Sevensworn

XXX. Where the Wind Stops

When the light faded, they were left in the center of an oppressive stillness. Only Shivaroth made any sound, a slight gasp as his power was returned to him in a rush. It was a tangible difference. His hair began to float and his tattoos began to shift, weaving patterns of their own volition. Even so, neither of them said anything.

They were in the room Ronan had entered first the last time he had been in Feihjelm, though this time the boughs of willow were still and stagnated and the fountain had slowed to a legarthic pace. No wind blew. Ronan caught Shivaroth's gaze, raising a silent eyebrow at the lack of grandeur, the nearly stifling silence. He nodded toward the door they both knew led to the throne room and entered it without ceremony.

It was empty, though its stillness was not like that of the room before it; this room's stillness was brought about by the massive chunk of stone that had been cleaved from Eltirash's throne and the destroyed war table in the center. Shivaroth made a choked sound in the back of his throat and pulled his hand from Ronan's, running forward and falling to his knees above something the prince couldn't see.

As Ronan moved closer, the breath was stolen from him.

Dark blood dripped down the stairs that led up to the thrones, pooling at the base, and sprawled at the top of the white marble steps, face down and motionless, was Felhan. His hair obscured most of his face but Ronan could see that two of his six eyes were still open, though they had long since lost any hint of life. He stepped forward, putting a hand on Shivaroth's arm.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, breaking the silence. Shivaroth shook his head in disbelief.

"I do not⁠—who? Who could have done this? No one else has entered Feihjelm, I can feel it, yet this was not our doing⁠—"

Far in the distance, there was a clash of metal and a shout that he recognized. Neither he nor Shivaroth wasted a second; they were running forward, Ronan following close at Shivaroth's heels, out of the citadel and back into the Godswood, before either of them had a chance to speak. The sounds of fighting grew louder as they approached, and more blood was smeared on the trees. They passed another body, Amiriah's, which Ronan nearly stumbled over. They did not stop even once, but he could feel Shivaroth's terror mounting.

When they finally reached the source of the noise, they skidded to a stop almost immediately. Eltirash, doubled over and bleeding, raised her sword above Hanwey's head with a hungry, bestial yell. Hanwey ducked away easily while Calyseus circled them both, his eyes calculating.

"Please, sister," Hanwey was saying. "I do not want to hurt you."

"It is much too late for that," Eltirash hissed. "I will have your head. I will have⁠—"

"Stop this!" Shivaroth stepped forward, drawing his scimitar in one smooth motion. All eyes turned, shocked, to where he stood, and he planted his bare feet firmly in the mossy ground. "Have we not done enough damage to each other already? Have we not⁠—"

Eltirash lunged at him before he could finish. Shivaroth's blade was up in a heartbeat and he parried easily, his speed just fast enough for Ronan to know that had his opponent been mortal, they would have been dead where they stood.

"You have no say in our fate," she hissed into his face. "You took their side. You have always taken their side. Does family mean nothing to you anymore, Shivaroth? Has your death muddled your vision so much that you can no longer see what is important?"

"You think I do not care?" Shivaroth's voice was venomous. "You think I have not spent every moment that I walked Ishtel locked in a battle between two parts of myself? It is killing me to stand before you knowing that you think I am the enemy. I am not going to strike you down, sister, I am here to settle things. Peacefully, if we⁠—"