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“I don’t know . . . Maybe what the cities are like? How about Shalandril? That’s the capital, right?”
“Shalandril is made from moonstone, like all Lumarian architecture.”
“Moonstone?”
“It is a substance not unlike marble, but far more luminous. It is the aether imbued inside which makes it shine.”
“Do the enchanters pour magic into the stone?”
“No, it is found like that naturally,” he replies.
“Where are you from in Lumaria?”
“Ithyr.”
“What’s it like there? And don’t say ‘dark’ again.”
“Ruins,” he says instead.
“Ruins?” I repeat. “Why? What happened to it?”
“I destroyed it.”
I suppose that’s one answer. Now he’s said it, I remember he bargained his entire kingdom to the Void King. “For power?”
He doesn’t answer. Our mare’s hooves clomp across the muddy dirt track, and Zephyr’s wings beat behind us.
“What about your family?” I ask, though I suspect it might be an insensitive question. Not that he deserves such consideration. He’s made worse comments about Nolderan. “What were they like?”
“My family . . . They deserved their fates.”
“I take it you didn’t see eye to eye then?”
“My mother cared only for her beauty, and my father only cared for his reputation.”
“And your siblings? Or were you an only child?”
“I had four,” he replies. “Two sisters, and two brothers.”
“Older or younger?”
“Older.”
“All of them? So, you were the youngest?”
“Indeed.”
“I didn’t expect you to be the youngest,” I say.
“Why not?”
Because he’s so ancient and terrifying, I suppose. But I don’t tell him that. He would only take it as a compliment, and his arrogance is insufferable enough.
“I just find it hard to imagine.”
“It’s my turn for a question,” he says. “How was Nolderan defeated?”
“By the necromancers.”
