A Dawn of Dragonfire

ADIA



She tried to run past her husband's soldiers. They held her—broad men in armor, their eyes hard. She tried to push them aside, but they stood firm.

"Let me through!" she demanded, glaring at them. "I am High Priestess of Requiem, and I command you move aside."

Adia was a tall woman, and she knew that men often whispered of her stern eyes, her cold face, her commanding voice that could wither flowers. Yet none of that held sway in these tunnels, as men clashed and cried and died ahead in the darkness. She looked over the men's shoulders and saw their comrades pile rocks and wood, sealing the chambers above—the library, the wine cellar that had become their war room, the armory where Solina had burned all those Adia had labored to heal.

"I'm sorry, Mother Adia," one of the soldiers said, eyes lowered. "Your lord husband commands it. The upper tunnels have fallen, from the library to the armory."

"It is no longer an armory!" Adia said. "It ceased being an armory once you donned your armor, and once we started moving the wounded in. It's a hospital now, and I'm a healer, and you will let me through."

She was about to shove them again when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun around, glaring, to see her husband. Dust covered Deramon, painting him gray. Blood trickled from a wound on his shoulder, thick with dirt. Dents and scratches covered his armor, and welts ran down his cheek.

"The upper chambers have fallen," he said, voice low and gruff, but tinged with softness. "They're dead, Adia. They're gone."

She spun back to the soldiers, then back again to Deramon, and felt close to panic. She forced herself to stand still, to take deep breaths, to ease the hammering of her heart. Her eyes stung and her belly felt so cold and heavy, as if ice filled it.

I swore to heal them, she thought. They depended on me. I shouldn't have left them. I shouldn't have gone to sleep while they burned. Now the hurt are gone, while I, the healer, linger.

She turned and faced the other direction, staring into the darkness. Survivors huddled before her, lining the walls. There were so few of them. So many had not managed to escape the upper chambers. From behind her, she heard the cries of the Tirans, clashing steel, and a scream. A voice cried out the words of Requiem—"May our wings forever find your sky!"—torn with pain.

"There are still Vir Requis alive up there," she whispered, a tremble running through her.

Deramon nodded, grim. "They're beyond our help now."

The voice behind her rose in a scream—a cry of more anguish than Adia had ever heard, even in her hospital.

"They're torturing our men," she whispered.

Deramon held her shoulder and began leading her away. "We can no longer help them, only pray. Come with me, Adia."

How could she just leave this place? How could she abandon those Vir Requis who still lived beyond the line of battle, cut and broken and tortured by Tiran steel? And yet she walked, head raised, eyes staring ahead. She would pray for those still left behind… pray that death found them quickly.

They walked deeper into darkness and found a corner to huddle in. She sat on the cold ground, Deramon's great arms holding her, and Adia closed her eyes. She could still hear the screams, even down here, and she clenched her jaw so tight, her teeth ached.

Did her children scream like this too? Had the phoenixes caught Bayrin, her firstborn, the son she loved with all her heart? Did the terrors of the Abyss now torture her daughter, the brave and beautiful Lyana, the light of her life? Would her children leave her like Noela?

I should not have let them go! Adia thought, fingernails digging into her palms. I should never have let them leave me! They need me now. They need me to protect them.

"Mother Adia," spoke a soft voice. "Mother Adia, I beg you. My wife, she's… she's giving birth, and… the midwife is in the upper chambers. Please, Mother, can you help?"

Still held in Deramon's arms, Adia opened her eyes. She saw a young man with a wide, pale face. Sweat soaked him and his left arm was wrapped in bloody bandages. Adia stared at him in silence, and for a moment she only thought: What of my children? What of those I gave birth to? Leave me. Your child will die with the rest of them.

She wanted him to leave, and she hated herself for it, and her thoughts scared her more than anything in this darkness.

She rose to her feet.

"Lead me to her," she said. She was still Mother of Requiem, and all the survivors were her children. She would protect them, heal them, comfort them… until the fire consumed them all.