Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 49–Some Wounds Run Deep

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Larah scrubbed her hands in a bucket of crimson water, the metallic scent of blood rising with each motion. Despite her best efforts, the dark stains beneath her fingernails remained stubborn—like the memories clinging to her mind. She had attended to hundreds of wounded men, as well as women and children caught in the fighting. The moans of the injured still echoed in her ears, a constant chorus of suffering. Some injuries she could heal, others she bandaged, but for most, she could not do anything other than hold their trembling hands while their life thread slipped out of reach. Not till nightfall did the torrent of torn flesh, severed limbs, and pale dead stop littering the halls of the inner keep.

She pushed away from the bucket, her shoulders aching from bending over the wounded all day. The stone floor was cold beneath her feet as she climbed the tall steps to the upper walls of the inner keep. Maybe there she’d find fresh air and, by some miracle, some peace of mind.

Below her lay the ruin of the lower city. Smoke rose from abandoned buildings, and the dead lay where they had fallen. In the distance, she could hear the occasional cry of someone searching for loved ones. Such sights and sounds clawed at her soul and brought tears to her eyes.

How could men be so beastly to each other, fighting over ownership of land owned only by nature?

The smell of death hung in the air, stinging her nose and turning her stomach. She looked up at the moon, its pale light offering no comfort, and wished quietly, not for the first time, that none of this had happened.

Do I belong here? There must be a path forward that doesn’t lead through more bloodshed.

As the thought hung in her mind, she looked down again. And what of tomorrow? The sun would rise, and the killing would begin again. Was there any way to wipe the stain of death from Landros? Turning away from the scene, she looked back over the inner keep, which was now peaceful and secure, but for how long? Would the killing flow into here? Her eyes rested on the high, thick walls of the “Grail of Landros,” the massive reservoir that held enough water to keep Landros hydrated for days if not weeks.

Beneath still waters, live the hands of the Creator, the saying went. She repeated it aloud, her voice small against the vastness of the night.

The sound of leather boots against a stone floor approached. Riasean’s voice carried in the gloom. “That’s an interesting saying. What does it mean?”

Larah didn’t turn to look at him. “Perhaps it means that water is life,” she said in low tones, tracing a finger along the rough stone parapet. “Or perhaps it means that peace can only be found in stillness, away from the chaos of war.” She closed her eyes, feeling the cool night breeze against her face. “I do not know.”

“What are you thinking about?” His voice was gentle, probing.

Larah opened her eyes, looking out at the rooftops once more. “Why am I here, Riasean? Why is it, everywhere I go, death follows me?” Her hands gripped the stone until her knuckles whitened. “At Avalir, I felt whole. I felt purpose. But here… I feel myself slipping away with each life that ends before me.”

“Because death is everywhere, as is life. Let me share a secret with you.”

She turned, studying his face in the moonlight—sharp angles, eyes that seemed to hold so many secrets. “You are a secret to me.”

“Well then,” he said with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let me dispel some of that.” He led her down the steps to the street level. “I have someone for you to meet.”

Together, they walked toward the north side of the inner keep. Storefronts were boarded up, their windows dark and lifeless. But one wasn’t. They stepped through the open archway of an old shop, the wooden door creaking slightly as they entered. Inside, the warm glow of candles illuminated shelves of simple goods—a pocket of normalcy amid chaos. Behind a shop counter stood a young woman with long dark hair, her fingers busy organizing jars of dried herbs.

The woman’s face lit up when she saw them. “Riasean,” she shouted quickly, slipping from behind the counter. Then, she rushed over and embraced him warmly, her silken hair catching the candlelight. “I’m so glad you survived the fighting.”

Larah’s skin grew hot, a twinge of something uncomfortable rising in her chest. She took a step back toward the door, her hand finding the rough wood of the frame.

“It’s not over yet,” Riasean answered, wrapping his arms around the woman. “Are you going to evacuate with the others?”

“No,” she said sharply, pulling back to look at him. “And don’t try to convince me.”

He smirked. “I wouldn’t dare.” He turned to Larah, noticing her discomfort. “Larah, I want you to meet Brianna—my sister.”

Larah’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but her fingers still fidgeted with the fabric of her bloodstained apron. They didn’t look very much alike—where Riasean’s features were sharp and angular, Brianna’s were softer, rounded.

Brianna leaned forward, her dark eyes studying Larah with interest. “Half-sister,” she clarified. “We have the same father, who was human. My mother was human; his was Elvish.”

Larah nodded slowly. She remembered being on the road near Tamor, where Riasean had shared such information. However, like so much else about him, it was painfully vague.

“So, how did you two come to know each other?” Brianna asked, gesturing for them to sit at a small table in the corner. The wooden chairs creaked as they settled in.

“That is a long story,” Riasean answered. For the next few moments, he related their journey, but it wasn’t the events that captured Larah’s attention—it was the memories that each mention evoked.

She remembered the damp moss beneath her feet in the Grimwahl when they first met, Riasean’s suspicious glances giving way to a reluctant trust. The warmth of getting to know each other as they navigated the grasslands near Tamor. The taste of sweet berries they gathered along the roadside, during those rare moments of peace in their travels.

But with each memory came the shadow of death that had followed them—the stabbing in the inn that had nearly claimed Riasean in Malodier, how his life almost slipped away beneath her fingertips. Alric’s assassination in the very streets of his crown city, the ambush inside the Citadel where they had sought shelter. The memories pressed down on her, each a stone added to her burden.

She stood by the archway, examining the cracks in the wall, wondering if she’d ever feel as whole as she did at Avalir. How long before she lost who she was in this rotting house of decay? The path ahead seemed clear suddenly—not here, not amid more killing and death. She needed to continue her journey, to find the wholeness she had glimpsed so briefly.

Brianna looked at Larah. “So, they went to rescue you in Wolfbern, and then you ended up saving their lives?”

“I suppose that is true.” Larah hadn’t considered the irony, but it hardly mattered. Her rescue led to more men getting murdered at the gate. Another price to be paid. Who would rescue her now? She cast a look at Brianna, but the young woman had turned her attention back to Riasean.

I need to leave. Tonight. Before dawn brings more death.

Brianna reared back and laughed. “I knew you’d have to be rescued.” She grew quiet, and the smile faded from her lips. “It is good that you escaped when you did. Wolfbern is a perilous place to be.”

Riasean asked, “What happened since we left?”

While they talked, Larah slowly edged toward the door. The siblings’ voices became background noise as she considered what supplies she might need and which direction she would travel. Perhaps east, through the highland pass with the other city refugees.

“I heard from Renna last night for the first time in several days,” Brianna said. “The Council has locked down the city, but the Brotherhood is making life uncomfortable for them. Every night, those loyal to the Council are turning up dead, as are those trying to protect them. Even the guards are afraid to patrol at night.”

Riasean shrugged. “Making the Brotherhood an enemy was not a smart move by the Council. They have a long reach.”

Larah slipped out the door, her feet silent on the cobblestones. The night air felt cleaner somehow now that she had made her decision. She would gather her few belongings and be gone before anyone noticed. Perhaps somewhere beyond Landros, beyond the reach of warring factions and dying men, she would find the answers she sought.

Brianna glanced around. “Where’s Larah?”

Riasean whipped around. “I don’t know. She was just here a minute ago.” He ran outside, the sudden movement making the candles flicker. The empty street greeted him, shadows dancing in the moonlight. “Larah!” he called, his voice echoing off the stone buildings. He ran down the streets, calling her name again and again, but no answer rose in the night air.

* * *

Gall squatted in what had once been a merchant’s shop, close to where the garrison had Council forces pinned down in the southern part of the lower city. The distant sounds of battle—occasional shouts, the clash of metal, and screams of pain—filtered through the crumbling walls. Dust motes danced in the faint moonlight that streamed through a hole in the ceiling, illuminating the old warrior’s weathered face.

The floorboards creaked as Riasean appeared in the doorway, his silhouette unmistakable against the faint glow of fires burning in the distance. He moved with the quiet grace of his elven heritage, stepping carefully over debris before settling opposite Gall. The young man’s face was drawn, his usual confidence replaced by something more vulnerable.

“I have something to tell you,” Riasean prompted, his voice barely audible above the distant clamor. His fingers worked nervously at the leather binding of his sword hilt. “Larah is gone.”

Gall sat up straighter, his joints popping in protest. “What do you mean ‘she is gone’? What happened?” His eyes, sharp despite his age, studied Riasean’s face intently.

“I do not know.” Riasean ran a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled. “I took Larah to meet my half-sister, and while talking to Brianna about Wolfbern, Larah slipped out.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I went to the gates and searched the city, but no one saw her. The guards said they saw a hooded figure leaving through the north gate, but they couldn’t be certain it was her.”

Gall sank back against the wall, the rough stone catching at his cloak. “She got tired of the killing.”

Riasean stared at him, a curious look on his face, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“For you and me, death is a daily event, something we are comfortable and familiar with,” Gall continued, his voice carrying the weight of decades of experience. The acrid smell of smoke drifted through the broken window. “Larah is not like that. She lives for others and is selfless and kind. The existence we live in corrodes her sense of self.”

Riasean stared at his hands, now still in his lap. “So, what do we do? Let her go?” he whispered, his voice full of doubt and something more profound—a reluctance to accept what he knew to be true.

“If you love her, then yes, you-we must let her go,” Gall said softly, the words hanging in the air between them.

The young man did not reply but stared at the ground, his shoulders slumped. A distant thud shook the building slightly, sending a shower of plaster dust down from what remained of the ceiling. Neither man moved, each lost in thought.

After a long moment, Riasean took a deep breath, his chest expanding as he seemed to gather his resolve. He looked up, his eyes meeting Gall’s. “You’re right,” he said, his voice steadier now. “She deserves the chance to find her own path—away from all this.” He gestured vaguely toward the sounds of conflict.

Gall nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reached out and clasped Riasean’s shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the worn fabric. “She’s strong, that one. Stronger than she knows.”

“Stronger than any of us,” Riasean agreed, a hint of pride warming his voice.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around them. The wind shifted, bringing the smell of rain and a promise of dawn still hours away.

Finally, Gall cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet room. He straightened, his demeanor shifting subtly from friend to commander. “Now, I have a job for which your talents are well suited.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a black bladed knife. One of his throwing knives he’d lost earlier during the fight in the city. The blade reflected in the dim light. “Time to send the Council a message, and I can think of no one better suited to the task.”

Riasean’s eyes lingered on the path to the north gate for a moment before returning to Gall. He nodded, his expression hardening with determination as he took the knife. “Tell me the recipient.”

* * *

The column of refugees gathered at the north gate, their hushed voices creating a low murmur that echoed from the stone walls. Children clutched their mothers’ hands, while old men leaned on walking sticks, their eyes reflecting the torchlight. Chains clinked and groaned as the drawbridge lowered across the Nathir River, the mechanism’s protest cutting through the night air. With a resonant thump that vibrated through the cobblestones beneath their feet, the heavy oak, iron-reinforced bridge fell into place, sending ripples across the dark water below.

The portcullis chains rattled as they climbed onto heavy reels in the gatehouse, the sound of metal on metal harsh in the pre-dawn stillness. Faces in the crowd—drawn with exhaustion but lit with desperate hope—watched the heavy iron gate lift, revealing the road beyond. Paulis had made clear in his decree that those unable to fight, particularly the old and children, those sick and injured, must leave to avoid burdening those trying to defend the city. Anyone who didn’t make the arduous trip to Tenoach would be on their own.

Torchlight illuminated the ragged mass as it threaded its way through the north gate, across the bridge onto the road. Wooden planks creaked beneath the weight of so many feet, horses’ hooves adding a rhythmic counterpoint. The column snaked its way south along the road, as tiny knots of horsemen cantered along the flanks, their armor glinting in the moonlight as they looked for enemies. Behind them, the silhouette of Landros rose against the night sky, fires still burning in the lower city.

A hunched figure in a forest green cloak sat among the column, a hood pulled low over her face. Larah clutched the reins of her horse, feeling the smooth leather beneath her fingers. The cool night air caused a shiver to run through her limbs, though it mercifully did waft away the stench of death from the city. The gentle swaying of her mount beneath her was soothing, a rhythm that promised distance from the horrors she had witnessed.

She glanced back once at the city walls, remembering the faces she was leaving behind—Riasean’s half-smile, Gall’s weathered features, the wounded who still needed care. For a moment, doubt flickered in her heart. Then she remembered the endless procession of the dead and dying, the feeling of helplessness as life after life slipped away beneath her hands.

Larah closed her eyes and lifted her face to the stars, their light a faint comfort in the darkness. “Creator,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the sounds of the exodus, “lead me to where I need to go and help those in need.” The words floated away on the night breeze, a promise and a plea.

As the road curved away from the city, Larah straightened in her saddle, her shoulders no longer hunched with the weight of so much death. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time in weeks, she could breathe again. Whatever awaited her beyond the horizon, she would face it with the same compassion and courage that had carried her this far.

As the column of refugees continued its slow march toward Tenoach, with each step, Landros and its besieged walls receded further into the night.

* * *