felt. Snow still coated the birches, and the ground was frozen. Yet dragon claws were sharp, and Elory and her family labored, digging graves. Not mass graves like the seraphim had them dig in Tofet. Each of these slaves would rest alone upon a hill, a tombstone marking his or her grave.
Jaren moved between the graves in human form, holding his staff, praying over the dead.
"We come from starlight, and to starlight we go." The priest knelt before each grave, placing down a simple stone, for no flowers grew in the winter of Requiem. "May your soul rise to those stars and rest in their light."
A few skeletons still remained to bury. Elory moved farther east, down into a valley, seeking room for more graves without disturbing the holy birches. She walked in dragon form, and she walked alone, the moonlight and the fire in her mouth lighting her way. The sounds of prayer still rose behind her, but walking here apart from the group, she could hear other sounds: the creaking trees, the wind, her chinking scales, and the sounds that never left her memories. The sounds of screaming. Of dying. Of Ishtafel's decimation that had slain sixty thousand souls in the city of Shayeen.
Finally Elory found a moonlit clearing. Here was a good place to dig. She would have to uproot no birches here, and it would be a beautiful place for the fallen to rest, and in the spring many flowers would bloom here. Elory touched her claws to the frozen ground, prepared to dig, but suddenly the pain was too real. Suddenly she could barely even breathe.
She released her magic. She fell to her knees, shivering in th
e cold—it was so damn cold here in Requiem. Her tears streamed down her cheeks.
"I miss you, Mother," she whispered. "I miss you, Mayana, my friend. I miss you, sweet Tash. I miss you and I love you all, and I'm so scared. I'm so scared without you."
A soft voice sounded behind her.
"You have me."
Elory turned around, at first expecting to see Lucem. But she saw Meliora standing there.
"I know," Elory whispered, rising to her feet.
Meliora stepped closer and embraced Elory. Her sister was much taller—Elory barely even reached her shoulder—and the embrace felt so warm, so safe, that Elory almost felt as she had in her mother's embrace.
"You're safe, Elory, I promise you." Meliora kissed her forehead. "You are loved. You are in Requiem. I did not know your mother, but I know that she looks down upon you now from the stars, and that she's proud of you. As I'm proud of you."
Elory rubbed away her tears. "How can you be proud of me? I'm not a warrior like Vale. I'm not a healer like our father. I'm not a leader as you are. I'm not a hero like Lucem. I'm not brave, not strong, not wise like all of you."
Meliora frowned. "I prefer hugging you, little sister. So don't make me clobber you." She kissed Elory's forehead again. "I could tell you that you are strong, brave, noble, heroic. But I don't need to. Because you prove these things yourself, every day and night, Elory. The harpies will soon arrive, and if we survive them, for many generations the Vir Requis will speak of your courage, and they will love you. As I love you, my sister. Always."
Elory shuddered and laid her head against Meliora's chest. "My courage? So why am I so afraid? I know you want to make our final stand here, to fight the harpies by our column. But I just want to run. To hide. That doesn't sound very brave to me."
"Will you run?" Meliora asked. "Will you hide?"
Elory shook her head vehemently. "I will never run from a fight. I will always fight with you, Meliora. You are my heroine, my leader, my light in the darkness."
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