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A half-blood, she thought to herself, bitterness rising sharp and sudden. Of course they chose the damned half-blood as their leader. I told Reshva we are crumbling from within.
The half-elf did not shift beneath Elarian’s withering scrutiny. Her gaze cut to the runes marking his jawline. Elarian grimaced. How old was the boy when a vampire’s profane blood first painted his face? Far too young to carry the markings of so many deaths in his skin. Far too young to have seen such horrors.
And yet, they kept arriving younger and younger. Untested youth, brought in from the far reaches of the Knightdom, their blood needed to finally win the war. The thought settled like a sinking stone in her heart. So many faces. So many lives cut short in the name of the Great Cleansing.
“Knight-General,” the half-elf began again, voice steady even as wariness flicked in his eyes, “I understand the importance of this scouting mission, but now you ask me to send my last tracker—my blood, at that. I-I cannot. I must insist we find another way.”
“I fail to understand the issue.”
Of course, Elarian knew the pain of losing family, but wasn’t that the plight of all elves? Their war with the vampires cared little for things like blood loyalties over doctrine. She Who Is Death declared the creatures the enemy, and thus the moon elves fought, even if they lost their chance at an afterlife.
“He is my son!”
A woman’s voice rose from the back; the elves before her parted as she stepped forward. An elven maiden, barely older than the half-elf, looked back at Elarian with tear-filled eyes. The commander placed a gentle hand over her shoulder.
“Please! I beseech Elarian the Ashen, not just my Knight-General! My mother knew you as an orphaned child—watched you rise from root and rock to the glittering Tower of Melistra. Surely you of all people must understand how cruel the world is to children! He is but a boy, not even old enough to receive his blessings in Estarin’s Grove. I…I cannot let him go!”
The young mother’s words echoed through Elarian’s skull. She sat in stunned silence. None had ever dared disobey her with such disregard. A part of her wished to send all three of them—son, mother, and father—straight to the vampires, while another part ached at the thought. She wondered if her mother had ever cried out for Elarian’s protection, or if she was all too willing to give her over to the Maiden to shape into her perfect weapon.
Swallowing her anger, Elarian waved her hand at the assembled group of paladins.
“Leave us. Now. Except for you two.” Her eyes never left the young mother’s face as she spoke. “We have much to discuss.”
The last of the elves filed from the war room in uneasy silence, furtive glances betraying the terror they kept from their faces. No one had ever had a private audience with the Ashen Blade and not come out on the losing end.
As the great wooden doors groaned shut, the young mother fell to her knees, silver greaves breaking the silence. She trembled as she knelt next to her mate, stony-eyed and still. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Elarian rose slowly from her chair, Lucan’s silvered portrait still clutched in one hand. Her boot heels struck the stone like thunder rolling through a valley as she descended the shallow dais. Each stride closer to her insubordinate Blades disturbed a feeling she’d long fought to bury. You’ll have to do many things you hate to survive, Ela. Up close, the young elf appeared even younger—soft-faced, eyes red-rimmed from grief, one shaking hand resting unconsciously over the silver crescent hanging at her throat.
“You presume to know much about me, elf,” Elarian said quietly, “yet I do not even know your name.”
The woman flinched but quietly replied, “Aleidna, Knight-General.”
“Aleidna, you are either very stupid or very desperate. Invoking my childhood as if you know me, speaking my title as if it grants you intimacy, questioning my command before my soldiers…” Elarian’s pale crimson eyes shifted to the half-elf. “And you,” she said, voice sharpening. “You would sacrifice every star-born elf beneath your banner to preserve the one carrying your blood. Tell me, Knight-Commander—what makes your son holier than another mother’s child? More precious than the Fallen Stars still destined for Melistra’s eternity?”
The half-elf’s jaw tightened, tendons in his neck straining against his honeyed skin, but his gaze did not waver.
“Nothing,” he said quietly. “Nothing makes him special. And that is precisely why I cannot send him.”
Elarian paused at the unexpected answer. The young mother shifted, tears shining on her long lashes.
“He is a gentle soul,” she murmured. “Far too gentle for this war—for any war. He still stops to carry beetles off the path so our feet do not crush them. He cries when a bird strikes the watchtower glass or an egg fails to hatch. Last winter, he slept outside in the snow to warm a dying fox, determined to let it see one last sunrise.” Her breath hitched as her gaze caught Elarian’s. “He is no weapon, Knight-General. He is just…my boy.”
Elarian’s vision swam.
Once, they said the same of her.
“The world devours gentle things. Your son will learn this, whether from war or from fangs at his throat should we fail. He goes.” Elarian turned around, unable to hide the tears welling in her eyes any longer. “You are dismissed.”
“Kni—Elarian, please!”
The sound of her name struck like a hammer. Elarian whipped back around, her fingers grazing the silver hilt of her blade even as the elf continued to speak.
“I know She Who Is Death granted you a hard life, and for this, I weep! But you cannot understand what you ask me to do—to choose certain death for my son! Perhaps in making you the Ashen Blade sharp enough to save us, Melistra took from you the softness of love. No mother could sacrifice their child as you ask.”
The vengeful cry forming on Elarian’s lips died at the elf’s final words. The dagger in her hand slipped to the floor, clattering over stone before landing at her feet. The half-elf stared at his mate, eyes wide, hands trembling. As the mother’s words wrapped around Elarian, she felt a momentary glimmer of happiness, and a warm hand on her cheek assuring her all would be well in the end.
Elarian wasn’t sure how long she gazed back at the knights under her command. Policy would dictate their tongues—if not worse—be cut off for their refusal, but the elf spoke true. Elarian never understood love; thought she never needed such a thing, instead fueled by loyalty to Melistra and her Knight-Saint.
