Page 73 of Forged in Fading

He stared at his palms as if he could see the stories of those he hurt inked into his skin. “He only lives for vengeance, to make anyone with human blood suffer for the injustice of his parents’ fadings, for the humans who took their lives. And I helped him. Helped him hurt my own people, humans and demi-elves whose only crime was being born.”

The pain Boden both endured and inflicted dredged up her own memories of Pyry’s torture. Her father’s body. But the red hue they cast didn’t transform him into a monster—instead, they cleared up parts that had once been foggy, revealing how the king had broken Boden into messy pieces.

So, she let him speak.

She let the horrors skitter into the darkness and hoped to dear Vitharen it lessened the burdens that clung to him like smoke from the ashes of a loved one. She gazed into the sky, her cheeks washed in hot tears.

When a pink light finally cast the world in a warm glow, a lull lingered. He was probably waiting for her to react or run, or hoping she would move on and pretend this conversation never happened.

“You’re still you,” Alvara said as she stood and stretched her limbs. His eyes glistened. “You always will be. The things you’ve done, the choices you’ve made—they’ve changed you. But that’s true of every being that walks this earth. The guilt you feel only proves that you’re still good. Look at everything you’ve helped build here, the movement you’ve helped fuel. Focus on who you’ve become, Boden, not who you had to be to survive in a world that was bent on breaking you.” She offered a hand, the gap between them a yawning chasm that only he could choose to cross.

That was the moment Boden did something that surprised her more than anything that had happened in the past few months.

He hugged her. The bastard actually hugged her.

Alvara stiffened, the affectionate touch so foreign after years of isolation. But as the woody scent of his skin settled in and his arms tightened around her, she let him in. Gods damn it, how could she not? She nuzzled into his chest, splaying her fingers over the leather of his armor.

“I think I may owe you now, Alvara,” he said, his voice rough.

“Friends don’t ever owe each other.” Despite all odds, that’s what they had become—friends. She stayed, warm and safe, for one more breath before stepping back.

Boden rubbed the back of his neck. “I suppose we should find the others and prepare for…” He didn’t finish—they both knew what was coming, the danger they would face.

They walked side by side in a snug silence, but the warmth fizzled out one ember at a time as they moved farther away from the peace and safety of the training grounds. Too soon, the buildings of Ilmanir came into full view, each plank of wood and each clay tile made all the more beautiful by dawn’s blush caress. A nauseating reminder of everything that might soon be lost.

A buzz hummed through the hordes of elves, the tension so strong Alvara could have used it for blacksmithing. As they neared the wall, panicked shouts punctured the air, and her heart hurtled toward her stomach. Boden cursed.

The runes.

The runes on the lowest level of stones were marred with talon marks, as if someone had done it in animal form. The perfect way to stay undetected. The scratches were so small that Alvara could have almost convinced herself her mind was playing tricks on her. But she knew. They all did. The rest of the wall would topple as soon as the bottom layer crumbled.

They had been betrayed.

Archers, a veil of snow from Alvara, all the plans that had hinged on the wall withstanding Nyrian magic had been destroyed. And once runes were altered, the damage could never be undone or fixed.

“Do we even have another plan?” Alvara asked. Various commanders barked orders at their soldiers, including some citizens who had chosen to stay and fight, their faces pale and tight in anticipation of what was to come. How many would survive?

“Don’t fade,” Boden said, his own gaze sweeping over the chaos unfolding in front of them.

“Smart, I don’t know why no one thought of that.” She surveyed their options. “The trenches will still slow them down. I can be at the front with the Malvan wielders. Freeze as many enemies as I can in place so the others can steal their air and magic.” She waited for the argument from Boden that she could fight in a safer position, away from the front lines. His desire to protect came as naturally as breathing.

“I didn’t let you fight for your city. You should fight for Ilmanir in the way you know best. Just remember the plan.” He touched her arm and strode away to where the other shifters waited.

Don’t fade. If only that were as simple as it sounded.

When the piercing cry of a falcon sliced through the morning fog, their signal that the enemy approached, Alvara struggled against the urge to retch on Ravanel, who stood as stoic as ever at her side. No doubt Boden’s doing.

At the first crack of stone, Alvara shoved aside the frantic thumping of her heart and engulfed herself in memories of her sister. The wall before them collapsed into useless rubble, and a heavy stream of Nyrian wielders broke through, flinging rock and earth at everyone and everything in their path.

Alvara blasted ice at as many pairs of feet as she could muster, and her enemies raked at their throats and gasped for air, eyes bulging. The weight of her spear, so familiar, steadied her, even as their line splintered.

Grunts and screams battered her skull. Bile rose in her throat as gore flowed all around her.

Alvara hardly felt the first blow—a vine wrapped around her arm, its thorns embedded in her skin. She sliced the plant with the tip of her spear and lifted her weapon, hesitating for what she knew was only a moment, but it felt like a lifetime. Could she even do it?

The Elan elf advanced on her, his vines lunging for her throat, and she swung the shaft of her spear into his jaw with a crack. He staggered backward, eyes wide. Either she faded or he did. A single shard of ice was all it took, aimed for his exposed neck. A mangled gurgle left his mouth as he clutched his throat, blood gushing over his spasming fingertips.

She turned away, sick. It was the first life she would take today, but it wouldn’t be the last. Somehow, knowing that didn’t make her feel any better.