The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 2 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 3: Carrots.
Tara sat in the saddle on Elqiana’s back, watching the world roll by beneath them. The opal-white dragon’s wings beat slow and steady as they made their way toward the Buradoth Mountains—the home of the Dwarves.
'Is it bad that I love Neks?' Tara’s voice was small against the wind. 'I mean… how were we supposed to know we were cousins?'
Elqiana said nothing. The air between them was filled only with the soft whistle of flight.
'Elqi, please don’t ignore me!'
The dragon’s voice rumbled through Tara’s mind like distant thunder. 'Human rules are confusing. In the wild, it is different. Not the same rules.'
Tara groaned. 'You’re not helping…'
Ahead, a waving lantern flickered across the farmlands at the mountain’s base. Elqiana angled her wings, gliding down in a spiral until her claws met the ground with a soft crunch.
A stout dwarf stood nearby, shaking his head. “Always my carrots you land on,” he muttered.
Rorik the dwarf stepped forward to greet them. Tara unbuckled herself from the saddle and slid down, boots crunching softly against the earth. She patted Elqiana’s neck, a smirk tugging at her lips.
'Next time I see Neks, I’m going to kiss him so hard we both crash to the ground—and I don’t care who sees us!'
Elqiana turned her opal eyes toward the fiery-haired rider. Make sure it’s worth it, the dragon replied evenly in her mind.
Tara laughed under her breath, hugging Elqiana’s scaled neck before turning to follow Rorik.
“Give me an update, please. Do we know anything more about the Corrupter?”
Rorik grunted, his beard twitching. “Yes and no. What we know is he’s a pain in the backside and a vile piece of work. Where he came from—no clue. All we’ve got is what’s common knowledge.”
Tara’s lips curved in mild frustration.
Rorik looked up at her. “Not that I mean to be rude, but we were expecting Nekira?”
Tara nodded softly. “He’s… otherwise disposed.”
Rorik frowned, pressing for more, but she gave him nothing. Her silence was iron.
The great oak doors to the Dwarven Throne Room swung open. Martheel the Scribe stumbled out, clutching a stack of parchment. “I—I’m just trying to help—”
A burly dwarf scowled down at him. “Go be clumsy and spill your wine elsewhere, elf!” He spat at the elf’s feet.
Tara stepped forward, her voice ringing across the hall. “That’s no way to treat an esteemed guest, especially the ambassador of Queen Gabija, Master Oarsmith.”
The dwarf froze, glancing between the elf and Tara, then grumbled, “Fine. Whatever.”
Tara walked into the throne room, giving Martheel a small nod—a quiet order to follow. The elf straightened, his embarrassment fading as he trailed behind her into the hall.
Tara walked to the center of the throne room, where several dwarves stood hunched around a table cluttered with parchment and old books.
“Do we know how the Corrupter is as powerful as he is?” she asked, wasting no time.
Donal looked up from his notes. “Blood magic. That’s the only answer that makes sense.”
Tara nodded slowly. “Next question—how does one come across blood magic, especially when it’s highly forbidden?”
Martheel shifted uncomfortably, his voice trembling. “I… I can answer that.”
“Well, out with it already, scribe!” barked Master Oarsmith.
“The Corrupter was also a scribe—once,” Martheel said, words tumbling out. “He worked in the Great Elvish Libraries. He had access to all the banned books, the tomes and scriptures no one else was allowed to see…”
Master Oarsmith drew a sharp breath, ready to curse the elf, when the great doors swung open.
King Althor entered, the air in the room hardening at once. His presence carried the weight of iron and authority; conversation died mid-breath.
Tara leaned toward Donal and whispered, “Why is Althor pissed off?”
Donal gave a helpless shrug.
“Blasted elves!” Althor grumbled as he strode into the room. Then, spotting Martheel, he paused and added, “No disrespect intended, Master Martheel.”
The elf inclined his head. “None taken, Your Majesty.”
Tara arched an eyebrow, amused by the sudden shift in manners.
“Well met, Lady Tarasque,” Althor said curtly before slamming a large red, leather-bound book onto the table. The sound echoed like a hammer strike.
“Elves aren’t the only ones with grand libraries,” he said, voice hard as iron. “We dwarves have our own—and this book…” He jabbed a thick finger at it. “This one contains information about blood magic. But it won’t let me read it—unless I kill my father.”
A heavy silence filled the chamber. Althor’s eyes turned to the great stone statue that loomed at the side of the hall—a memorial to his late father.
“Or a brother, sister, uncle, aunt, niece, nephew, or child of my own,” he went on bitterly. “That’s what it demands to ‘unlock’ its secrets. Bloody cursed thing.”
He spat on the floor, the word “magic” escaping his mouth like poison.
A quiet cough sounded from the far end of the table.
An elderly elf sat there, half in shadow, his fingers steepled before him. His voice was calm, but it carried like a bell through the stone hall.
“Power can come from many places,” he said. “Especially when it comes to magic. Love and hate are the two strongest forces—each a mirror of the other. Everything in between is merely a blend of both. Actions speak louder than words, yes… but words unlock power. Everything in this world begins with words.”
Silence followed, thick and uneasy.
Tara blinked. “I’m sorry, but… who are you?”
The old elf smiled faintly. “I’ve had many names in the centuries I’ve lived. My favourite, I think, was Merlin. But you may call me Merl.”
Althor’s stern face softened into a grin. “And your presence is ever welcome in my halls, Master Merl.”
Tara drummed her fingers on the table, thinking aloud. “So the Corrupter is hatred. But that doesn’t explain—”
Merl lifted a hand, interrupting gently. “Matthious—or Matthew, as he was known in his youth—never showed much promise with the Ancient Language. He lacked the instinct for it. But he was clever, far too clever. Among elves, we teach that knowledge is the key to every success. Matthious took that lesson to heart, and when his talent failed him, he sought knowledge in its place.”
The old elf’s eyes grew distant, reflecting some old pain.
“He became desperate to prove himself—to escape ridicule. Desperation turned to jealousy, jealousy to anger, and anger to hatred. He hid away in the libraries, searching for power hidden between words. In time, he found a way to draw the auras of others into a white stone carved with runes—a vessel of sorts. Using a twisted form of the Ancient Language, he persuaded many elves to pour their aura into it, thinking it a gift to their people.”
Merl’s voice dropped, almost to a whisper. “But the stone became a well of stolen life. And Matthious drank from it.”
Tara straightened, her voice steady though her heart raced. “Then my father—Tivor—battled him. To stop the… corruption.”
Merl inclined his head, his expression heavy with memory. “Yes, child. Tivor walked into the forest clearing where Matthious was conducting one of his so-called ceremonies. He saw the elves standing there, their life force already being drawn into the white stone. He spoke the Ancient Language, searching for a weakness in its design—and somehow, he found one.”
Merl’s gaze drifted toward the distant mountain peaks, as if the memory lived there. “The stone shattered in a blast of light. What followed was chaos—flames, wind, screaming. Tivor and Matthious fought amid the ruins of the ritual. When the stone exploded, it tore open something… unnatural. A rift, a portal, I do not know what to call it. Tivor struck Matthious hard in the chest—kicked him with all his strength—and sent him tumbling backward into that vortex.”
He paused, eyes dim. “But before the Corrupter vanished, he cast one last spell. A fireball struck Tivor squarely, burning him near to death. The portal devoured Matthious, and then closed as though it had never been.”
The old elf’s voice softened. “Your father was hailed as a silent hero. Few knew what truly happened that day… only that his courage saved countless lives.”
Tara stepped forward, her boots echoing softly against the stone floor. She knelt before the old elf, head bowed in respect.
“Master Merl,” she said quietly. “May I ask… how do you know all of this?”
Merl met her gaze. His eyes were ancient pools of memory—pain and wisdom intertwined like threads of silver.
“I know,” he said simply, “because I was there. I witnessed it all—Matthious as a child, his rise, his fall… and everything that followed.”
Tara’s breath caught. Her chest felt suddenly heavy, as if the weight of centuries had settled upon her shoulders. “You’re the one Queen Gabija mentioned,” she whispered. “The oldest of your kind.”
Merl’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “One of the oldest,” he corrected gently. “The others still live—across the Great Sea, where time moves differently.”
“The Corrupter…” Merl’s voice dropped to a near whisper. He lifted his gaze, meeting each pair of eyes around the table. “When he was a child, he found a tome no one else could open. He deciphered it in secret. His first act of obedience to its words was to kill his father—and drink his blood. Only then did the book reveal its knowledge.”
A shudder passed through the room.
“He escaped the portal,” Merl continued, “and returned to this world. In time, he discovered the bloodline of Tivor and Vivi—his own grandchildren.” His voice faltered, heavy with sorrow. “He drained their blood as well, binding their life to his, and gained even more power.”
Tara sank into a chair, numb. Althor followed suit, the strength gone from his shoulders.
“How do we stop him?” Tara asked, her voice barely a breath. “How do we send him back to that… portal prison?”
Merl’s gaze softened. “You already know, child. Your heart aches with the answer even now.”
“Nekira,” Tara breathed, the name spilling from her lips before she realised she’d spoken it aloud. “He’s the answer to everything…”
Merl shook his head slowly. “No,” he murmured.
He leaned closer, his ancient face lit by the glow of a nearby lantern. His voice dropped to a whisper, meant for her alone.
“Love is the answer to everything.”
The words hung between them — soft, impossible, and terrifyingly true. Tara’s breath caught, her mind a storm of fear, guilt, and dawning understanding.
Tara reached out with her thoughts, her pulse still quick from Merl’s whisper.
What do you think, Elqi? she asked silently. Is love really the answer to everything?
For a long moment, there was only the soft hum of the dragon’s presence in her mind—a warmth, like sunlight through deep water. Then Elqiana’s voice came, slow and thoughtful.
Love, the dragon said, is neither answer nor question. It is the fire that shapes both.
Tara’s breath caught. Elqiana’s thoughts curled gently around her own.
In the wild, love is life itself—fierce, painful, necessary. It makes us fight, and it makes us foolish. Perhaps your kind call it an answer because you fear how much it asks of you.
Tara’s eyes stung, though she didn’t know why.
“Love…” Tara murmured, staring into the firelight. “At the moment, he’s full of frustration—and that could lead to something else.”
Elqiana’s voice stirred softly in her mind. He must walk through his own storm, little one. You cannot clear the skies for him. Even dragons must learn the shape of their wings before they can fly true.
Tara sighed, eyes downcast.
Merl rose slowly from his chair. His hand—light as parchment—rested on her shoulder. “The strongest hearts,” he said quietly, “are those that learn to bear both pain and patience. Love asks for both, and rewards neither quickly.”
He stepped toward the table, robes whispering against the stone floor. With a flick of his wrist, the red leather tome slid across the wood to him.
“Let none ever read such darkness again,” he said, his tone suddenly heavy with command.
Then he began to speak words in the Ancient Language—words that vibrated in the air like the toll of deep bells. Power rippled through the room; the book trembled, its bindings creaking, until it collapsed into a cascade of dust.
Silence fell. Only the scent of old parchment and magic lingered.
Merl turned, bowed respectfully to King Althor, and walked toward the great doors. The faint echo of his footsteps was the last sound before they closed behind him.
“Well, that seals the fate of that book,” Donal muttered, watching the last of the dust settle across the table.
Althor’s stomach growled like distant thunder. “Enough doom and gloom for five minutes. I’m hungry.”
He turned to Tara, his expression softening. “And I suspect you are too, after such a long journey.”
The way he said it carried another meaning—a subtle come with me.
He turned on his heel and strode toward the passage behind his throne. Tara fell into step beside him, the echo of their boots the only sound for a while.
“You’re not happy,” Althor said at last. “You’re frustrated, Tara.”
She glanced at him and gave a small nod.
“You and Nekira,” the king continued, “have endured more than most ever will. More than anyone should have to at your age.”
Tara chewed her cheek thoughtfully. “We both love each other, Althor. Neither of us knew the truth… and now everything’s changed.”
They stopped at the doorway to his private quarters. Althor looked up at her, his eyes sharp but kind. “Would you set aside everything—duty, name, destiny—just to have a life with him?”
Tara hesitated, the question sinking deep. “I’d never set aside Elqiana,” she said finally. “She is me, and I am her. But for Nekira… I’d do anything else. I’d find a way to make it work.”
Althor studied her for a moment, then nodded—satisfied, perhaps even proud.
He pushed open the door. Inside, the warm scent of tea and honey met them. Sitting at a small table were Dorianna and Queen Genevieve, cups in hand, mid-conversation.
Dorianna rose slowly, her eyes softening as she studied her granddaughter. Then, with a small laugh, she crossed the room and wrapped Tara in a warm embrace.
“The men in our family!” she muttered in mock exasperation.
“Men in general,” Genevieve quipped, earning a chuckle from both women. She gave Althor a playful wink; the king only shook his head, smiling as he closed the doors behind him, leaving the three of them alone.
“Nekira’s a good lad, Tara,” Genevieve said gently once the laughter faded. “A little patience, a little time — they can work wonders.”
Tara smiled faintly, but her voice was curious. “Grandmother… What about you? What was it like, when you were young?”
Dorianna chuckled, eyes bright with memory. “Braiden was my first and only love. Foolish as an ox and twice as stubborn. He tried to court me the Elvish way — with songs and gifts and poetry — but every attempt went wrong. Once he set a whole orchard on fire trying to spell my name in lightbugs.”
Genevieve laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “At least he tried! Althor didn’t bother with any of that.”
She leaned in conspiratorially toward Tara and Dorianna. “He walked straight up to me when we were barely thirty and said, bold as a sunrise: ‘Ginny, I love you, and you love me. We’re together now, all right?’”
Tara grinned. “And that worked?”
Genevieve’s eyes sparkled. “Two hundred and seventy years strong,” she whispered proudly.
The three women laughed together, their voices mingling like the crackle of the fire — warmth and love filling the quiet chamber, if only for a little while.
Genevieve rose suddenly, setting down her teacup with a decisive clink. With the grace of someone who still knew how to make an entrance, she stretched one leg forward in an exaggerated pose.
“If all else fails,” she said with mock seriousness, “you could always show the man a bit of leg.”
Tara nearly spat her drink across the table, choking with laughter.
“Don’t look so shocked, dear,” Genevieve went on, eyes twinkling. “Us queens can be wild too, every now and again.”
She grinned broadly, clapped her hands once, and the door swung open. A line of maids entered, balancing trays laden with food — roasted vegetables, steaming bread, glistening honey.
As the scents filled the room, Tara felt a soft rumble of amusement echo through her thoughts — Elqiana, her ever-present companion.
You humans and your feasts, the dragon murmured. I prefer hunting my own.
Tara smiled faintly into her cup, warmth spreading through her chest.
Far beyond the Buradoth Mountains, Elqiana glided across the open plains, where the scent of pine and meadow grass drifted up from below. She didn’t hunt near the dwarves’ pastures out of respect — her shadow alone could scatter a whole herd — so she had flown several miles east in search of wild game.
She spotted a stag leading a small group of deer through a glade. Her pupils narrowed. She tucked her wings and dove. The wind shrieked around her as she plummeted, claws outstretched, and at the last instant she flared her wings, seizing the stag in a perfect strike.
The air was still for a heartbeat — then came the whistle of arrows.
They burst from the trees below, slicing through the sky. A few struck her scales and ricocheted away with sharp metallic clangs, harmless but insolent. Elqiana snarled, twisting midair to face the direction they’d come from. Her mind burned with a single word: attack.
Inside the mountain keep, Tara’s laughter died in her throat. The teacup slipped from her hands and shattered against the stone floor. A chill ran through her as Elqiana’s warning blazed across their shared bond.
Dorianna and Genevieve looked up at her in alarm.
“What is it, child?” Dorianna asked, standing.
“It’s Elqiana,” Tara said, breath quickening. “Someone’s firing at her.”
Genevieve was already moving, voice sharp and commanding. “Follow me—quickly!”
The three women bolted from the chamber, their footsteps echoing through the stone halls. Even deep within the mountain, Tara could feel the dragon’s fury — a low, simmering storm of wings and fire rising on the distant plains.
The sound of boots thundered through the tunnels of the Buradoth stronghold. Genevieve spotted a cluster of off-duty guards by an archway and snapped her fingers sharply.
“You there—with me!”
The guards didn’t hesitate. They sprang to their feet and fell into step around her and Tara as they sprinted through the winding passages. Civilians pressed themselves against the walls as the group rushed past, the Queen’s authority clearing every corridor before her.
Outside, in the farmlands, the sky suddenly darkened.
Elqiana descended from the clouds like a storm, her wings beating the air into chaos. She hit the ground hard, the stag crunching beneath her talons. Dust and straw burst into the air. Her lips peeled back, baring fangs like swords.
“Are you alright?” Tara shouted, racing toward her across the trampled fields.
Elqiana threw her head back and unleashed a roar that split the valley — fury, not pain — a single message blazing through the bond: Who dares challenge me!
Tara circled her quickly, scanning for wounds, heart pounding.
I’m unharmed, little redhead, Elqiana’s voice rumbled in her mind. They could not pierce me. Only provoke me.
Tara let out a shaky breath and dropped to her knees in relief.
Moments later, King Althor appeared from one of the mountain gates, striding across the farmland with his royal guard close behind. Genevieve met him halfway, embracing him briefly before whispering what had happened.
Elqiana stared down at the stag’s carcass, rumbling with mild disgust. My food is full of sharp pointy sticks, she muttered.
Tara walked over, kneeling beside the animal. She pulled one of the arrows free and frowned at the yellow-dyed fletching.
Althor’s face darkened. “Sir Garrickson,” he growled. “The bloody bastard.”
Tara glanced at him, puzzled.
“An ancient line,” Althor said bitterly. “They’ve long despised all who aren’t dwarves born of stone and forge. He opposed me, my father, and his father before that.”
Genevieve placed a gentle hand on his arm. “And yet here we stand, still mending their mistakes.”
Althor’s jaw tightened. “No more. Garrickson has broken dwarvish law — to raise a weapon against a guest is treason. He and his clan will be banished before the next moonrise.”
A hush settled over the field. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Elqiana lowered her head slightly, eyes gleaming. Justice swiftly done, she murmured. Perhaps your kind still remembers honour.
Althor looked up at her, a faint smile beneath his beard. “Some of us do, great one. Though apparently, none of us remember the farmer’s carrots.”
From the edge of the trampled field, a stocky dwarf farmer’s voice rang out, despairing and exasperated: “My poor carrots!”
Chapter 3: Carrots.
Tara sat in the saddle on Elqiana’s back, watching the world roll by beneath them. The opal-white dragon’s wings beat slow and steady as they made their way toward the Buradoth Mountains—the home of the Dwarves.
'Is it bad that I love Neks?' Tara’s voice was small against the wind. 'I mean… how were we supposed to know we were cousins?'
Elqiana said nothing. The air between them was filled only with the soft whistle of flight.
'Elqi, please don’t ignore me!'
The dragon’s voice rumbled through Tara’s mind like distant thunder. 'Human rules are confusing. In the wild, it is different. Not the same rules.'
Tara groaned. 'You’re not helping…'
Ahead, a waving lantern flickered across the farmlands at the mountain’s base. Elqiana angled her wings, gliding down in a spiral until her claws met the ground with a soft crunch.
A stout dwarf stood nearby, shaking his head. “Always my carrots you land on,” he muttered.
Rorik the dwarf stepped forward to greet them. Tara unbuckled herself from the saddle and slid down, boots crunching softly against the earth. She patted Elqiana’s neck, a smirk tugging at her lips.
'Next time I see Neks, I’m going to kiss him so hard we both crash to the ground—and I don’t care who sees us!'
Elqiana turned her opal eyes toward the fiery-haired rider. Make sure it’s worth it, the dragon replied evenly in her mind.
Tara laughed under her breath, hugging Elqiana’s scaled neck before turning to follow Rorik.
“Give me an update, please. Do we know anything more about the Corrupter?”
Rorik grunted, his beard twitching. “Yes and no. What we know is he’s a pain in the backside and a vile piece of work. Where he came from—no clue. All we’ve got is what’s common knowledge.”
Tara’s lips curved in mild frustration.
Rorik looked up at her. “Not that I mean to be rude, but we were expecting Nekira?”
Tara nodded softly. “He’s… otherwise disposed.”
Rorik frowned, pressing for more, but she gave him nothing. Her silence was iron.
The great oak doors to the Dwarven Throne Room swung open. Martheel the Scribe stumbled out, clutching a stack of parchment. “I—I’m just trying to help—”
A burly dwarf scowled down at him. “Go be clumsy and spill your wine elsewhere, elf!” He spat at the elf’s feet.
Tara stepped forward, her voice ringing across the hall. “That’s no way to treat an esteemed guest, especially the ambassador of Queen Gabija, Master Oarsmith.”
The dwarf froze, glancing between the elf and Tara, then grumbled, “Fine. Whatever.”
Tara walked into the throne room, giving Martheel a small nod—a quiet order to follow. The elf straightened, his embarrassment fading as he trailed behind her into the hall.
Tara walked to the center of the throne room, where several dwarves stood hunched around a table cluttered with parchment and old books.
“Do we know how the Corrupter is as powerful as he is?” she asked, wasting no time.
Donal looked up from his notes. “Blood magic. That’s the only answer that makes sense.”
Tara nodded slowly. “Next question—how does one come across blood magic, especially when it’s highly forbidden?”
Martheel shifted uncomfortably, his voice trembling. “I… I can answer that.”
“Well, out with it already, scribe!” barked Master Oarsmith.
“The Corrupter was also a scribe—once,” Martheel said, words tumbling out. “He worked in the Great Elvish Libraries. He had access to all the banned books, the tomes and scriptures no one else was allowed to see…”
Master Oarsmith drew a sharp breath, ready to curse the elf, when the great doors swung open.
King Althor entered, the air in the room hardening at once. His presence carried the weight of iron and authority; conversation died mid-breath.
Tara leaned toward Donal and whispered, “Why is Althor pissed off?”
Donal gave a helpless shrug.
“Blasted elves!” Althor grumbled as he strode into the room. Then, spotting Martheel, he paused and added, “No disrespect intended, Master Martheel.”
The elf inclined his head. “None taken, Your Majesty.”
Tara arched an eyebrow, amused by the sudden shift in manners.
“Well met, Lady Tarasque,” Althor said curtly before slamming a large red, leather-bound book onto the table. The sound echoed like a hammer strike.
“Elves aren’t the only ones with grand libraries,” he said, voice hard as iron. “We dwarves have our own—and this book…” He jabbed a thick finger at it. “This one contains information about blood magic. But it won’t let me read it—unless I kill my father.”
A heavy silence filled the chamber. Althor’s eyes turned to the great stone statue that loomed at the side of the hall—a memorial to his late father.
“Or a brother, sister, uncle, aunt, niece, nephew, or child of my own,” he went on bitterly. “That’s what it demands to ‘unlock’ its secrets. Bloody cursed thing.”
He spat on the floor, the word “magic” escaping his mouth like poison.
A quiet cough sounded from the far end of the table.
An elderly elf sat there, half in shadow, his fingers steepled before him. His voice was calm, but it carried like a bell through the stone hall.
“Power can come from many places,” he said. “Especially when it comes to magic. Love and hate are the two strongest forces—each a mirror of the other. Everything in between is merely a blend of both. Actions speak louder than words, yes… but words unlock power. Everything in this world begins with words.”
Silence followed, thick and uneasy.
Tara blinked. “I’m sorry, but… who are you?”
The old elf smiled faintly. “I’ve had many names in the centuries I’ve lived. My favourite, I think, was Merlin. But you may call me Merl.”
Althor’s stern face softened into a grin. “And your presence is ever welcome in my halls, Master Merl.”
Tara drummed her fingers on the table, thinking aloud. “So the Corrupter is hatred. But that doesn’t explain—”
Merl lifted a hand, interrupting gently. “Matthious—or Matthew, as he was known in his youth—never showed much promise with the Ancient Language. He lacked the instinct for it. But he was clever, far too clever. Among elves, we teach that knowledge is the key to every success. Matthious took that lesson to heart, and when his talent failed him, he sought knowledge in its place.”
The old elf’s eyes grew distant, reflecting some old pain.
“He became desperate to prove himself—to escape ridicule. Desperation turned to jealousy, jealousy to anger, and anger to hatred. He hid away in the libraries, searching for power hidden between words. In time, he found a way to draw the auras of others into a white stone carved with runes—a vessel of sorts. Using a twisted form of the Ancient Language, he persuaded many elves to pour their aura into it, thinking it a gift to their people.”
Merl’s voice dropped, almost to a whisper. “But the stone became a well of stolen life. And Matthious drank from it.”
Tara straightened, her voice steady though her heart raced. “Then my father—Tivor—battled him. To stop the… corruption.”
Merl inclined his head, his expression heavy with memory. “Yes, child. Tivor walked into the forest clearing where Matthious was conducting one of his so-called ceremonies. He saw the elves standing there, their life force already being drawn into the white stone. He spoke the Ancient Language, searching for a weakness in its design—and somehow, he found one.”
Merl’s gaze drifted toward the distant mountain peaks, as if the memory lived there. “The stone shattered in a blast of light. What followed was chaos—flames, wind, screaming. Tivor and Matthious fought amid the ruins of the ritual. When the stone exploded, it tore open something… unnatural. A rift, a portal, I do not know what to call it. Tivor struck Matthious hard in the chest—kicked him with all his strength—and sent him tumbling backward into that vortex.”
He paused, eyes dim. “But before the Corrupter vanished, he cast one last spell. A fireball struck Tivor squarely, burning him near to death. The portal devoured Matthious, and then closed as though it had never been.”
The old elf’s voice softened. “Your father was hailed as a silent hero. Few knew what truly happened that day… only that his courage saved countless lives.”
Tara stepped forward, her boots echoing softly against the stone floor. She knelt before the old elf, head bowed in respect.
“Master Merl,” she said quietly. “May I ask… how do you know all of this?”
Merl met her gaze. His eyes were ancient pools of memory—pain and wisdom intertwined like threads of silver.
“I know,” he said simply, “because I was there. I witnessed it all—Matthious as a child, his rise, his fall… and everything that followed.”
Tara’s breath caught. Her chest felt suddenly heavy, as if the weight of centuries had settled upon her shoulders. “You’re the one Queen Gabija mentioned,” she whispered. “The oldest of your kind.”
Merl’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “One of the oldest,” he corrected gently. “The others still live—across the Great Sea, where time moves differently.”
“The Corrupter…” Merl’s voice dropped to a near whisper. He lifted his gaze, meeting each pair of eyes around the table. “When he was a child, he found a tome no one else could open. He deciphered it in secret. His first act of obedience to its words was to kill his father—and drink his blood. Only then did the book reveal its knowledge.”
A shudder passed through the room.
“He escaped the portal,” Merl continued, “and returned to this world. In time, he discovered the bloodline of Tivor and Vivi—his own grandchildren.” His voice faltered, heavy with sorrow. “He drained their blood as well, binding their life to his, and gained even more power.”
Tara sank into a chair, numb. Althor followed suit, the strength gone from his shoulders.
“How do we stop him?” Tara asked, her voice barely a breath. “How do we send him back to that… portal prison?”
Merl’s gaze softened. “You already know, child. Your heart aches with the answer even now.”
“Nekira,” Tara breathed, the name spilling from her lips before she realised she’d spoken it aloud. “He’s the answer to everything…”
Merl shook his head slowly. “No,” he murmured.
He leaned closer, his ancient face lit by the glow of a nearby lantern. His voice dropped to a whisper, meant for her alone.
“Love is the answer to everything.”
The words hung between them — soft, impossible, and terrifyingly true. Tara’s breath caught, her mind a storm of fear, guilt, and dawning understanding.
Tara reached out with her thoughts, her pulse still quick from Merl’s whisper.
What do you think, Elqi? she asked silently. Is love really the answer to everything?
For a long moment, there was only the soft hum of the dragon’s presence in her mind—a warmth, like sunlight through deep water. Then Elqiana’s voice came, slow and thoughtful.
Love, the dragon said, is neither answer nor question. It is the fire that shapes both.
Tara’s breath caught. Elqiana’s thoughts curled gently around her own.
In the wild, love is life itself—fierce, painful, necessary. It makes us fight, and it makes us foolish. Perhaps your kind call it an answer because you fear how much it asks of you.
Tara’s eyes stung, though she didn’t know why.
“Love…” Tara murmured, staring into the firelight. “At the moment, he’s full of frustration—and that could lead to something else.”
Elqiana’s voice stirred softly in her mind. He must walk through his own storm, little one. You cannot clear the skies for him. Even dragons must learn the shape of their wings before they can fly true.
Tara sighed, eyes downcast.
Merl rose slowly from his chair. His hand—light as parchment—rested on her shoulder. “The strongest hearts,” he said quietly, “are those that learn to bear both pain and patience. Love asks for both, and rewards neither quickly.”
He stepped toward the table, robes whispering against the stone floor. With a flick of his wrist, the red leather tome slid across the wood to him.
“Let none ever read such darkness again,” he said, his tone suddenly heavy with command.
Then he began to speak words in the Ancient Language—words that vibrated in the air like the toll of deep bells. Power rippled through the room; the book trembled, its bindings creaking, until it collapsed into a cascade of dust.
Silence fell. Only the scent of old parchment and magic lingered.
Merl turned, bowed respectfully to King Althor, and walked toward the great doors. The faint echo of his footsteps was the last sound before they closed behind him.
“Well, that seals the fate of that book,” Donal muttered, watching the last of the dust settle across the table.
Althor’s stomach growled like distant thunder. “Enough doom and gloom for five minutes. I’m hungry.”
He turned to Tara, his expression softening. “And I suspect you are too, after such a long journey.”
The way he said it carried another meaning—a subtle come with me.
He turned on his heel and strode toward the passage behind his throne. Tara fell into step beside him, the echo of their boots the only sound for a while.
“You’re not happy,” Althor said at last. “You’re frustrated, Tara.”
She glanced at him and gave a small nod.
“You and Nekira,” the king continued, “have endured more than most ever will. More than anyone should have to at your age.”
Tara chewed her cheek thoughtfully. “We both love each other, Althor. Neither of us knew the truth… and now everything’s changed.”
They stopped at the doorway to his private quarters. Althor looked up at her, his eyes sharp but kind. “Would you set aside everything—duty, name, destiny—just to have a life with him?”
Tara hesitated, the question sinking deep. “I’d never set aside Elqiana,” she said finally. “She is me, and I am her. But for Nekira… I’d do anything else. I’d find a way to make it work.”
Althor studied her for a moment, then nodded—satisfied, perhaps even proud.
He pushed open the door. Inside, the warm scent of tea and honey met them. Sitting at a small table were Dorianna and Queen Genevieve, cups in hand, mid-conversation.
Dorianna rose slowly, her eyes softening as she studied her granddaughter. Then, with a small laugh, she crossed the room and wrapped Tara in a warm embrace.
“The men in our family!” she muttered in mock exasperation.
“Men in general,” Genevieve quipped, earning a chuckle from both women. She gave Althor a playful wink; the king only shook his head, smiling as he closed the doors behind him, leaving the three of them alone.
“Nekira’s a good lad, Tara,” Genevieve said gently once the laughter faded. “A little patience, a little time — they can work wonders.”
Tara smiled faintly, but her voice was curious. “Grandmother… What about you? What was it like, when you were young?”
Dorianna chuckled, eyes bright with memory. “Braiden was my first and only love. Foolish as an ox and twice as stubborn. He tried to court me the Elvish way — with songs and gifts and poetry — but every attempt went wrong. Once he set a whole orchard on fire trying to spell my name in lightbugs.”
Genevieve laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “At least he tried! Althor didn’t bother with any of that.”
She leaned in conspiratorially toward Tara and Dorianna. “He walked straight up to me when we were barely thirty and said, bold as a sunrise: ‘Ginny, I love you, and you love me. We’re together now, all right?’”
Tara grinned. “And that worked?”
Genevieve’s eyes sparkled. “Two hundred and seventy years strong,” she whispered proudly.
The three women laughed together, their voices mingling like the crackle of the fire — warmth and love filling the quiet chamber, if only for a little while.
Genevieve rose suddenly, setting down her teacup with a decisive clink. With the grace of someone who still knew how to make an entrance, she stretched one leg forward in an exaggerated pose.
“If all else fails,” she said with mock seriousness, “you could always show the man a bit of leg.”
Tara nearly spat her drink across the table, choking with laughter.
“Don’t look so shocked, dear,” Genevieve went on, eyes twinkling. “Us queens can be wild too, every now and again.”
She grinned broadly, clapped her hands once, and the door swung open. A line of maids entered, balancing trays laden with food — roasted vegetables, steaming bread, glistening honey.
As the scents filled the room, Tara felt a soft rumble of amusement echo through her thoughts — Elqiana, her ever-present companion.
You humans and your feasts, the dragon murmured. I prefer hunting my own.
Tara smiled faintly into her cup, warmth spreading through her chest.
Far beyond the Buradoth Mountains, Elqiana glided across the open plains, where the scent of pine and meadow grass drifted up from below. She didn’t hunt near the dwarves’ pastures out of respect — her shadow alone could scatter a whole herd — so she had flown several miles east in search of wild game.
She spotted a stag leading a small group of deer through a glade. Her pupils narrowed. She tucked her wings and dove. The wind shrieked around her as she plummeted, claws outstretched, and at the last instant she flared her wings, seizing the stag in a perfect strike.
The air was still for a heartbeat — then came the whistle of arrows.
They burst from the trees below, slicing through the sky. A few struck her scales and ricocheted away with sharp metallic clangs, harmless but insolent. Elqiana snarled, twisting midair to face the direction they’d come from. Her mind burned with a single word: attack.
Inside the mountain keep, Tara’s laughter died in her throat. The teacup slipped from her hands and shattered against the stone floor. A chill ran through her as Elqiana’s warning blazed across their shared bond.
Dorianna and Genevieve looked up at her in alarm.
“What is it, child?” Dorianna asked, standing.
“It’s Elqiana,” Tara said, breath quickening. “Someone’s firing at her.”
Genevieve was already moving, voice sharp and commanding. “Follow me—quickly!”
The three women bolted from the chamber, their footsteps echoing through the stone halls. Even deep within the mountain, Tara could feel the dragon’s fury — a low, simmering storm of wings and fire rising on the distant plains.
The sound of boots thundered through the tunnels of the Buradoth stronghold. Genevieve spotted a cluster of off-duty guards by an archway and snapped her fingers sharply.
“You there—with me!”
The guards didn’t hesitate. They sprang to their feet and fell into step around her and Tara as they sprinted through the winding passages. Civilians pressed themselves against the walls as the group rushed past, the Queen’s authority clearing every corridor before her.
Outside, in the farmlands, the sky suddenly darkened.
Elqiana descended from the clouds like a storm, her wings beating the air into chaos. She hit the ground hard, the stag crunching beneath her talons. Dust and straw burst into the air. Her lips peeled back, baring fangs like swords.
“Are you alright?” Tara shouted, racing toward her across the trampled fields.
Elqiana threw her head back and unleashed a roar that split the valley — fury, not pain — a single message blazing through the bond: Who dares challenge me!
Tara circled her quickly, scanning for wounds, heart pounding.
I’m unharmed, little redhead, Elqiana’s voice rumbled in her mind. They could not pierce me. Only provoke me.
Tara let out a shaky breath and dropped to her knees in relief.
Moments later, King Althor appeared from one of the mountain gates, striding across the farmland with his royal guard close behind. Genevieve met him halfway, embracing him briefly before whispering what had happened.
Elqiana stared down at the stag’s carcass, rumbling with mild disgust. My food is full of sharp pointy sticks, she muttered.
Tara walked over, kneeling beside the animal. She pulled one of the arrows free and frowned at the yellow-dyed fletching.
Althor’s face darkened. “Sir Garrickson,” he growled. “The bloody bastard.”
Tara glanced at him, puzzled.
“An ancient line,” Althor said bitterly. “They’ve long despised all who aren’t dwarves born of stone and forge. He opposed me, my father, and his father before that.”
Genevieve placed a gentle hand on his arm. “And yet here we stand, still mending their mistakes.”
Althor’s jaw tightened. “No more. Garrickson has broken dwarvish law — to raise a weapon against a guest is treason. He and his clan will be banished before the next moonrise.”
A hush settled over the field. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Elqiana lowered her head slightly, eyes gleaming. Justice swiftly done, she murmured. Perhaps your kind still remembers honour.
Althor looked up at her, a faint smile beneath his beard. “Some of us do, great one. Though apparently, none of us remember the farmer’s carrots.”
From the edge of the trampled field, a stocky dwarf farmer’s voice rang out, despairing and exasperated: “My poor carrots!”