The ruby — the heart of the necklace — glimmered in the candlelight. Revan stroked his thumb over it gently.

  “Aer ilen, thal’lin,” he muttered to himself, a small lump forming in his throat as he frowned.

  He slipped it under his shirt and adjusted his chest plate, leaving his thoughts to fester in the back of his mind. He sniffled quietly before grabbing his helm that sat on his bed. His fingers ran through his hair to clear his eyes, before donning the helm.

  His sword stood, supported by the wooden pole in the center of his tent. He looked at it for a moment.

  “Ilenar a kelanor.”

  Revan wrapped his fingers tightly around the scabbard, drawing half of the blade, studying the edge. Then slipped it back in the scabbard. He strapped it to his hip, inhaling deeply, and letting out a gut wrenching exhale.

  He exited the tent to the biting air, the knights preparing their dragons for the last flight before the battle.

  No words were exchanged, the air was thick with tension but also duty. Each of the knights knew what was about to happen, and each of them needed no words to know the weight of their task.

  “Knight, arise,” Myrrathil hummed, “duty, awaits.”

  Revan approached her massive stature, raising his palm to meet her nose. Her eyes — the size of a human head — met him with a soft hum.

  “Knight, worried,” she observed.

  “A little,” Revan replied, his hand slightly trembling on her nose.

  “Myrrathil, watches,” she said, “Knight will, endure.”

  Revan smiled under his helm. Then went around to Myrrathil’s side, climbing up to the saddle.

  When the knights were all strapped in, they formed an arrow shape.

  Dracaron at the tip, Kelegon made the right edge, Licaron the left edge, and Myrrathil was the shaft.

  Ser Kaelen sat atop Dracaron tall, wind tugging at his cloak, his silver hair streaking out of his helm.

  “We were not given these dragons to burn aimlessly,” his voice cut through the air, “We were chosen to carry the Flame of Vaelara, and with it, the burden of restraint.”

  His eyes scanned the unique engravings on each of the knights’ helms, telling of their rank as Emberborne.

  “The king has asked us to strike first, not to crush... but to remind the Frostmarch that the south still stands. That when the wind howls with threats, it will find fire waiting.”

  “The Drogvar must fall. Not because they are wild, not because they are many, but because they threaten the only thing that matters, the shield wall that stands between our people and the unknown beyond the Icefields.”

  He let his words settle for a brief moment.

  “You will rise on dragonback, not as beasts of war, but as sons of fire and will. You are Emberborne.”

  He placed his fist on his chest, his heart beating into it.

  “Let your flame burn true. Let it guide, not consume. And if the Drogvar do not kneel... then let them burn swiftly and clean.”

  “Now fly, sons of Vaelara. Fly for our people, fly for your loved ones… fly for the king!”

  On his last words he drew his sword, pointing at the sky. Dracaron roared, shaking the snow off the trees around them. The very air trembled.

  With ground shaking steps, the dragons sprinted, their wings sprouting out as they caught air and left the ground.

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  Each flap of their wings brought them higher, and faster into the air. The small trail of smoke from their camp’s bonfire shrinked behind them.

  “Hold fast, Knight,” Myrrathil said, “Fire and ash, awaits.”

  “Let it be swift,” Revan replied, his breath shaking.

  Myrrathil closed her eyes slowly in reply, obeying his request.

  The frozen wind slipped beneath Revan’s armor as Myrrathil soared above the mountains, her black wings stretched wide. The world below them shrank into a lifeless stillness. Trees as far as he could see, rivers with water frozen in time.

  A curling smoke faintly rose on the horizon. Galendir waited.

  Revan watched as it came close, his breath smudging the inside of his helm. One hand wrapped around the reins, and the other on the hilt of his sword.

  Ser Kaelen raised a hand, circling it then it twisted left.

  The dragons tucked their wings and dove, only to open them again right above the city gates.

  Revan watched as they flew over, the eyes of women and children, and a handful of able soldiers looking up at them. Some in awe, some in fear.

  He clenched his jaw tight as they passed the city, heading for the rising smoke from the ruined fortress built into the mountain side.

  Another hand was raised, displaying all his fingers stretched out.

  The air trembled as all the dragons’ chest expanded and filled with fire. The crackling sparks in their teeth echoed through the sky with a deep growl.

  Ser Kaelen’s fingers clenched into a tight fist.

  An explosion of fire blasted out of each dragon’s mouth, consuming the fortress in a rain of fire and death.

  The gates blew open and the walls crumbled in one fell swoop.

  The dragons circled the fortress, staying in formation. And when their target was in front of them, the crackles returned for the second barrage of fire, crumbling the last remaining stones.

  Distant screams echoed from the mountain, small figures engulfed in flames writhed and ran for short moments before falling to the ground lifelessly.

  Revan watched as one fought to douse the flames of another, throwing snow and patting at them frantically, cries echoing. He clenched his jaw tight, the lump in his throat growing bigger.

  “Fire and ash,” Myrrathil repeated softly.

  With another signal from Ser Kaelen, they all landed meters away from the destruction.

  He hopped off his dragon, sword drawn, and approached someone crawling away from the fire. Their clothes were scorched and their skin black as coal.

  The Drogvar wheezed, all his hairs were gone. His lifted a weak hand up to Ser Kaelen, only to get a swift but clean strike across his neck. The Drogvar’s head fell with a thud into the snow.

  Ser Kaelen wiped down his blade and slipped it back into his scabbard, before he turned.

  “The king’s command has been fulfilled,” he said, “Take pride in the fire and ash. For this is what we must do to protect our people.”

  A gallop of horses approached from the rear, as a company of Ice Elves rushed to them.

  They resembled their southern kin. Only that their skin was as pale as ice, and their hair white as snow. Their ears were longer and sharper, but their stature and clothing was not as elegant. Made of furs and rough leather.

  A tall pale elf dismounted his horse and walked hastily over. His long eyebrows frowned, his eyes flared.

  “This was not the agreement!” He shouted, rushing past the dragons as if they were just horses. “The fortress was supposed to be left standing, not to be left in rubble and ash!”

  Ser Kaelen walked to meet him, standing tall in the elf’s presence.

  “Our orders were to eliminate the Drogvar threat,” he explained, “the foundations and the strategic position are still intact for you to occupy.”

  The elf hissed. “What are we to occupy? We do not have the manpower or resources to rebuild the ancient castle. Our ancestors built that at the high of our kingdom, we are nothing compared to that now!”

  “Elf is right,” Myrrathil hummed, with a somber tone.

  Ser Kaelen sighed. “Your threat has been eliminated, you have time to rebuild such a fortress. The king sends his regards, builders and supplies will be coming once he has gotten word that your lands are safe.”

  Revan pulled on the reins, turning Myrrathil around to face the elf.

  “Faram sa Faradmin. Falasna Aerahad,” Revan said, placing his palm gently on his chest and bowing his head in respect.

  The elf’s eyes widened, looking at Revan. Silent for a moment.

  “Aerahad?” He repeated, frowning, not out of anger but something stirring in his mind.

  He stood still for another moment, his eyes went to the ground. Then he lifted his head to meet Revan’s eyes again. He placed his palm on his chest and bowed his head back at him.

  “Lorae saien mirae, a tylenon saen liraen. Sa Zorah zindar faramin saiel,” Revan said softly.

  “Miranon, sa Kelthar,” the elf replied, his tension released. He bowed his head once more and turned back to return to his horse.

  “Well said, knight,” Myrrathil hummed.

  “Elvish? Never expected that from you, Young Revan,” Ser Kaelen approved.

  Revan said nothing, just nodded his head to his captain.

  “Duty has been fulfilled, knights,” Ser Kaelen said, mounting Dracaron, “We return to Embrathil. The king awaits our return.”