Sevensworn

III. Heart of Stone

By the time morning dawned, it all seemed like a cruel dream. In the red light of the rising sun, Ronan was able to see the blood in Wynne's hair, the stark pain in Acaeus' eyes, the steady tremor in his own hands.

Solthorne had fallen, and it had brought the Circle with it.

They were lucky enough to find themselves almost to the Reach unfollowed. Aevar had let them go relatively unscathed, with the exception of his attempt to "even the playing field" with Acaeus' injury. Outside of some sick lust for a challenge, Ronan couldn't begin to place why he'd done it.

Over the night, the snowfall had only increased. As they rode, their mounts were nearly up to their knees, and no matter what their plan, it was no doubt that they'd need to stay indoors until the mounting storm passed. Ronan turned to Wynne, an exhausted defeat in his eyes.

"The Reach won't be safe for long, but it'll give us the time we need to prepare for another attack. I'm going to contact Shivaroth." This drew Acaeus' attention, as fleeting as it was, and his eyes sharpened.

"How do you know he's not with them? There are too many risks. You can't."

"Is that so?" Ronan stared at the road ahead. "I seem to remember you thought it was a brilliant idea yesterday."

"He has a point, child," Wynne chimed in. "It may be too heavy a coincidence that Aevar showed up when he did." She gave him a pointed look, and Ronan flushed.

"You know," he said.

"Of course I know. Whenever you begin to lose hope, you turn back to Shivaroth. I had a feeling you would, and the look in your eyes when we left confirmed it." Wynne watched him as she spoke, and Ronan pushed down his embarrassment.

There was nothing he wanted more than to throw himself head first into Serenvah⁠—its towering halls of branches called to him, and it was easy to see why so many other Heralds of Shivaroth had fallen to the temptation of turning from the mortal realm.

"He wouldn't betray me," Ronan said with a level blind trust Acaeus often frowned upon. "He has as much to lose from this as we do."

"Does he?" Wynne raised a brow. "He's not the one that has his death marked on a calendar."

Ronan ran a gloved hand through his hair.

"I'm his Herald. He has said he would do anything to help us. Shivaroth has no leverage to gain by lying, he's a forgotten god—with a fearsome amount of power, yes, but not power he would use against us."

Shivaroth did not seem to be of the treacherous sort⁠—he honored relationships above power and knowledge above all. Though he had been militant in his early years as an immortal and just as arrogant as Aevar, he had come to see his place and understood it as a duty to mortals, an oath to protect those that needed protecting. While his mantle was Dreamweaver, at his full power his reach had stretched far beyond Serenvah⁠—he was the patron of minstrels and wanderers, guardians and martyrs, the poor and weak. Healers prayed to him for mercy and gentleness and he responded with all he could give.

Despite his flaws, Ronan knew him to have a good heart. He wouldn't believe the attack had been orchestrated by him. He couldn't.

"Hey." Ronan glanced up at the sound of Wynne's voice, and she nodded to the sight that sat ahead of them⁠—the spires and columns of the Reach stretched up out of the snow, and Ronan exhaled heavily. The temple was built into the stone of the mountain, and the carved doors were visible from their position.

"Thank the Three," Acaeus muttered. "I don't think I could have made it much farther." Sparing a glance at the knight, Ronan's cheeks paled with the sight of how much the blood had spread. It was obvious that what would have been a triviality had turned into something more, and his fingers tightened around his reins.