Chapter 57

Travelling by Sparrow and Pikes was quicker than almost all alternatives, save for Skiff-flight, but Formora still held reservations. For one: the machines felt extraordinarily hazardous to even touch, let alone ride. They outpaced even the well-bred steeds by tens of miles, they didn't tire, and they flitted through the forest so fast she was sure someone would hit a tree sooner or later. No one did. Ikharos and the Eliksni were unwaveringly calm as they directed their speeding machines through Du Weldenvarden, possessing what appeared to be incredible sway and direction over every minute movement. It was incredible to watch.

But the spectacle lost its luster when she was forced to ride aboard one such device. At least the Sparrow was built with some semblance of safety in mind - the Pikes, she saw, had less balance, took wilder turns, tilted more dangerously.

She didn't envy Narí.

They stopped sometime after dusk had fallen. Javek activated three floating box-like machines to keep watch over their small camp - Shanks, outfitted with insidious eyes and modified shock rifles. Bright gouts of heat plumed from their rear-facing fins. The sound of their slow, measured flight was nothing like Xiān's and grated on her sensitive hearing. She was relieved when they spread out away from the small clearing in which their party had stopped. She could do without the horrific din of hissing machines.

Formora took the chance to stretch her legs and think. The most pressing matter was just what they would do when they inevitably encountered the Hive, but that was not where her mind wandered first. No, it strolled along, going straight for something she had been purposefully trying to ignore: Ikharos.

The man (Risen, Warlock, Godslayer) was above all someone they needed if they stood a chance at breaking down the Strife Cult's conspiracy. But the truth of it was so deceptively simple, so easy to overlook; Ikharos was still a man, even if a semi-immortal one at that.

Her first instinct was to dismiss it as little more than the classic human ardor for her own people - a fascination with their 'fey appeal.' Everlasting beauty was enticing to those of finite lifespans. She had seen it manifest within Ilirea's walls before the Fall, when elves and humans walked the same streets. Formora herself had, on the rare occasion, been subject to the whimful advances of human nobles, both before and after Galbatorix's usurpation of the Riders and the Broddring Kingdom. Ilthorvo - beloved Ilthorvo - had shot those ambitious humans' hopes down with well-timed growls and bared teeth.

But it wasn't fair to label his professed longing as a short-lived passion. Ikharos wasn't an Ilirean noble. Nor was he even human. Not quite. Perhaps originally, but Light and magic propelled him down a route not unlike that of human Dragon Riders. As something other to what he had been born as.

And yet, most concerning of all, he was not an elf. Not of älfakyn. Rare were the relationships between elves and others, and fewer yet were more impactful than fleeting dalliances. Of those where genuine love was expressed in place of momentary passion, often did tragedy strike, for one side would always fall victim to the rigours of mortality. Halfborn Falresídr was proof of that - fatherless, doomed to a life of limits, and set apart from those he lived amongst.

Ah, but Ikharos is not mortal.

Her mind played devil's advocate. Formora welcomed it. Let her beliefs be challenged. Let them form into something new, something decisive.

She doubted his affections were brought on by momentary impressions. He was so assiduous and sincere. When wasn't he? Ikharos stood by an open, freeing philosophy of life that the humans of the Empire and Surda - and the dwarves and Urgals of both the Beors and Spine - lacked. It was closer to that of her own people, and even exceeded it. Opinions were treated as just that - opinions. Freedoms of speech and action were in such plenty, that Formora half-suspected it was nothing more than a fanciful dream. How hadn't his people fallen into total excess and hedonism, if they possessed the ability to live as they wished? They certainly had the power to indulge themselves to the brink of sanity. Was war all that held them back? Or were they just as mature and considerate as her people? More, even?

She couldn't know without seeing his people, his Earth, and as long as Nezarec stood, Scipio wouldn't allow that. Formora dropped that line of thinking, knowing it would only lead to further speculation on a matter where there would be no forthcoming answers. At least in relation to her current dilemma. Regardless of what principles his culture tied importance to, Ikharos was open-minded in most aspects and that, more than not, carried weight.

Formora liked that. That was the entire reason they found a comforting rapport in one another. But her feelings in that respect were of camaraderie, not amorous. She could have rejected his shy, ever-polite advances altogether and taken advantage of the gracious loophole he himself engineered so they could return to what they had before, but... she was curious.

She glanced at him, working at a small Light-sparked fire with Melkris to prepare a meagre supper. By human standards, he wasn't unattractive. Severe, perhaps, and possessing a certain ruggedness. The grim scars left by the Aphelion were the most eye-catching feature, perhaps, but she'd long since been able to look past them. His facial features were strong... no. Sharp. It was the face of a man who'd endured a distinct lack of common comforts.

His jaw was hidden beneath a beard, finally filled out. It was neither scraggly nor bushy - it just was. And it was the same colour as his hair, which too had grown enough to warrant him tying it back into a basic tail - faded auburn. His skin, normally deathly pale, had seen some change too. It had found some colour at last. He no longer looked like he would collapse at any moment.

Maybe that would continue. Maybe he would catch up on his sleep and meals. Maybe, maybe, he would divulge what was bothering him so he could be helped.

But that was wishful thinking. And not helpful. Not in the slightest.

For all the roughness his visage offered, there were comforts to be found. Little elements of true beauty, no magic entailed; the amused crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the sly half-smile whenever he voiced a rare jest, the serious sincerity he produced whenever someone asked for genuine help. He did not have the carefully cultivated features of an elf - that was no falsehoods, no mark of vanity, nothing beyond who he was. It was... refreshing.

Of course, he could change how he looked without much trouble. He had words and magic aplenty. If his appearance bothered him, it wouldn't take much to change.

Formora didn't think he'd do so. For one, Ikharos was practical. He freely sacrificed comfort for better results. He trusted and worked with the Eliksni, knowing that they were better than all the alternatives. And he trusted her - her, Formora, fifth and last of the Wyrdfell, the accursed Forsworn.

No. She cared for him, yes, but did not love him.

But, she concluded, she could. He was starkly different. To those few partners she'd chosen (and Ilthorvo had approved of) before the Fall. To all elves and Riders. It was those differences that gave pause, that kept her from deciding one way or another.

It was those differences that caught her attention. He was nice to her. Polite. Friendly. Warm. Compassionate. His anger was a frightening thing indeed, but she'd only ever seen it revealed against the most detestable creatures in the world - creatures she too found herself hating with all her being.

Formora found a place to sit by the perimeter of the camp, too deep in thought to engage others in distracting conversation. A traitorous part of her said, he won't understand me. He can't. Humans don't comprehend who we are.

But he already does, another reasoned. He wasn't just human. She knew that, but instinct was so hard to shake off. He looked human, but he wasn't. Too fast. Too strong. Too aware. Nothing like the race he'd been lifted up from.

And nothing like the race she called her own. Too little grace. Too broadly built, even as lean as he was. Too much... beard.

The beard did suit him, though, if she were to be honest. The way he wore his hair too. It fit him perfectly - warrior and survivalist in one.

Leaf litter crunched. Formora glanced up just as Narí glided into view. The younger elf sighed and sat against another tree opposite her, shaking out one leg. He greeted her with a quick touch of his lips, too drained to summon a true greeting. Not that she much minded.

There was something to be said for unspoken messages.

"Those constructs are... testing," he murmured. "No steed on the whole of the world is so fast - or wild." He met her gaze. Formora relaxed; he was hiding a smile. "I don't know how you do it, Formora-Vodha. Their machines are incredible, but they are so strenuous to live with."

"On the contrary, Narí-Finiariel," Formora replied, "I find them to be an assurance. The Eliksni would not forge such devices if they did not serve a valid purpose."

"Ah, but they are puzzling things indeed! How do they even operate?"

"By manipulating different forces and forms of energy. The Eliksni wield their constructs as we wield magic - with great ingenuity."

"And now they seek to learn our magic."

"As we seek to learn their technology. Should a trade not be made?"

Narí inclined his head. "A wise stance to take."

"It is the only one," she retorted without heat. "Our future lies with the Eliksni. They will teach us the secrets of steel and gravity, and in turn we offer them the ability to remake the world as they see fit."

"Therein lies a great danger."

"Perhaps. But who are we to keep them from the mysteries of gramarye? It did not begin with us. I doubt it will end with us."

"More wisdom."

"My years spent in exile and seclusion granted me much time to think. And," she looked back to the camp. The glow of the fire was soft and flickering, and the laughs of Melkris and his reluctant audience were loud and clear. "They have given me new perspectives to ponder."

Formora tried to assume a studied, expressionless look, but she couldn't help the broad sense of affection towards all in that direction. They weren't Ilthorvo or Kialandí, or any of her friends from Ilirea or Vroengard, but they were as much a family as she could hope to find.

"I find my breath oft stolen from me as of late," Narí mused. "In no small part due to these newcomers. They show us such wonderful things."

"And terrible," Formora murmured. She remembered the Hive - their skeletal faces, their burning eyes, their smell! They were death personified. She needed to change the subject, if only for her own sake. "You yearn for the world outside?"

"I yearn to travel," Narí corrected. "I yearn to learn. I yearn to see and know what Ikharos warns us of."

"Monsters. He warns of monsters."

"I hear what you say, I trust your words, but I cannot believe them. Not until I see for myself."

"You invite danger unto yourself."

"Perhaps I do. But I am young." Narí smiled unapologetically. "Is it not my destiny to make mistakes and learn from them?"

Formora remembered once thinking as he did. So long ago. Ilthorvo had been even worse than her, somehow. They were daring, both of them, and they paid for it most dearly. And yet she could not summon the effort to stand in Narí's way. An elf's path was their own to choose. No one, not even Islanzadí, could deny that.

She glanced back towards the camp and chose.

Formora knelt down opposite the fire. A grill of not-metal had been erected around it, and upon the grill sat two pots. One was filled with many white grains submerged in bubbling water, and the other boasted a brown-orange stew-like liquid filled with sliced-and-dried vegetables and various spices. No meat, she was glad to see. Perhaps it was something palatable to her after all.

Ikharos stirred both pots at regular intervals. He looked up as she arrived, but his gaze inevitably drifted back to the food. "Have you ever had curry before?"

"I cannot say I have."

"Ah. Then this won't taste like crap."

"Is it... supposed to?"

"Yes. No. Well..." Ikharos trailed off, looking so utterly defeated. "It's just... these are rations. Colonist rations. They're made with longevity in mind, not flavour. Still pretty good for the uninitiated, but... Traveler above, I miss home. This can't compare."

"I'm not feeling very encouraged."

"Ah, just me pining, you kno-" He stiffened. "For good food," he quickly amended. "Not..."

Formora tactfully pretended not to have heard. "So what is this... 'curry'?"

"It's chicken tikka masala, but without the chicken."

"Was there chicken with it?"

"No," Ikharos reported miserably. "There wasn't."

"So you aren't making this as it is, chicken free, just for my benefit?"

"Nah."

Formora hummed thoughtfully. "You could have pretended otherwise."

"Yeah, but... I didn't think of it. See, I'm not always a super smart man."

"Not always?"

"No." He tapped the side of his head. "This thing needs time to rest, which can leave me shit out of luck."

As amusing as it was, Formora cleared her throat. "It does. You should get some sleep, Ikharos. You're pushing yourself too hard."

"What, now? But... curry."

"I thought you weren't looking forward to it."

"Hey, mediocre curry is still better than no curry."

"Fine, yes, have your curry. But then get some sleep."

"Sure." He tapped a spoon against the lid of the grain-filled pot. "Rice is ready. Melkris?"

The shockshooter hopped beside them, quivering with eagerness. "Eia?"

"Dinner."

"Eia!" Melkris briefly disappeared, only to return with four arms laden down with seven tin plates and just as many forks. Ikharos removed the pot from the grill and ladled a generous amount of the strange cereal crop - 'rice', was it? - onto each plate. The shockshooter made to move on.

"Wait," Ikharos told him. "Curry's... yep, done. Hold them out."

And over the grains went the 'curry'. It looked, to Formora, like a spiced gravy of sorts. It smelled pleasant, in any case. Melkris handed her a bowl of the foreign mixture topped off with a fork. She stirred it about, as Ikharos did with his portion, and warily tasted it.

It was good. Very good. Savoury and delightful. Formora gave Ikharos an incredulous look. "This is not mediocre."

"I've tasted better," he responded glumly. As it was, he evidently didn't dislike what he was eating, given how he was wolfing it all down.

Reports of satisfaction came from around the clearing. Beraskes clicked loudly, Javek chirped in his Eliksni way, and Raksil saluted Ikharos. Melkris and Narí were most vocal in thanking Ikharos for the meal. The former returned to finish off what was left in the pots.

"We had a rule," Ikharos said quietly, "my Fireteam and I, and I'm thinking of bringing it back. Whoever cooks is exempt from the clean-up."

Melkris froze. Though Ikharos had spoken in the common language of humans, the Eliksni could pick out the odd word and decipher the meaning of the statement. "Clean?" He repeated, in Low Speak. Melkris groaned. "Eia, if you order it, Kirzen..."

Ikharos rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. Get Javek to use his fancy magic."

"Eia! Javek, make a spell!"

"Do not know the right words," Javek shot back. Melkris faced to Formora. She, in turn, glanced at the Splicer.

"But you do," she reasoned.

"Do I?"

"Yes."

"... Nama. I do not."

"You do. You only need to rearrange the words into a suitable spell."

Javek clicked his fangs together in displeasure. "Eh... Waíse némedh... vethr?"

"That would work."

The Splicer finished off his remaining supper and repeated the phrase. What scraps of curry clung to the plate and fork fell away in flakes, leaving the utensils spotless.

"I guess that works," Ikharos muttered. "But I would've used Void."

"Of course you would," Formora scoffed in good humour. "You use Void for everything."

"It's reliable."

"It's dangerous."

"Hence why I consider it reliable. 'Dangerous' works in my favour."

"At what point will it turn against you?"

"It won't. Void isn't like that. It's-"

"Fair, I know." Formora snuck a look at him. Ikharos was leaning back, eyes trained on what parts of the sky snuck through the canopy ahead. His fixation with the stars was, admittedly, winsome.

"We are intrinsically different."

She had to say it. Just to put it out there and see if it would float or sink.

Ikharos looked back at her. All other conversations and ongoings within their temporary camp ceased to matter. "I'm a Warlock," he murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear. "I'm driven by curiosity. I'd like to discover those differences."

Formora didn't reject it. Her own interest was piqued. This was a matter they'd only fleetingly discussed before - the culture of partners. What ceremonies and traditions did Risen entertain? They adopted the methods of other peoples, Ikharos had told her, but where did that leave him? Did he adhere to the ways of the Awoken he lived amongst? The humans of Earth? The Eliksni he knew oh so well? Or perhaps even the enigmatic Cabal?

He must have been thinking much the same, but reversed, for his next question was both informative and perplexing. "Is there... something to do? Somewhere I should begin?"

Formora mulled it over. Her eyes fell to the hissing Solar-sparked fire. The warmth from it was different; comforting and inspirational. Passionate, in all the aspects that pertained to fire - be it burning hatred or tender embrace. She loved Arc, for in it was the capacity to change into something better, but Solar was an easy substitute to rely upon.

Solar was life. And life - the present, the moment - was all that mattered.

"We approach matters of attachments rather liberally," she said slowly. "Elven relationships can be as long and short as those involved dictate. We... rarely take mates for life. Marriage, and similar binding ceremonies, cannot exist in our society. We live too long to dedicate ourselves to anything or anyone, no matter how deeply we feel, for all we are is subject to change."

"I figured as much. It's not so different from what we have. Though there's a tad more playing things by ear."

Formora nodded. It made sense. As difficult as it was to imagine an entire culture based off of one individual, if Ikharos was any indication of what Risen were like then she couldn't see them subjecting themselves to the binding authority of matrimony. He was too fiercely independent. No one, not Islanzadí, not Hrothgar, not any monarch, stood capable of controlling him.

None save his emotions and his cause.

"That said," she continued, still in a hushed, almost conspiratorial voice, "there are methods seen as the norm - as proper channels through which elves may seek out their partners. This is most rampant within the layers of aristocracy."

"And you're an aristocrat," Ikharos observed.

It was still new to her. Being back in the fold. Back in the complex webs of connections and intricacies of home. "I am," Formora confirmed, neither encouraged nor displeased. "But I am..."

"A maverick."

"Something like that, yes. I am separate, in part. As I was a Rider, I can theoretically take more freedoms than what is expected of an unbonded elf. There is an element of the draconic in me - in my very spirit. Once a Rider has tasted the open skies, nothing can anchor them ever again."

"Not exactly relatable, but I think I understand."

"I know." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "You always understand. If I didn't appreciate it so much, I would find you so very frustrating."

He smiled - gently, with a flicker of something playful. "So what are these channels?"

"Courting."

The smile gave way to dawning dismay. "... Oh."

"Is something the matter?"

"How does... I need to research."

"No," Formora said firmly. "Get some sleep."

"I can't..." He helplessly looked around. No one was taking notice. "Alright, alright. I suppose some shut eye would be in my favour."

Formora hummed in wordless agreement. It wasn't long before Ikharos left for the clearing's periphery, leaning against the trunk of a tree for comfort. Others followed suit, keen to make the most of what few hours remained of the night. Raksil stood guard with the Shanks, rifle held loosely in front of him.

It was as comforting a place to be as any luxurious Ellesméran manor.

Formora was under no illusion that their trek through the forest was going unnoticed, but the Pikes and Sparrow were simply too fast for any roaming elven rangers to catch up with, let alone stop them. That said, she didn't want to test her fortune; she guided Ikharos and Eliksni to take a route north of Osilon, rather than barrelling through the city itself.

Regardless, they made impressive progress. The machines allowed them to cover as much ground as any determined and freshly-rested Dragon Rider pair. Skiffs may have been faster, but they invited other kinds of problems - namely, that if the Cabal discovered a Skiff they might answer with ships of their own.

On the third day since their departure, they arrived upon Du Weldenvarden's western edge. Ikharos ordered a stop - his tusked Sparrow was always at the head of the pack, being lighter and quicker than the bulkier Pikes. His machine screamed to a shrill halt and he held up a clenched fist. The Pikes stopped on either side of him, engines growling.

"Here's where we trade speed for subtlety," he announced, and looked at Javek, Narí, and Formora in turn. "Can you silence our rides?"

She did as he asked, placing a hand against the shaking frame of the Sparrow beneath them, requesting in the ancient language that please, be quiet, our lives may depend on it. And, though its fevered shaking continued, the rumbling shriek emanating from its core subsided entirely.

It was a beautiful thing, his Shrike. And there was an art to riding the quick Sparrow. Where before Ikharos exerted his control over the machine to gracefully dart between the nigh-on infinite mass of trees within Du Weldenvarden, out in the open he could exult in the exhilaration of speed. Caution was thrown to wind. Pikes and Sparrow shot forth like bullets, shredding across open meadows.

Formora found that, after getting over her reservations, she loved it. And it wasn't just the feeling of air whipping at her cheeks that she found so endearing, but the unspoken uniformity of those piloting the predatory machines. The Pikes took up formation beside and behind the Sparrow like a hunting wolf pack, howling silently into the dark of the night.

Their heading was straight west, right until they hit the edge of the North Sea - the fjord which separated the peninsula where the end of the Spine stood and the long stretch of shore upon which Ceunon rested. Of the city itself, they cautiously went around. It remained as desolate and lifeless as when she had last left it, devoid of humans, Cabal, and Eliksni.

As the sun sank away and the fourth day since leaving Ellesméra came to a close, they stopped to rest by the Anora River, which fed into the murky waters of the North Sea. The ground was sandy and rough, but lush with bushes of hardy marram grass. The earth farther inshore was pockmarked with old and halfhearted burrows. There was an abundance of rabbits in the grasslands, and with no hunters from Ceunon to claim them their numbers would soar.

The Eliksni quickly took notice. Beraskes and Melkris went hunting as soon as camp was laid down, and Raksil joined them not long after. Ikharos had let them go with the stern instructions to "bring something back." Of that, Formora was less than keen.

She passed the time by speaking with Javek of magic. She knew basic Eliksni and he could pick up on a fraction of the human language, so they only had difficulty in the most abstract of concepts and questions. Ikharos listened in and, when the inevitable hiccups in communication occurred, cleared up to both of them what was being said. Otherwise, he took to briefly conversing with Narí and Kida, chasing after topics she would have otherwise considered trivial and inane.

Then, without warning, he tensed. Formora reached for her blade, sure he had picked up on something bad, something Dark, but he relaxed not a moment later.

"Beraskes," he greeted, a tad gruffly.

The Marauder entered the visibility in the middle of the group, a bracket of rabbits dangling from one hand. Her many-eyed helmet gave her a cold, indifferent look but there was no telling the casual confidence with which she held herself. "Here, Kirzen. Shall we cook these?"

"Sure, and then pack the cuts away." Ikharos sparked a handful of Solar to life in one hand and dug out a small, shallow pit with the other. "We'll need the rations where we're going. No fires from here on out."

Beraskes' arm dropped. "Why not eat them now?"

"Because I'm sure our elven friends would appreciate it if our last cooked meal is something more palatable for them."

"We would," Formora answered. The conversation was had in Eliksni Low Speak, so she translated what was said to Narí. The younger elf offered Ikharos a grateful dip of the head while murmuring his thanks.

Supper was indeed suitable for elven consumption, and pleasantly exotic besides. It was another dish she had never encountered, let alone heard of - something called a 'wrap.' It consisted of frying vegetables she and Narí grew, sprinkling a touch of spices over them, and wrapping them in a doughy, bread-like foodstuffs shaped like flattened discs Ikharos had produced from sealed plastic packets.

It was delicious. The wrappings dulled the sharpness of the filling pleasantly.

"A splendid meal," Narí declared. "My compliments, Ikharos."

The Risen glanced at him. "Thanks. Can't say this is my best work - just a field-prepped bite."

"You cook?"

"Not often, but yes." Ikharos closed his eyes, lost in a memory. "I can make a killer Sunday roast." He turned his face up towards the stars - his place of safety and remembrance - and sighed. "Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes - crispy on the outside, topped with rosemary - and roast beef, all lathered in gravy. Mmm..."

Some aspects of the meal did indeed sound enticing, though there were parts she would sooner do without. Above all, however, was how plain amusing it was. Trying to envision Ikharos in a kitchen was... like her writing books of philosophy and learning; a drastic turnaround from her current vocation.

But she wouldn't pass up on any other piquant meals supplied by the Risen. Had he been but a human, and she still operating as an Imperial vassal, she would have appointed him as head of her cooking staff on the spot. Everything he'd prepared was sublime.

The tranquility of the after-meal bliss was abruptly shattered with a single Eliksni bark. Formora was up on her feet with her sword drawn in a split-second. There was a brief rustle and clatter as her companions did the same. They readied themselves quickly and with a professional air - all present, bar maybe Narí, were trained soldiers.

From beyond their camp, still some distance away, Raksil and Melkris hurried back with... someone carried between them.

Someone with horns.

Urgal.

Ikharos must have seen it just as she did, because not a moment later he began snapping out instructions. Beraskes activated her stealth generator and faded away, while Javek and Kida took to what meagre cover was nearby and looked around, staring down the sights of their rifles. Narí crouched down, spear planted in the ground and bow fitted with an arrow but not yet drawn.

Melkris and Raksil stumbled past the Shank guards and into the vague border of the camp. The Urgal's eyelids fluttered, sensitive to the light of the fire, and it groaned defeatedly as the Eliksni laid it down on the sandy earth. It had been mauled viciously - fingers missing, one eye caked over with blood, horns rife with painful notches and scars, and deep cuts all over its body. There were bite marks too large and savage to be Eliksni.

The Urgal was dying.

"Er'kanii scent," Melkris panted. He pointed the way they'd come. "Faint. Three days old."

Ikharos narrowed his eyes before donning his helmet. "What's their heading?"

"West."

"Back again? They were at the carrier, right?"

"Eia." Melkris shivered. "Cabal-hounds no longer. Hive-hounds now."

"Psekisk. What's their sensory capabilities?"

"Poor sight, but they can taste scents just as mine-people can. And they hear shapes."

Ikharos nodded. "Echolocation," he said. "That's... damn." He glanced down. "What's with this guy?"

"Found it," Raksil supplied, "bleeding in a field." Then he hesitated. "There was a human building nearby, but no humans."

"Migrated, maybe?"

"Nama. No humans, but plenty of blood. Er'kanii scent was strong."

"... Bastards." His hands clenched into fists. Ikharos once again looked at the Urgal contorting in exhausted pain, then to Formora. "Can you speak this thing's language?"

"No."

"I can." Narí straightened up. "What shall I ask him?"

"Where it's from, what it's doing around these parts, and where it was attacked. That manageable?"

"Yes."

Ikharos stepped back. Narí approached the Urgal, kneeling beside it. "Gre bahr-"

"Ushnark?" The Urgal's hand scrabbled for something - a hand perhaps?

"Nre. Narí-älfa."

"... Ushnark... Ushnark drelgith." It coughed weakly. Blood dotted its lips. It was not long for the world.

"Can something be done?" Formora looked over the Urgal's wounds. Though severe, they shouldn't have been fatal. "What's wrong-"

"Venom," Raksil muttered. "From Er'kanii fangs. Strong. Eats nerves. Devours heart. Horn-human is already gone."

"Not a Sunsinger," Ikharos added solemnly. He held a hand over the Urgal, wreathed in golden Light. "Venom's ingrained itself. I can feel its roots - it's everywhere." He pursed his lips. "If we were a few days earlier, maybe, but... no. Too far gone."

"Razhidil trel?" Narí continued

"Ahgrat ukmar." The Urgal wheezed. "Rekk? Kana rekk?"

Narí ran to his pack and returned with a canteen of water, lid removed. He held it to the Urgals lips. "Aleghri."

"Nre rekk?" The Urgal asked, disappointment almost lost in the rasp of its dying voice. It drank anyways. When it started to struggle, Narí pulled the canteen away.

"Vro trel?" Narí asked, gentle and considerate.

"Uluthvek thulqrir. Aghkar Uluthvek, ughkar Ithrö Zhâda."

Narí looked up. "He lived in a village in the Spine. That was where he was headed, from somewhere called... Rebel Doom?"

"The siege camp in Orthiad," Formora muttered. "It was from there they came to attack Tronjheim. This one was controlled by Durza."

"I... believe he was travelling with his father's clan home. He thinks they are dead."

"Anything else?"

"I don't..." Narí turned back to the Urgal, but it was already gone - breathing halted, body motionless, eyes glazed over. "No. Nothing else."

Silence filled the air. Then, Ikharos quietly asked, "How do Urgals see off their dead?"

"Sky burial," Formora told him. All her good cheer had been sapped away, leaving an empty chasm in its place. Should she have felt angry? Ikharos certainly was, by the looks of him. The Eliksni were on edge, mandibles taut and shaking. Narí appeared out of place, somewhat mournful. The Urgal shouldn't have died - not least to an otherworldly invader.

But how should she have felt? Though she hated the Er'kanii, she couldn't find that spark of outrage. It didn't surprise her anymore, that feral excuses for sapient creatures were capable of such brutality. As wrong as it was, it didn't feel out of place.

There was something deeply wrong with that.

Ikharos picked up the dead Urgal. It would have stood taller than him in life, and it boasted a body bulging with muscle and brawn, but he hefted the dead man with Light-lent strength. "Stay here," he ordered hollowly. He carried with him a subdued fury. His breathing was slow and labored - fighting against the anger she knew to be thrashing inside his chest.

He took things too personally and sympathized too easily. It only ever hurt him.

Ikharos went east, as a final honour to the Urgal; away from the Er'kanii, so they wouldn't partake of its flesh. They had no right. He returned less than an hour later, struck silent by the whole endeavour, and gave scarce more than a couple of words when others prodded him for activity. The message was clear: he wanted to be left alone. Gradually, activity within the camp ground to a halt. The need for sleep drove most to their bedrolls, save for Beraskes whose turn it was to stand watch.

Formora didn't do that: go to sleep immediately or leave Ikharos be. Glaedr was right, it was in her nature to rebel. Just as it was for Ikharos. Neither of them felt comfortable beneath the yoke of authority. When he removed his outer armour - leaving him in a semi-reinforced grey bodysuit - and folded up his robes as a makeshift pillow, Formora went to him. She sat beside him, silent. Her offer was there.

He took it.

"I can't protect them all."

"No."

"I'm failing."

"It isn't your duty."

Ikharos snorted derisively from where he lay, knees propped up and fingers interlaced over his stomach. "Yes it is. I'm alive to fight for others."

"I think I understand your Traveler." Formora felt for his shoulder. He stiffened, then relaxed into her touch. "You are alive to live - and live entirely as you see fit."

"I see fit to protect humanity."

"I know." Formora pulled her hand back and leaned back to lie down herself. "Move over."

"It's my-"

"Move over," she repeated, more firmly. He begrudgingly scooched to the side, giving her some robe. It was... yes, soft to an extent. It was reinforced to provide protection, but not stiffly so. Their shoulders touched. Formora searched for a hand. He gave it to her. At some point earlier he must have removed his Ahamkara bracers and gauntlets, because all she felt was bare, warm skin. There was some callous present, but softness too. Like the rest of him, his hand was slender and almost bony, built upon a wiry strength.

"I should have brought a team with me," Ikharos muttered. "I never should have come alone."

"You had no way of knowing you'd be stranded here."

"Doesn't matter. Ranging so far from Sol was always going to be risky. I should have called for backup."

"You were exiled from your City."

"Exiled. Not out of contact. I could have called in favours. Dead End Cure still owes me big time for that mess on Luna. Hell, last I heard Nadiya was itching for new grounds to roam. She would've jumped at the chance to leave, easy."

"Who's Nadiya?"

"A coyote."

It didn't make any sense, but Formora didn't press further. So few of his tales from home did.

Ikharos leaned his head closer, against her shoulder. She tightened her grip, hoping to comfort. Formora had forgotten this: the delirious intensity of closeness.

"What do you want?" She whispered. "From... this. Us."

Ikharos was silent for a long time. When he did finally speak, the fumbling nervousness from before was absent. "Companionship. Beyond that, nothing that you don't like."

"You're so... polite. Gentlemanly, even."

"I just don't know how relationships work," he admitted.

"Elven relationships?"

"Any relationships. My experience is...well, he initiated the whole thing. He guided me on."

"Zahl."

"Yes." His voice flushed with emotion a whisper struggled to contain. "He was... gentle. Kind. Incapable of causing harm."

"And what of me?" Formora wanted to know - needed to know. "I've caused harm. I can't replace him."

"No. Neither should you." Ikharos turned over, practically burying his face into the crook of her shoulder. She let him - even pressed into it. "I lost Zahl. I won't cheapen his memory. But you... I've grown to love you. Your fortitude. Your consideration. Your spirit."

"My pride?"

"Especially that."

"It's a broken thing."

"No. No, it's not."

Formora pressed against him. Her hand found his elbow, pulling him closer. She should have been doing the opposite - pushing him away. Long-lived and magically attuned as he was, he wasn't an elf and he constantly asserted that was no noble. Not a fit match for one of her station.

And yet station couldn't have been any farther from her mind. A dip into the political workings of Du Weldenvarden couldn't change a century's worth of instinct. Formora discovered that she simply didn't care. Not nearly enough to warrant putting distance between them.

The lack of distance had become enticing.

Her hand moved up of its own volition. Or maybe not. She was finding some difficulty in divining what she truly wanted. It glided along to cup the side of his face, and... "You are not alone."

"No," he finally looked at her with eyes lacking in colour and full of adoration, "I suppose I'm not."

His arms slid around her, encasing her. Formora exhaled, allowing it to happen. She was still garbed in her (admittedly very cosy) body armour, but he either didn't notice or didn't care to notice. If so, then neither of them cared. Her eyes slid shut. Formora fell into his embrace. In that moment, it didn't matter where they were on what they faced.

The warmth, the quickened beat of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his chest - that was all that she needed to concern herself with.

"You are very convincing," Formora murmured.

Ikharos exhaled quietly, quickly, stifling the laugh before it could come into fruition. "Am I?"

"Oh, you are. I was still trying to decide for myself, but then..."

"Well, it was this or courting. And I have no idea how to court."

"Mhm. I still expect you to try."

"Dammit."

Formora chuckled. "We must have some class about ourselves."

"Fiiiine." His forehead - softly, so softly - met hers. "Suppose you're worth it."

She poked his chest. "Hey."

"Hay's for horses."

Formora winced. "That joke is-"

"Awful, I know." He shook with muted mirth. "Always wanted to use it, though."

"You need to improve your humour."

"Doubtless."

"As it is, your jests are nothing short of painful."

"They are."

"Melkris is a poor influence."

"Totally."

"You're just agreeing with whatever I say at this point, aren't you?"

"Yep."

Formora huffed, unable to keep the smile at bay. "You're ridiculous."

"I know. A dead thing raised by another dead thing is something out of-"

"Stop." She poked him again, harder. Firmly. "No more of that. Demeaning yourself. You're a person."

"Well... yeah."

"You need to start treating yourself as one."

"... I can try."

Formora hummed, satisfied he'd at least heard her. "Good."

She was... comfortable. More than that; secure, safe, utterly at ease. Ikharos held her tenderly, lovingly, and she would have been lying if she said it wasn't pleasant. Because it very much was.

"How do flowers sound?"

"For?"

"Courting."

"There's more to courting than flowers." She breathed in - took in the scent of him. Nothing like what she expected. Not of sweat, not of blood, not of dirt or of anything humans were prone to. No, it was more like... smoke, and even then not quite. Like... No, wait, she knew it. She knew the smell. Voidsmoke.

Fitting.

"Then-"

"But use them anyways. I expect something truly spectacular."

"Sweet Traveler..."

"What's that? Regret? I thought I was-"

"Worth it, I know." His voice fell further, quieter, barely there at all. "You are. I'd dive into the Hellmouth for you."

"I have no idea what that means. Something brave?"

"Maybe." Ikharos lifted his head. She nestled hers under his chin, drawing closer to the blessed warmth, to him.

She woke up first, just before dawn broke. Ikharos was fast asleep.

Melkris, who leaned over them with a teasing smirk, was not.

Formora glared at him. The Vandal retreated with a single amused click of his mandibles. She lifted her head and looked around. Almost everyone was still slumbering away. She disentangled herself and sat up, silently bemoaning the loss. The night wasn't cold, but... the sensation was incredible.

"I must tell Javek," Melkris whispered. He crouched down next to her. "He owes me glimmer."

Formora grabbed him by the collar, drawing out a muted yelp, and pulled him close. "Don't you dare."

"But-"

"Do not worry." Beraskes strolled over to them. "I will ensure he does not wag his tongue, Zeshus."

Formora frowned up at the Marauder and, after a moment, nodded. "Thank you."

Melkris growled - at Beraskes, not her. The distinction mattered somehow. "This is none of your business."

"Neither is it yours." Beraskes gestured to Formora and Ikharos.

"But..." His face fell.

"What is wrong, Sharp-Eyed? Has your excuse collapsed under its own weight?"

Formora stood up and left them to bicker in hushed tones. She poked at the smoking embers of the night's fire with Vaeta, dislodging some ash and stones but no sparks.

Something landed by her side. Formora glanced down. A bright, fiery eye stared back.

"Don't worry," Xiān said. There was a smile in her voice. "I won't say anything."

Ah. That. Formora became quickly uncomfortable. She had to... "Am I crossing a line?"

"Uh..."

"With you, I mean."

"... Look, I just said I wasn't going to talk about it. Do you want me to talk about it?"

"Not particularly." Formora prodded the dead campfire again. Just to give herself something else to do. "But I feel we must speak all the same."

"Right, now I'm feeling awkward. Look, it's none of my business. What you and Ikharos want of each other is between the two of you. Not me."

"You are linked to him."

"I am. He's my Guardian. I care about him. But I don't need to worry around you." Xiān's eye was unrelenting. "You're okay."

"Okay?"

"You want pretty words, go to Ike."

Formora gave Xiān a bemused look. "Ike?"

"Oh yeah, he hates that. If you ever really want to shut him up, use that."

"Ah."

"Please. It'll be a laugh."

Formora didn't offer a reply. She didn't know what to make of it, in truth. It was something to hold onto, but for the moment... no. She wasn't looking for dismay or irritation. Not when there were far more endearing alternatives.

As the sun rose and banished the night's shadows, Formora became transfixed by the sparkling of the North Sea. The water gently lapped at the shore. There was no sound beyond the gentle swish of tiny rippling waves crawling over the bed of sand and shale. The tranquility of it all lulled her into a quiet, distracted reverie - utterly at peace with everything.

The light roused the others. Slowly but steadily, the camp descended into practiced, automatic activity fraught with yawns and groans. Pikes were loaded, armour was strapped on, and breakfast rations were consumed. Xiān disappeared... well, somewhere. Or maybe nowhere. She had that uncanny ability. Formora didn't worry after her - the Ghost could care for herself.

Ikharos sat down next to her. Near, but not as close as before. He crossed his legs and clasped his hands together in his lap, wringing them nervously.

"So..." he began, "am I... can I try?"

"To?"

"I don't know, court? Or... what do the kids call it... ask you out?"

Formora leaned against him. His pauldrons were cool and resistant to her efforts. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, both shocked and delighted with the liberties she was taking, sparked by a confidence and desire that came out of nowhere. "Yes. You have my permission to try."

"I'm starting to stress out all over again." There was a grin in his voice.

"You truly are clueless, aren't you?"

"Yup."

Formora squeezed him, once. "I know you. You know me. What is there to be frightened of?"

"A whole lot. I... I had my own reservations. This is hardly the best time or place to bare my heart."

"No. Anything could happen."

"Yes."

"But we'll be fine." She zoned out everything else, focusing solely on his presence and the glittering fjord ahead of them. "Besides... I think this is the perfect place."

"It's scenic, I suppose."

"Very."

His arm slid around her back, returning the soft embrace. He leaned into her as she did with him, but his movements were halting, cautious, overly wary. He had no idea how to react besides following her lead. Finally, Formora mused, something she had experience in that he utterly lacked. There were so few of those.

This one she would cherish.

They disengaged when it was time to leave, and even then it was only to relocate to the Sparrow. A brief glance tossed to the side told her that yes, Melkris had indeed collected something from Javek. The shockshooter closed his outer eyes unrepentantly.

Formora supposed it was her own fault. Not that, as she discovered, she minded.

"Straight west to Palancar Valley," Ikharos called out over the growl of Pikes. "Then north. Keep your weapons primed. Those Er'kanii are still out there, somewhere."

The previous day's events flushed back in, as cold as ice-water, and dispassionately put an end to the morning's good cheer. There was butchery to be done and retribution parceled out.

Ikharos wasn't lying when he said their heading was straight west. Most travelers followed the Anora River as it looped south past a ridge of mountains to reach Therinsford and Carvahall, but the Risen and Eliksni weren't most travelers. They didn't care to lose time. Neither did they care if a couple of mountains were in their way.

The Pikes took to the climb easily enough, engines rippling and exhaust trails bright. It took the better part of a day to crest the mountain range. Reaching the summit, finally, was something of a relief; the ride up was rocky and jarring.

Their respite was not long to last.

"You can't be serious." Ikharos swerved to a stop. "This is where they ran?"

Cabal. There were Cabal in the valley. Carvall - so distant to look like a toy set - was surrounded by metal behemoths of size with the human buildings. Some of the machines were in flight, lazily circling around the diameter of the village's territory. A sprawling warcamp had been erected along the river, between the village and Igualda Falls.

The Eliksni snapped and barked to one another. Grim oaths were shared. Beraskes was the most vocal of them all, practically baying for blood and... oil?

"If they've hurt anyone..." Ikharos growled lowly. The Sparrow lowered to the ground. "Right... double back, now. We need cover."

They took to an overhang a league or so back down the mountain, large enough to hide the Pikes from aerial view. A couple of hours passed in tense silence, waiting for the Cabal to arrive, but they never did.

"We got lucky," Ikharos muttered. He tossed his metal quiver over his back and procured his bow. "I'm off to investigate."

"Alone?" Raksil inquired worriedly.

"No. Beraskes, you're with me. Cloak up."

The Marauder saluted. "As you decree, Kirzen."

Xiān manifested over Ikharos' shoulder. "I'll patch everyone into a secure channel. Keep an ear out."

Formora gave Ikharos what she hoped came across as a pointed look. "Don't be long."

"I won't," he vowed. He strode outside, the outline of his form rapidly fading from view. Beraskes followed him out, swords trailing behind her.

There was another period of silence, stretched out longer than it should have been. Melkris went to the edge of the overhang and sat down with his rifle in hand, keeping a lookout. Javek operated the radio transmitter with Raksil standing guard. Which left Formora and Narí with nothing to do.

"What are these Cabal?" Narí asked.

Formora made to answer, then thought better of it and passed the question on to the Eliskni.

"Big," Javek muttered. "And very strong."

Melkris chirped along. "Eia, and they look like your humans. But hideous humans. With no fur."

"Nama," Raksil said next. "Most Cabal have no fur, but those of Vol Bresconi have short whiskers."

"Do they?" The shockshooter looked over in surprise. "How do you know that?"

Raksil straightened. "Mine-father told me."

Melkris shrugged and resumed his vigil. "Ah, I only ever fought hairless Cabal."

"Oh!" Javek clicked his fangs. "And female Cabal have sharp tusks!"

"Eia! They do. I heard that a female gored Kirzen in Ceunon."

"Yes, she did," Formora confirmed. She remembered seeing the aftermath of that fight. It had been brutal. "And he removed her head for it."

"Brave fighter, Kirzen. Would not want to fight Cabal with grown tusks." Melkris looked over snidely. "I understand why you like him, Zeshus."

Formora studiously ignored him and passed on what they'd told her. Narí nodded slowly, absorbing the information with a healthy side of disbelief. "Fascinating."

"Indeed," she agreed. "Though brutes they may be, there are things to be learned from them."

"And the Hive... attacked them?"

"Hive attack everything," Formora replied. "Save for the Er'kanii. From our observations, those two twisted peoples have found reason to cooperate, though to what purpose we don't know."

Narí grimaced. "What they did to that Urgal was needlessly cruel."

"That's why we're here: to keep them in check."

"Only that? Not something else?"

Formora gave him a sharp look. "What do you insinuate?"

Narí shifted. "It is neither my place or my duty to tell you how to live, Formora-Vodha, but I must ask... Are you seeking relations with Ikharos-Faedhr?"

She stilled herself and swept aside all traitorous expression. "Speak carefully, Narí-Finiariel."

To his credit, Narí looked immensely uncomfortable. "I do not mean to cause offense. It is just... there are some who would not see it favourably. Human lives are so short and-"

"The lives of dauthné are not. Did you not hear Oromis' words? Ikharos is not of the dauthleikr."

"You are dancing around the answer."

Formora glared. Narí raised his hands.

"I apologize, truly. I misspoke. Let me rephrase: there are älfya who already look upon your alliance with Ikharos poorly."

"There are those who would look upon me poorly all the same, Ikharos or not."

Narí dipped his head. "That is true, regrettably."

"Regrettably?"

"I am being sincere, Formora-Vodha. I have no qualms with you or Ikharos. I only feel I should warn you that-"

"I know." She crossed her arms. "But what does it matter? I will only ever exist at the fringes of our people's society as it is. What is another rift between I and the insular elite?"

"They will only see a human in him."

"That is not my concern. There were graver matters at hand."

"Careful," Narí advised warily. "We can ill-afford a feud now."

"I know not who I would feud with."

"Lady Violmedr," he murmured.

Formora gave a surprised cry. "Her?!"

"She worries for House Rílvenar."

"I am not of her family. If the reputation of our house is so important to her, let my name be struck from the tapestry."

"You speak of drastic action. You are angry."

"I am tired, Narí. Our people are stagnating. I can no more adhere to our failing policies than I can draw gold from empty air." Formora sighed. "I will not defend myself. I should not have to. I enjoy the company of Ikharos - and yes, I may just seek out something more than friendship with him, but this is my business. No other's."

"I know. And I understand, for what it is worth. I do not begrudge you - either of you - for doing so." Narí smiled sadly. "Neither shall Lifaen, though it may drive a wedge between him and his mother."

"It is not my intent to sow discord."

"Perhaps not, but discord has been spread all the same."

She frowned. "It has?"

"Troubling debates are being had across Ellesméra and further. Do not mistake me, your return is welcome, even..."

"Even if it has brought controversy."

"Just so." Narí winced and nodded apologetically. "But more troubling yet are what news rolls in, especially that which Ikharos heralds. You are right that Oromis confirming his claims of immortality poses a convincing argument in his favour. Doubt is being given. New opinions are sprouting. Beliefs that have stood immovable for centuries are finally shifting."

"I want no part of this, Narí," Formora complained. "My one concern is the war we face, not the politics of home. I should never have let myself sink back into it. It is exhausting for me to even contemplate."

"Forgive me, but on this matter I cannot go without saying..."

"Without saying what?"

Narí breathed in deeply. "If Ikharos's warnings ring true, and these Hive creatures are as nefarious as he claims them to be, then... well, then I, among many others, may strive for change."

Formora suspiciously narrowed her eyes. "What type of change?"

"To something beyond stagnation."

000

"I swear, if they killed anyone, I'll burn them down to ashes and toss their remains to the wind."

"Let's not get overhasty. You saw as well as I did that there's a small army ahead of us."

"I kill armies."

"I really dig the confidence, but how about no?"

Ikharos shook his head. "Oil-guzzling warmongers. Damn them. They'll screw us all over for a scrap of blasted 'glory.'"

"Easy tiger. Let's just scout this place out before we set to slaughter."

He and Beraskes clambered down the mountain range cradling the valley. He was only aware of the Marauder through the dot on his HUD's radar identifying her as an ally and the faint crackle of Arc calling to his Light. They moved swiftly, almost too fast. At one point Ikharos practically fell off a cliff in his rush to reach the village before nightfall. He saved himself with a hastily-manifested Glide.

The rest of the trek went smoother. Right up until they reached the village proper.

"Metaconcert!"

"Hang back," Ikharos whispered. Beraskes halted in place by a ditch along the road to Carvahall. "There's Psions ahead. Somewhere."

"Shall we slay them?"

"No. You circle about. See what you can learn. And - don't kill anything. They'll notice if someone drops off the 'Net."

"I was hoping for some fun..."

"Save it for the Hive."

Beraskes hissed softly. "I will endeavour to contain myself, Kirzen, at your demand."

"See that you do." Ikharos pulled the nullscape over himself, drowning his thoughts in a vast - and false - emptiness. He ambled down the road, eyes open and alert but not truly seeing anything.

The metaconcert passed over him, as terrifying as it was magnificent. Thoughts - alien and wonderful - freely swam into the empty cup of his mind and passed right on through. He saw colours on spectrums no human eye could pick up, tasted of flavours and scents from a thousand fantastical worlds across the cosmos, heard whispers and hums from a hundred different throats, basked in the the honey-sweet sensation of mutual unity within the vast expanse of the Psion collective.

There was no ill-intent, no distrust, no suspicion. He would have called it familial if the term didn't feel so weak in comparison. It was loving and accepting beyond what even the City offered. It was so, so beautiful. Ikharos wished he could pull the nullscape away and join in, but he knew the moment he did they would fill him with malice and bullets.

It was a travesty, plain and simple. He had been born into the wrong species.

Not that he'd take being a Cabal slave lying down. No chance. He'd sooner die.

"Maybe you dodged a bullet there. You wouldn't have survived as a Psion."

Ikharos grunted. "Perhaps not."

The air was thick with psychic energy. Ikharos found himself genuinely struggling to differentiate between what he was actually looking at and the strange, foreign shapes cast before him from the potent and whimsical imagination of the metaconcert.

He was treating a wounded, bellowing Uluru Legionary struck down by Shredder rounds.

The village wasn't far. He needed to get closer. To see what damage was done. How high the body count was. He was expecting mass graves. Ikharos trudged on, struggling beneath the weight of so much psycho-kinetic energy passing through him.

Why was he even trying?

The Uluru's name was Aer'ur. She was a Worldbreaker. Fifth squadron, first maniple, second cohort. Her entire regiment was dead - eaten up in the Hive's ambush. She swore bloody vengeance at least every local hour. At least when she wasn't screaming as they pulled chitinous shrapnel out of her flank. Threaded synthetic fabrics had been tied around her arm to stem the bleeding and slow nerve-death.

Beyond that, there was little else they could do. Hive curses were outside their ability to combat. Her life was in her ancestors' hands.

Ikharos stumbled. It was getting harder and harder to discern where he ended and the Psion enclave began. But he was getting closer. That had to count for something, surely.

He was watching as steely gun emplacements were being hammered and soldered into form out of the ragged pieces of broken war machines. Waste of salvageable Threshers, honestly. But a defensive line would do them good.

It would do them better to reclaim the Amarx Amalz. Warship-grade hull, planetcracker mining cannons, and a stocked-up infirmary fit to properly treat their wounded. If the Hive hadn't desecrated it, that was.

He made it, finally. His helmet's filtration systems weren't yet closed; it couldn't pick up on smoke or any other less-than-ideal substance. That was positive. And there was noise! Muted noise, carrying notes of nervous terror, but still!

Then he saw them. A pair of human men - farmers, hands stained with earth and leading on a cart filled with turf pulled by a single draft horse. Though they kept their eyes down and voices quiet, they were clearly alive.

The resident Cabal certainly weren't as cutthroat as the Red Legion. Ikharos supposed that was something to be glad for.

He was casting his sight forth, guiding the hands of his ancestors northward to feel out all sources of malignant, hungering thought.

Ikharos heaved a tired breath and turned around. No smoke, living farmers; the Cabal were showing an uncharacteristic level of tolerance. Maybe he'd have words with their commander before killing them - words of fleeting gratitude, before his blade dropped and their head rolled.

He was communing with his descendants, hoping to sample even a sliver of future-sight.

Ikharos froze in place. He had to stay. To see it through. He waited, patient and unseen, on the village's outskirts and listened to the would-be prophet's thoughts. It was like picking a needle out of a haystack, trying to grasp at one mind out of over a hundred others.

No foresight came. But present-sight, that he had in plenty. Predators stalked the forests ahead. Predators known to him. Erechaani - brutal, primitive, unpleasant, but allies nonetheless. They still bore Worldbreaker colours.

He would inform the Primus of their arrival. The lost auxiliaries had returned. Maybe... Maybe with the primitives' help, a counterattack wasn't out of question.

"Psekisk..."

Glory to Soulrazer.

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!