Gilded Serpents

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Anasilan

"A fire? Really?" grumbled Ciro.

I watched as the large man hunched over, awkwardly lowering himself to the tiny hearth, trying his best to put out the flames using a nearby iron poker.

Milea had put us in her tiny living quarters to wait. But after seeing me struggling with the heat, Ciro braved another entrance into Milea's forge to ask if she had any spare clothes I could wear to get me out of the furnace of my armor. And although I heard shouts of protest complaining of interrupted work, Milea eventually returned to provide me with a long white linen sleeping dress to wear while I was here in the underground camp.

Now suitably dressed for the climate and finally outside of the armor, I was able to relax and take in my peculiar surroundings. The small room had a humble cot, a few overstuffed chairs, and a floor covered with once-colorful carpets. The oddest thing, however, were the walls.

The crooked and cracked stone cavern wall was painted, quite delicately, with scenes of battle. Armored soldiers, dragons, and beasts alike fought valiantly against each other, with rich blues and reds glowing in the firelight. I saw Selphene knights, eyes wild, charging a group of cloaked soldiers, charging bravely forward, although their numbers were slim. The now familiar smoke of a void mage circled another serpent beast rider, already bloodied from battle. The focal point of the entire impressive mural was a woman, standing upon a high cliff by herself. Framed by glowing clouds, her palms upwards and at her sides, she raised her head in prayer.

"Ciro?" I asked.

"Hm?" he asked, still desperately trying to lower the flames.

"Who is that?" I asked, pointing to the woman.

Ciro turned his head to see where I was pointing, then back at me, brows furrowed.

"Illes. It's the battle of Port Xeme. Not sure why she'd want to decorate her room with something so depressing," he sighed.

"Who's Illes?"

Ciro shut his eyes tight, apparently physically pained by my ignorance.

"Please tell me you know who Illes is... The Western Witch? Barren's hero?" he sighed. "Of course you don't. The mainland would try to bury her story, I'm sure."

The Western Witch.

"I've read books who talked about... about the Western Witch. But never by name. She's... The books don't show her in the kindest light."

"I'm sure that's putting it lightly," Ciro sighed again, resting his head in his hands. "The betrayal of Port Xene is one of the darkest parts of our history here in the Barrens. A Myrot spy had infiltrated our camps, even rose to respectable rank, all the while feeding back valuable information to the Four. For years, the coward went unnoticed, until one night, while they slept, thousands of Selphene and Herculea knights gathered, surrounded the island. Hidden below the black sea by Myrot himself, they finally stormed the shore. Although unexpected, Barren forces were able to last until morning light... Until the dragon riders came."

Ciro backed up, leaning against the wall, looking up at the mural around us.

"It was a massacre... And it would have been worse if it wasn't for Illes."

"What did she do?"

"She did what she had to - to save those who were still alive. She had her small fleet of void mages, and each gave their magic to her, sacrificing themselves to create a great void beast to face the dragons. The distraction was enough to get a majority of the remaining people, soldiers and townsfolk alike, off the island in the few remaining ships."