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Emerald hair swirled about slender shoulders as the formidable elf lord turned away from his younger cousin. Even as Quenthalus provided answers for questions unasked, Hylhia`narael’s thoughts were of his precious wife, Ariadne, the only woman who truly understood him. Hylhia’s bond with the elfin maiden was not forged by political necessity as many Silrosian marriages oftentimes were, but rather with genuine affection. Love, it was a strange concept to Quenthalus’s cousin, but it was nevertheless one that the sinister son of Clan Corranyr always associated with his dear Ariadne.
“Taur'wenya will make a fine warrior one brightening…with the proper guidance of course.”
Nursing the rim of his uplifted goblet with pale lips, Hylhia sipped several times before returning the drink to the table. His eyes, the color of the forest, stared absentmindedly at the claws of the ornate dragon wrapping around the bottle of Mor’loki. Despite his seeming self-absorption, the elf lord was paying more attention to Quenthalus than his apathetic demeanor portrayed.
His slender digits, the ones wrapped about the base of the wine glass, twitched slightly as his cousin shared of Taur’wenya’s ambition to contribute to the Combine. Contribute. Taur’wenya could not even begin to fathom the true definition of that word. The dedication. The bloodshed. The sacrifice. Hylhia’s brother was young, too young and naïve to grasp the magnitude of his impetuous desire. Resisting the urge to shake his head, Quenthalus’s cousin imbibed another mouthful of wine. Taur’wenya would learn in time.
For the first time since their reunion, Hylhia’s jade-colored eyes softened as Quenthalus relayed the story of Ariadne gifting Taur’wenya with his practice blade, a weapon that Hylhia had not personally wielded in patterns. It was not difficult to imagine his younger brother’s excitement upon receiving the sword, that token of manhood. And dear Ariadne, how much pain must have afflicted her in parting with such an intrinsic item.
Hylhia sighed. He longed for home, but there was work to be done here in Imperia, work that needed to be done.
The elf lord did not respond when Quenthalus finished; he only nodded and continued to stare into the vacant goblet set in front of him. Whether or not Hylhia had been listening, Quenthalus could not possibly know, but the dissipation of the elf lord’s previously stern disposition suggested that news of Ariadne’s well-being had mitigated some of his earlier bitterness –and it had. Rarely was the eldest son of Fae`nyor Corranyr seen without that spectral visage of his along with that sinister nature that his enemies perceived seconds before they died. For now, though, he almost seemed relaxed –almost.
“Revolution in the making, selen…”
Hylhia cryptically began, and he turned his head slightly to meet his cousin’s gaze.
“Life here is unlike life in the forest. It is not sheltered, it is not forgiving. There is no room for error…”
The shadow of a menacing grin appeared on one side of the elf lord’s lips, though it never blossomed into anything more. As soon as the subtle contortion appeared it dissipated milliseconds later. It was not unknown in Clan Corranyr that Hylhia had been tasked with investigating the events surrounding Silrosia’s invasion from the pirates. The eldest son of Fae`nyor’s entire life had been tailored to fulfill the role that he had been assigned, and he had more than risen to the occasion. He had joined with others like himself, others who would and could guarantee the subsistence of Silrosia for centuries to come –that and glory unlike any Elfhame had ever seen since the rise of Prince Moonstone.
“What has Uncle told you so far?”
He asked, suddenly showing some interest in Quenthalus’s own well-being.
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