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Haldrian had left them a couple of days ago, taking Kaelan’s remains to be given a proper burial at the Crimson court. Beldor didn’t envy him, relaying the news to Kaelan’s family—it was never easy. Eldrion refused to admit the truth. His frequent trips to the area, the desperation that lingered in his eyes each time he returned, were both perplexing and worrying.
He traced his fingers lightly on the edge of the injury. Another scar. Another for the collection. Best to hide this one from his mother. He reached for the fresh bandages.
The door creaked open.
Beldor grabbed his trusted dagger, holding it up, every muscle taut—he was ready.
“It’s me.” It was Eldrion, drawn and tired. “I thought I told you to keep that door locked.”
Beldor smirked, placing the dagger on the small table, “And since when do I listen to everything you say?”
His friend, and the high commander of the Nephrite legion, managed a half-smile, collapsing into the chair opposite him. “Any change?” he asked, nodding toward the wound.
“Slow, but it’s healing.” He looked Eldrion straight in the eyes, “Any sign of her?”
His friend’s gaze dropped, and the weight of his silence spoke volumes.
Beldor took a deep breath, grabbing the fresh bandages. “You know, we might have to face the possibility that she’s . . .” he hesitated, unsure of how to finish his sentence.
“She’s what?!” Eldrion’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp and cold, “Dead?!”
“It’s been three weeks, El. No sign of her. And the Iron court has only added their numbers to the cave’s entrance. Killing the guards had been a mistake and you know it—they’re more vigilant now. And, they’re still there, which means she hasn’t come out from there.”
Eldrion ran a tired hand through his hair, the strands tangled and unwashed. “She’s not dead,” he replied, a stubborn edge to his voice. There was a pause, and then he added softly, almost hesitantly, “I . . . I cannot believe that. I won’t.”
Beldor exhaled slowly, pain shooting through his shoulder as he did so. “I understand your hope,” he started, “but sometimes we need to face painful truths.”
“She’s not dead!” His friend got up and started pacing.
It wasn’t just the prophecy that bound Eldrion to Anthea. Something had changed. What his friend felt—whatever it was—it was deeper. Over the years, Beldor had seen Eldrion in countless battles, making tough decisions without a flicker of doubt. But when it came to her, there was a recklessness in Eldrion’s actions: it was rare for the warrior.
It was best not to push this. Not when Eldrion was tired . . . and hungry.
His fingers secured the final wraps around his shoulder, finishing just as Eldrion’s restless pacing brought him close to the room’s only window. Pushing himself up from his seat with a slight wince, Beldor grabbed his coin pouch from the table. “I’ll go get us some food,” he said, glancing at the other elf. Eldrion merely grunted in response. He paused at the door. “Oh, and El,” he added with a raised brow, “take a bath while I’m gone. You’re starting to smell like a horse’s ass.”
His friend shot him a half-hearted glare, but even that lacked its usual fire. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’m not joking,” Beldor pushed. “I’ve been in close quarters with a lot of creatures during our time together, but you’re giving them all a run for their coin. A bath, El. You’re in desperate need.”
The corners of his friend’s mouth twitched upward briefly. “Fine. I’ll bathe. Just bring back something edible.”
With a nod and a smirk, Beldor exited the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Beldor made his way through the village streets, pulling his hood lower to hide the distinctive scar that marred his eye. They had taken shelter in a small mining village on the borders of the Iron court’s territory, deep inside the mountains. Luckily, gold spoke louder than loyalties to Iron court here. But even in a village accustomed to travelers, it paid to be cautious. Staying too long in one place made you noticeable, especially when you wanted to avoid attention. Every new face, every lingering glance, could be a threat.
The soft, rhythmic pounding of leather reached his ears as he approached the workshop. He eyed the male inside—one of Fyrlion’s.
“Good day,” Beldor greeted, his voice hushed. “The northern winds bring good tidings?”
The male looked up, nodding. “The winds are especially cold this year.” Then he reached under his worktable, producing a sealed parchment. Handing it over, he added, “Storm is coming. Make haste.”
Beldor nodded, concealing the letter under his cloak.
Walking back, he took the more discreet routes, avoiding the busier streets and alleyways. As he entered the tavern, the warm and inviting fragrance of fresh food drew him to the counter. An elven maiden, with soft golden hair cascading down her back, greeted him with a twinkle in her eye.
“Back so soon, handsome?” she teased, her eyes dancing with mischief.
Beldor chuckled, throwing the maid a charming smile. “Just here for some food, my lovely Lyniria, but just a small glimpse of your ravishing beauty is always a bonus.”
