In every garden grows one single rose so perfect that once the frost takes it, no other can ever grow there again. My rose is and will ever be my Edilyn. And I shall never stop mourning her.
Those were the words Illarion had tattooed on his arm with a rose for his fallen wife.
Whenever he was alone, Illarion would idly caress the words as if he touched his wife. She had left a part of him shattered that Max wasn’t sure would ever be whole again.
If I could have one wish, it would be to take away your pain, brother.
But the Fates had never been kind to dragons.
“Incoming!”
Max moved to engage the winged demons first, in an effort to protect his brothers. Illarion and Falcyn stayed at his back, covering his flank.
Sin had been right. The gallu were vicious in their skills.
“Don’t let them scratch you!” Acheron warned, unaware of the fact that they were immune.
Max spewed fire and swept the ground, razing as much of it as he could. He and his brothers fell in beside Zarek and Jericho while they tried to route a group of demons out of the Hall of the Gods. It took a while, but they eventually had them on the run, headed up the hill toward Apollo’s temple.
Winged himself, Jericho shot up between the dragons. “Thanks for the assist.”
Falcyn inclined his head to him. “What are they after?”
“Apollo showed up, telling Zeus to abdicate. You know how that went. Even though he’s just a figurehead these days, Zeus tossed a few lightning bolts at him and it was on.”
Zarek grabbed a demon that tried to bite him and slung it so hard, it flew up and almost hit Max.
“Hey!”
“Duck,” Zarek said, a little late.
Max flipped the surly god off.
For once, Zarek ignored the insult as he headed off after another group. At least someone enjoyed the fighting.
A weird flash distracted Max as he started to turn. He glanced over his shoulder to see Illarion losing altitude. Afraid something was wrong or that Illarion had been wounded, he went after his brother.
Without a word, Illarion tucked his wings and landed near his father’s temple.
“Is something wrong?”
Do you hear that?
“Hear what?” Only the sounds of the battle filled his ears. That and the fierce beating of his racing heart.
Illarion cocked his head. It’s Cercamon.
“Who?”
A twelfth-century troubadour. Edilyn was forever making me take her to see him play.
Max heard it then. Light and subtle. Barely audible and yet distinct.
Bel m’es quant ilh m’enfolhetis
E∙m fai badar e∙n vau muzan!
De leis m’es bel si m’escarnis