We are supposed to be preparing for a confrontation with the elves, and instead we are playing house.
Every time I go to oversee the training caves, it’s all I hear about from humans and enduares alike. When I sit to eat in Hammerhead hall, inevitably someone is talking about clothes to wear and customs. In council meetings, I am inundated with talk of the organizer, Lirenne, another ocean-risen who had attended a Mating Journey just before her battalion was lost.
I hoist more body parts to be burned, and gag at the smell of the burned bodies.
Knowing that the Elvish King had sent a missive would dampen the festival, but it would also mean putting Arlet in a place foreveryone to judge her decision not to be wed. I groan. Why must everything be so infuriatingly complicated lately?
I don’t like it.
Finally, the last body is tossed into the fire and more smoke fills the area. Charred flesh. Blood. It all reeks.
I crouch under the smoke cloud, weary after so long without decent sleep. The cold seeps through my leathers and numbs the fire in my veins. Darkness edges my vision, almost enough to obscure the others as they finish cleaning the area and head inside.
Casting them half hearted salutes, I drop onto my ass and sit there.
Why can I not stop thinking of Arlet?
The witches swore this wouldn’t happen. That my heart would be free from my body—gifted only to one woman until the day I die.
They were fucking wrong.
Gritting my teeth. I stand. Who knows how much time has passed, but the moon now makes her way across the sky, and the fire has gone cold.
It’s time to light Adra’s name.
My fingers, face, and feet are numb, but I ignore the sensation and stomp back toward the gilded entrance to Enduvida. There, massive golden doors are set into the mountainside. Intricately carved geometric patterns cover their surface, interlocking in a design that speaks to centuries of practice in metal craftsmanship.
Swirling veins of deep red flow through the surrounding rock, extending like lifeblood into the mountain. The familiar scent of home fills my lungs, sulfur and mineral-rich stone, but it’s different than it was a year ago. There are more people. More cultures melting into something I don’t recognize.
Months ago, it was just two hundred of us fighting for survival. Maybe it wasn’t a life of luxury, but at least we were united.
Now, everything feels scattered. Spread too thin. And I keep taking on more and more, trying to fill the hole inside me.
No matter what I do, the emptiness remains.
The city is surprisingly quiet at this hour. Right now, the only people still awake are the enduares and humans on hunting duty,cooks, the occasional cleaning crew, and those who find solace in the silence of the late night.
As I saunter down the hallway, I turn to the left, heading toward the Wall of Remembrance. This is one of the few places in Enduvida that has survived centuries.
The glowing crystals jutting from the walls of the tunnel cast a soft light around me. I exhale slowly. Mother Liana, the head priestess and Wise Woman of our people, has been here recently. She often sets aside time to help preserve this place, using the heat of the under-earth to keep the sacred names ever illuminated.
The names are carved into the walls, stretching across the space in long rows. A sharp twinge pinches the muscle where my shoulders meet my neck. It is an overwhelming experience to stand before a list of the dead.
Many of these people were brutally murdered in the Great War. Some fell during the elvish skirmishes years before that. Thousands died quietly in their homes after a long life. And others were simply... lost.
Each name was a life, lived and ended with hopes, dreams, families. Their mates are gone. Their children. Their grandchildren. Their life’s work.
Once, there was a dedicated team of artisans who preserved the dead through carving. Now, it’s easy to spot the newer engravings, roughly made by those of us who survived.
Adra’s name was not meant to be larger than the others. I had asked for no extra space, no adornment. But I carved it myself, and my handwriting is not very elegant.
Carefully, I pick up one of the glowing crystals from the floor and press its sharp point into the grooves of her name. Light ripples through the letters, slowly filling each indent.
Li’Adra.
A yellow-gold glow blooms across the stone, as warm as her smile. Her face floods my memory—laughing at me in my soldier’s uniform. She used to call me mad with love, as if I were crazy for wanting to spend the rest of my life with her.
She was right.