Lying face down on the gritty cell floor, Targath tried to take a brief respite for his tormented body, clear his mind, and chart a path forward without his closest ally. Though his eyes were closed, his mind, wracked by guilt and grief, refused rest.
Golden, radiant light, beginning as a flicker like that of a glow bug, filled the small prison, and pierced the dark shield of his eyelids, causing them to flinch open. Warm energy emanated from a small, pulsing orb under Kilena’s shirt. Targath moved his lead weight of an arm through strength of will, stretching to cover the light with a trembling hand. He traced the edges of the amulet through the shirt’s fabric, and it was changed to jagged points surrounding a smooth crystal. Holding his breath, he watched.
The light burst, scattering specks of gilded dust suspended throughout the cell. All at once, the glistening, granular flakes bolted into Kilena’s body, and a golden glow spread from Kilena’s core out through every limb, into her fingertips and toes. She shined gloriously, like the beacon of hope she claimed be. The energy seeped into her skin, through flesh until meeting bone, being absorbed by her lifeless body, until the light vanished.
Targath was enveloped by darkness once more. He lifted up on his elbows and shimmied closer to Kilena until he hovered near her, easily finding traces of life in her features. Color percolated through her round face, filling with its usual ivory color, her lips pink, body radiating a familiar warmth but eerily silent.
She blinked, moistening her dry eyes. Bolting upright, she gasped, replacing the hand that was on her chest with her own to clutch the pendant. Eyes dilating to accommodate the darkness, she frantically looked around the cell, seeing only pitch black. Turning her head left, and then right, she fearfully whispered, “Targath?”
“Kilena,” he responded, voice a gruff sigh of relief. “It worked. Something worked.”
“Targath,” she exclaimed, twisting toward the voice on her right. Faintly, she could see the outline of his frame, and she reached out with the need to confirm his presence. He let out a seething hiss, holding back a grunt of pain with grit teeth. Her hand retracted instantly, feeling a warm, slick liquid coating his bare back. “Oh no,” she said, and the tangy scent filling in the dank air made sense. “What happened to you?”
“Tortured,” he grumbled. “I’ll be fine. How are you?”
“Alive, thanks to you,” she said, assessing the amulet hanging around her neck once again. “How did you—?”
“Pounced on Amodeus. Stole it. Kept it hidden until—.” Targath sputtered with a coughing fit that tensed his entire body. Wretched, echoing barks, accompanied by wet squelches and followed by groans of pain that left him writhing.
“You need a healer,” Kilena said, her voice heightened in pitch.
“Yeah. Maybe,” he uttered through labored breaths. “But the fey are a lost cause. They will not join you.”
“Well, not all of us.”
Kilena snapped toward the cell door, seeing three pairs of eyes looking in on them through the rusty bars. One with red eyes held up a torch, the shadow it cast accenting her lean curves. Flanking either side of her were two taller, lightly armored men with equally white hair pulled back in braids, and eyes gleaming gold. Their arms were laden with armor and gear, and they clutched belts of weapons in their hands.
Grimacing, Targath curled his body and craned his neck, until he looked toward the torch. Voice broken and weak, he said, “Magister Filran?”
“Yes, Targath,” said the woman holding the torch as she turned a key in the cell door. The lock clinked, and a gentle swipe of her slender hand sent the creaky door swinging open. “With me are Nelrar and Gorlyn, my personal guards,” she explained, gesturing left, and then right, to the fey with yellow eyes. “We’re here to help. We’ll get you out of here.”
Nelrar and Golyn entered ahead of Filran, deposited their carried loads to the floor, and then stepped up to Targath’s sides. A cry of pain resonated within the confined chamber and escaped into the corridor as the two personal guards gripped his arms and carelessly hoisted him upward all at once to his feet. Nelrar pushed his shoulder under Targath’s arm to support him while Golyn picked through the gear to begin equipping the prisoner.
Filran gracefully approached, a hand outstretched. “Kilena, can you walk?”
She accepted the supplied aid, and was drawn upward with such strength she was momentarily airborne before stabilizing on her feet. “Yes, I can.” Kilena studied the fey’s face under the flickering torchlight. “You sat beside the high priestess,” she realized. “Why are you helping us?”
“That’s right, I’m a magister to Priestess Keteer. She may not agree, but I want to support the peace you endeavor to bring. The conviction behind your words is undeniable. A bit reckless perhaps, but you moved me, and I’m not the only one. Targath believes in you, and there must be a reason why,” she said, gesturing languidly in the mentioned fey’s direction. “He hasn’t returned for the last fifty years, and the only thing he believed in until now was himself.”
Kilena glanced toward Targath, watching as he pushed away Golyn to buckle his own pants. “I’m not completely crippled,” he grumbled. “And you could’ve taken it easier on me. You broke I don’t know how many ribs.”
“It had to be convincing,” Gorlyn brusquely argued.
Filran smiled in amusement, then addressed Kilena to garner her attention away from their bickering. “I regret leaving Targath to you in this poor condition, but he was resilient and refused to give up any information. As one might expect. We are trained to deliver torture as well as withstand it. We’ll help you escape to find a healer. Once he’s out of immediate danger, he should be fine. Fey heal rapidly from all injuries, in about a third of the time as humans. We might owe that and our very existence to Ivna, but this isolation underground is a curse, not a necessity. The hatred of humans belongs to a past generation. If there are more humans like you, who believe like you do, they’re worth allying with. We won’t help that warlock destroy Draconiam.”
“Thank you,” Kilena said, smiling in relief. “Thank you so much. There is a better way, and your faith in me gives me hope that together we can find it.”
Filran stepped back and crouched with her knees together beside the pile of gear. From what remained, she selected Kilena’s riveted chain mail, and rose to deliver it. “I must ask, are you truly dragonkin? We thought the last of them was killed by Ivna,” Filran said.
Kilena accepted the protective attire and said, “It would be impossible to prove now, but yes. I am, and I can show you. Above ground, I can call for my dragon friend. She can carry Targath to the aid he needs.”
“Then quickly, don your armor and follow me, dragonkin knight,” she said, pivoting swiftly to stand watch in the dungeon corridor outside of the cell.
The magister and the two fey in her charge led Kilena quickly out of the prisoner holding section, through dark, narrow corridors that avoided guards, to one of many exits out of the underground. Ahead of her, ropes were strung through gears to form a pulley system, and connected to the frame of a round lift sitting on stone. Above was a round opening through which Kilena glimpsed a morning sky. She stepped through a half door on to the platform, and Nelrar sat Targath down on his knees beside her. Kilena placed a hand on his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. Filran joined them and pulled the door shut. Nelrar and Gorlyn tugged the rope through the pulleys to raise the lift to the top.
The lift brought them up through an opening of an old well, and meadows spread out in all directions toward a river, a lake, and a forest. Shades of indigo blue and peach pink swathed across a dawn sky in the moments before sunrise. Fearfully hesitant, Kilena canted her head enough to spy the gruesome extent of Targath’s injuries and wounds. Glistening blood coated most of his exposed arms, face, and torso. Bruises were difficult to discern, but swelling on his face plainly stood out. For a moment, Kilena felt hopeless. Her stomach churned. Dread and paralytic fear overwhelmed her thoughts, summoning tears.
“Help. I need to get you to help.” Words of action snapped Kilena from terror, freeing her to move again but not from fear. Lowering to a knee, she helped him drape an arm around her shoulders, providing leverage as she stood and brought him to his feet. She grabbed hold of his wrist hanging over her shoulder, and marched. Filran opened the half door for them, leading to the ledge of the well’s rocky wall.
At Kilena’s side, Targath hobbled down from the well to the ground, and progressed several steps before he collapsed. Balance distorted by the sudden shift of his greater weight, she nearly toppled over with him. He threw out a hand to stop from planting his face in the dirt. He supported himself on one hand, his arm trembling, held upright with his other arm around her still.
“Targath,” she exclaimed with concern, and then crouched beside him. Watery eyes wide, she studied the pain written across his grimacing features. “We need to move you somewhere safe, somewhere with a mender to heal you.” Frantic, she was oblivious to the way she repeated herself.
“Good luck finding one that’s willing to help,” he replied, out of breath. “No, I need you to help me, but after we find a safe place to rest.”
Kilena turned her eyes to the sky and let out a whistle through pursed lips, a shrill sound that echoed a vast distance. “I know where we can go.”
Filran scanned the horizons, anticipating the dragon’s approach that Kilena promised. Drifting across the sky, a creature with a glistening turquoise hide and broad wingspan sped toward them. She stepped down from the lift, mouth agape, enthralled as the dragon alighted beside Kilena.
Utiss immediately tucked her wings and lowered her snout to sniff at Targath, only to recoil. A worried warble vocalized words only dragonkin understood. “Oh dear. What has transpired?”
“He saved my life,” Kilena answered, looking at Utiss to express the depth of her distress. Tears rolled over the curvature of her cheeks. “No, more accurately he brought me back to life. The others. They already follow Amodeus and Ivna, and tortured Targath for defending me,” she swiftly explained, sniffing back tears. “We need to take him to Warchester. Ezekiel can help.”
“All right, Kilena. We will take him there,” Utiss reassuringly responded, lying flat against the ground.
“Thank you, Utiss.” Gently, Kilena turned her head back toward Targath and asked, “Can you stand, just once more?”
He panted, grimaced, and then reached his hand up toward her. “With your help I-. think I-” His words were cut off by a grunt of pain. Kilena took his hand with her free one. She shifted her shoulder further under his arm, and heaved him up on unsteady legs.
“I am so sorry,” she said, pushing him up by his thighs to move him on to Utiss’s back.
The exerted effort rendered speech impossible. Targath shook his head with his teeth clenched. Sweat from his scalp dribbled down his temples and forehead. He laid forward on Utiss’s back, and Kilena mounted behind him.
“There is hope,” Filran breathed, grinning. “Thank you, Kilena. I see your proof and I believe you. Rest assured, I will gather fey forces to your cause and meet you at Lateredeos. Safe travels, my friend.”
“Thank you, Filran. We will see you there,” Kilena acknowledged.
Filran stepped up on to the lift covered well, and gradually fed the rope up through the gears to lower herself underground.
“Hold on to him tight, Kilena,” Utiss cautioned, and then proceeded into a jog. At a canter, she leaped off the ground and her wings slashed the air to ascend.
Kilena Shrelack 