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Things lying on the funeral pyre weren't his family anymore – just dead bodies, corrupted with disease. But Raith still stared at flames, ignoring smoke, or smell of burning flesh or humming of the priest.

The Bloodburn. This disease reached dark elves realm earlier than rumors about it did and started taking lives of the people immediately. Only a few were infected, but the Bloodburn was untreatable and unpredictable, and that was terrifying to the most. Alchemical potions, healing spells, rituals, all of which were to no avail.

Raith knew that better than anyone else.

Many fled to the temples, praying to the wrathful god for mercy, but it turned out to be as useless as medicine. Someone in despair even cursed Nor for letting his children die. Raith knew that Nor simply didn’t care about them, he hasn't brought this disease; it’s foolish to consider yourself special. Rumors were that the Bloodburn infected only those without magic. Raith believed in this – neither his wife nor son had any. Raith regretted for the last week that his son did not inherit his talent. Now he wished that he himself didn't possess any magic.

Raith’s only consolation was that his wife didn’t see death of her child. She lost consciousness earlier and never woke up again.

“Now your beloved ones are in the hands of Nor,” whispered the priest behind the Raith’s back. Raith didn’t even look at him.

“They would have preferred my hands.”

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“Hey, pretty boy,” a woman in mercenary armor stopped her horse and winked to stunned Angar. Her red hair freely fell on her shoulders. “Wanna see the exotic places? If you know what I mean. What a waste, young flower withering like that…”

Angar swallowed, staring at her. He couldn’t say a word, so he just nodded. The woman smiled, reached out to him-

“Angar Arandir,” the teacher said. “Tell me about political relationship between Nortander and the other countries of Fiara after the War of Six Races.”

Angar open his eyes and sat up, almost dropped his book. This lesson seemed like an eternity…

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“Can I ask you something?” Tahar said.

“Depends.” High-Keeper Arenor answered with her usual restraint.

“What’s your middle name?” Actually, Tahar was going to ask her about Iron Falcons, but she was very curious…

“What?” Arenor frowned.

“Your sister have it, she is called Lady Myrah Emeline. Have you?”

“It’s... " High-Keeper hesitated. "...Rosamunda.”

“Lady Arenor Rosamunda Arandir… sounds weird.”

“It sounds terribly. Fortunately, Falcons have only one name, and I kept my first.”

“Makes sense. “High-Keeper Rosamunda” not as impressive.”

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“I didn’t think I’d ever say that, but I miss Madam Squareface,” Katras said, looking on the ground to avoid making eye contact with Liliath. “All things are known by comparison.”

“Who is she?” Liliath suddenly asked, although he didn’t expect any response.

“One fair Falcon lady. I have nightmares about her stern face even now. You have a lot of common; it seems I attract stubborn fanatic human women with prejudices against Dark Races. I must admit, though – even if she had weird fantasies, just like you, about ramming me with a pike, she never spoke about it out loud.”

“Maybe you simply didn’t have time to anger her enough for that.” Liliath’s tattooed face distorted, which should mean smile.

“Oh,” a hint of interest appeared in Katras’s voice. “I thought your sense of humor is dead.”

“Shut up,” Liliath said. “And I will talk with your Madam later. Iron Falcons still refuse to repent and accept the Light.”

“I would like to see your meeting,” Katras immediately imagined that picture and grinned. “Nothing personal, Liliath, but I wouldn’t bet my last pay on you.”

But Liliath wasn’t listening anymore. Messenger of Purity hurried to her, and she stopped paying any attention to Katras. When she left, Katras sighed.

“Even Arenor don’t deserve such fate.”

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As a child, Tahar used to look at her own face in the mirror for a long time, trying to find something - anything – she could get from her never seen mother. There were no portraits in the house, and Isamo never told his daughter about her, only once said dryly “she died, when you were born”.

Tahar was exact same as her father – the same grey-green eyes, straight nose and thin lips, - but she touched her messy blonde hair and chubby cheeks, covered with pale freckles, again and again. Maybe her mother looked like that? At least she liked to think so. That was better than nothing.

Tahar stopped wondering, when she grew older – time and experience changed her face so much that she didn’t look like someone, except herself. And she was fine with it – her legacy already was too heavy.

Now Andra’s eyes, dead, black, look at her from every mirror.

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“You know, it helped a lot,” Nightsong stretched and squinted like a pleased cat, staring at the rising sun. “I feel warmer now.”

“I told you,” Jared couldn’t help but grin. He hadn’t expected to be able to tempt dark elf, but this night was bitingly cold - the desire for warmth overpowered Nightsong’s pride. And watchful Lya was not here this time…

“Here, take it back,” a coarse wool cloak slipped from Nightsong’s shoulders. “Thank you.”