Chapter 59

There was mud in his mouth. Blood too. It all sloshed together into a thoroughly revolting paste. Ikharos tried hacking it out past shattered teeth. His jaw ached - ached bad. It was probably broken. And there were shards of glass in his face. One of his eyes was gone as a result. He swore he'd never wear a glass-cast helm again for as long as he lived. Which wasn't looking to be for very long.

Someone roughly turned his bullet-riddled body over, face-up. Ikharos groaned - his good eye shuttered against the blinding glare of a fading Super. The Warlord knelt over him and rapped his steel-studded knuckles against what remained of the helmet. New cracks spiderwebbed across the surviving fragments of the visor.

"Hellooo?"

Then there was a hammer. Not a battlefield weapon - just a DIY woodwork/metalwork/shed-fixing hammer. The civilian kind, whatever it was called. The big man tapped it against his helmet a few times, just like before. He must have found it amusing. "Still in there?"

Ikharos growled through a ruined mouth full of muck.

"Good."

The hammer came down.

He woke up with a jolt, far more suddenly than he should have. He looked around, saw the night sky, saw the ever-vigilant Kida and dutiful Raksil glance in his direction, saw Formora hover beside him with blatant concern, saw it all. He listened as she asked, "What's wrong?"

It took precious seconds for his brain to catch up with his senses and realize I'm awake now.

"I'm good," he gasped breathlessly. His fingers tingled with the phantom memory of broken bones. His chest ached with echoed pain. His body was a beaten thing, and it was begging him to stop, stop stop stop, just stop, stop getting hurt. He distracted himself by looking around all over again. It was night. A boring, dreary, common-as-dirt night. Not that nights couldn't be pretty - he loved a clear night sky sparkling with stars as much as the next amateur astronomer, but this was too cloudy, too dark, too lifeless.

The evening predating it had been a lovely thing, though. The sun had bled orange ichor all across the fading horizon. Ikharos considered himself lucky to have caught it. He hated how brutal and uncaring the universe was, but sometimes, sometimes, it would throw him a bone. Something to keep him from wallowing in the ever-present despair that dogged every century of his life.

A weight settled against his side. Arms slid around his neck and shoulders, clutching him tight. No body armour. Just whisper-soft lámarae, with a welcome warmth emanating from beneath.

"Dreams?" Formora murmured.

Ikharos nodded. He didn't trust his voice not to act up. He went looking for Xiān, then remembered with a pang of regret that she was still out of sight, still working on the task he gave her, still hacking away at the BattleNet's firewalls.

What a life they lived.

"It was pretty tame," he said, voice so quiet he wasn't sure if she heard. But she did. Of course she did. The pointed ears had to serve some purpose. "As far as bad dreams go, anyways."

"What was it?"

"Me dying. Messily. Citan wasn't known for his tidiness."

"He doesn't sound nice."

"Oh, he wasn't. Bit of a prick, honestly."

"Was he..."

"Risen." Ikharos fell into Formora's touch, leaning his head against her shoulder. "I've fought some of the biggest and baddest the universe has to offer, but it's the little guys that haunt me. Ironic, eh?"

Her fingers ran through his hair. "With the monsters you know killing them is the right thing to do. With everything else..."

"Regret."

"Yes. Regret."

"Citan was awful. He was an unrepentant murderer. When Felwinter did him in, I couldn't have cared less. But I still ask myself 'what if...'"

"What if he didn't kill you?"

"What if I tried to help him? What if I didn't steal a loaf of bread?"

"You robbed him?"

"I was peckish."

Formora sighed, though not without some dark amusement. "He overreacted-"

"He did. Who the hell beats a bread thief to death with a hammer?"

"-but you antagonized him."

"He had a lot more than one loaf of bread packed away."

"I'm not laying blame on you. I'm just... highlighting your tendency to aggravate others."

"Are you aggravated?"

"Very."

IKharos tensed. "Uh...

"But not with you."

"Oh, good." He gave it some thought. "You mean... the Harmony."

Her fingers tightened. It was bordering on painful. But then, just as quickly, they relaxed. "I hate them," Formora whispered. "I hate everything they've done. All my life I've been living a grand farce - their farce. All that befell me and Ilthorvo and Kíalandi was because of them. But..."

"But?"

"I'm so tired of being angry."

"I know."

"It's been all I've had left for so long. Then I met you and Kiphoris and Melkris, and all the Eliksni - and everyone else besides. The world's changing, and not exactly for the worst. But I'm still so angry." She undid the sloppy tail he'd bunched his hair into and started doing... something. Tying it together What was it people did with hair? Braiding? Braids sounded cool. He'd never had braids before. Well, why not? New world, new hair - didn't matter if he was a year late. "Recently, I had the idea that... we leave. You and me."

Ikharos didn't move. He was too comfortable, but it wasn't just that. "Where?"

"Anywhere. Maybe we just leave Alagaësia. Maybe we leave this world entirely."

"Scipio won't let us."

Formora made a disappointed sound. "No, I suppose he wouldn't. But... if he did?"

"I can't... I can't just..."

"I know."

"Wouldn't be able to live with myself."

"You're too sympathetic. I used to think the opposite of you, but... you are sympathetic."

"I want to be a pacifist, but I know - I know - that if I don't remain a killer then I won't be in a position to help people where it matters. The Light can do a lot of things, but the only way I know how to wield it is to kill. Therefore, I must kill." He exhaled. "I'd like to leave, honestly. But there's too many lives at risk. If the Hive don't kill everyone then the Harmony eventually will. Even out here, as far from Sol as can be, I'm still a Guardian."

There was a significant pause. Formora finished with his tail and performed little adjustments elsewhere. Eventually, her fingers brushed against his jaw. "Keep this short."

"Okay?"

"It suits, but not if you let it grow."

"Ah. Coming up with a quality razor may prove difficult, but okay."

"I'm certain you'll find one somewhere."

"A man can hope."

"Or you could use magic."

Ikharos snorted. "Magic."

"Oh? Is something wrong?"

"I'm as lazy as the next Warlock, but c'mon. We've got to do things with our own two hands every now and then."

"Does magic bother you?" Formora's voice was low and soft, but being so close he heard it loud and clear.

"I don't know. I like it. I'm afraid of it. Your magic promises so much. Too much." He breathed in. Her hair had the scent of pine. He wondered if it was because of a shampoo. Maybe it was magic. Maybe it was just an elf thing. "Are you serious about the wings?"

"I was not being humourous."

"How?"

Formora shifted away and gently grasped his arm. Her touch was feather-light. She guided it behind her, so that his hand rested over her upper back. "There is an ample spot to start."

She leaned against him once more. Ikharos felt her shoulder blades move. He thought it over with a frown, thinking about all the delicate functions involved with the locomotion of the arms, of the nervous system, and how the spine brought it all together. "You'd need to do a lot of rewiring," he murmured.

"I know. I might save it for when the entire world isn't fit to collapse around us."

"Even then... it could be dangerous."

"There is a place... Nädindel - the city of form. Within it lies the Líf-Kvaedhír."

It rang a bell. The library in Cirrane. "Related to Manin-Kvaedhír in any way?"

"Only that they are both staple repositories of information. The Manin-Kvaedhír is the Memory-Scriptorium; dedicated to philosophy and history. The Líf-Kvaedhír is the Life-Scriptorium, filled with all knowledge pertaining to plants, animals, and yes, the flesh. Though there are many glades and groves dedicated to the altering of one's biology, it is there älfya will go when the change they desire is too great and dangerous to attempt alone."

"Will you...?"

"Yes. Eventually."

"Wings..." Ikharos shook his head. "I've heard stories about genetic splicing in the Golden Age - you know, like, spliced chimp-muscles, supercharged immune systems, intentional myostatin deficiencies, but wings...?"

"And gills."

"You want gills?"

"No."

Ikharos was, decidedly, unsettled. He didn't know where to stand. On one hand, the elves used their anatomical alteration magic rather responsibly, from all he'd seen and heard of them. On the other hand it was something unpredictable and dangerous, and most things with those two definitive traits he usually ended up having to kill or notify the Praxic Order about.

Not that he wanted to drag Aunor all the way to Kepler. Traveler above, anyone but her...

And then, last and most importantly of all, was the whole scope of possibilities it opened up to him and them and everyone. The power it offered. The opportunities just waiting to be grasped. It tossed science out the window just to dive out after it and drag it back in the front door.

"Wings are a bold change," he said in a neutral tone.

"They are," Formora agreed, "but it's a change I've been thinking about quite often."

"Uhuh." Suddenly the tales of changelings and shapeshifters wasn't just Ahamkara turf. Humanity was muscling in - right in the Harmony's footsteps. "You shouldn't have told me."

"Why?"

"Because I won't be able to help myself. I'll be thinking about this for days on end."

"You're welcome." There was definitely a smile in that voice. A pity he couldn't properly make it out, what with it being almost pitch-black and half his face pressed into his folded up robes.

Then there was a... a tremor? No. Something lighter. The barest of shivers. "I had another dream."

Why would... "Oh," Ikharos said. He couldn't think of anything else.

"That's why I'm awake. I wanted to ask you, but then..."

"What was it?"

"The same as before," Formora said, voice muffled. "A fortress, an army, and two combatants quarreling over the archway of the gates."

"One with a burning maul," Ikharo recalled. "Who has to be Elkhon. She's a Titan. It stands to reason she could fall back on Solar in a pitched fight."

"The other fighter changed."

"In what way?"

"The last time they wielded a staff or polearm of some sort. But... this time was different. Their form was... obscured. They might have been wielding a blade, or a sickle, or... I'm not sure."

Ikharos thought it over. "Fate's a fickle thing. It can change on a whim."

"So this might be our new future?"

"Maybe."

"Why dreams?"

"Maybe someone's trying to send a message. Or a warning."

"Who?"

"It could be the Light. Or a nefarious and manipulative subsection of the Dark. Or any of the lesser powers in between. There's too many trans-dimensional forces at work in this grand game of theirs. It could be anything. Or nothing - just plain ol' dreams."

"But if it is... could they be trying to help us? Could they be pulling on the skeins of fate to give us an advantage?"

Ikharos shrugged. "Maybe. It doesn't matter. They won't be able to make a spot of difference. What happens next is up to us, destiny be damned."

"That's a dangerous stance to take."

"The future is vexing. There's no point in trying to make sense of it; the present is all that matters." Ikharos reached for her hand and squeezed. "This... is what matters to me."

Formora squeezed back.

When morning swung around they packed up to move. Breakfast was nothing more than a handing-out of dry rations and a couple sips of ether. Bedrolls and cloaks were gathered up, equipment transmatted away, and Shanks collected. Everyone worked with practiced efficiency; the only hiccups came about when Melkris got bored and prodded at Beraskes' short temper.

"They're like children," Formora muttered, once the bickering rose to incessant levels.

"I'm trying to ignore them," Ikharos admitted. He leaned back on the Sparrow's saddle, legs propped up on the handlebars. "They'll burn out. Hopefully."

"Melkris doesn't burn out."

"Beraskes might."

"She'll kill him."

"Suppose so. It might teach him the value of boundaries."

"Ikharos. She might genuinely take his life."

"He's quick."

"She's quicker."

"Are you gearing up for a bet? Is that what this is?" Ikharos closed his eyes. "I'll take you up on that."

Formora let out an exasperated breath. "You're more responsible than this."

"They're both grown Eliksni."

"Surely not. Melkris is-"

"A moron, sure, but a matured moron."

"I don't think one could consider Melkris... mature."

Ikharos chuckled. "'spose not."

Javek ambled over, as bleary eyed as an Eliksni could be. "Velask, Ikha Riis."

"Velask."

"Vel," Formora added.

Javek pointed down the valley. "Mine-Shanks have mapped out another route for us to take. There is ample cover to hide us from Cabal eyes."

"Any sign of more Harmony?"

"Nama, but I do not know how to track them, Ikha Riis. Apologies."

"It's fine." Ikharos brought his palms over his stomach and interlaced his fingers. "I'll keep an eye out. Let's just get a move on."

"Eia..." Javek hesitated. "How has progress on the rifle come?"

Xiān momentarily manifested. Her eye was dim. "Slowly," she mumbled. "But I'll get there. Just give me another day or so."

"Apologies, I did not want to-"

"Bleurgh." She disappeared with a flash of light. Javek looked at Ikharos, alarmed.

"She's fine," he assured the Splicer. "Just in a mood."

The other part of his soul and mind lit up with tired indignation. "I'll show you a mood."

"Try it."

"Oh, I will. When you least expect it."

"I'll be ready for it." Threats sufficiently exchanged, Ikharos sat up and looked over the busy Eliksni. "We're leaving. Melkris, stop."

"Aw."

"Beraskes. Ignore him."

She spared the shockshooter one last hissing growl before clambering aboard her Pike. Just for good measure, Ikharos supposed. Poor Narí looked between the two, clearly taken aback. He looked starkly out of place. He didn't belong. Not with them. Not where they were, and not with what they were going to do.

"We're moving," Ikharos told him. "C'mon."

The end of the valley was too restricted for his liking. It looked like the perfect place to get trapped and slaughtered by waiting ambushers, unlikely as it was. Ikharos decided, a few miles out, that he would rather hike the mountains hugging the valley than risk all their lives for a little comfort. He brought it up. The decision was unanimous. Melkris still grumbled, though it was likely more for show than anything else. The lazy bastard had a reputation to keep.

The only issue was how steep the mountains were. Beraskes had sniffed out a narrow trail some ways back, and they took to that. It thinned out considerably the higher they went, which inevitably forced them to walk while leading on the Pikes at a frustratingly slow pace. What could be transmatted away was, and all the rest had to be dragged up by hand.

Ikharos craned his neck to look down over the edge of a cliff. He was rewarded with the wonderful view of the Spine's wild expanse. Untamed forests and jagged mountain ranges were in bountiful abundance. It was a fugitive's paradise. "I'll say it again," he muttered, kneeling down to offer a hand. Raksil grasped it, and Ikharos pulled him up. "We aren't saints. Apart from Saint-14, but that's just a pompous name. Nothing substantial."

Narí shot him a puzzled look. "And yet you call yourselves Guardians?"

Ikharos looked around. No Thresher in sight. No Ahamkara in the air. No green glow in the woods below. "As lofty as if may be, it's the kind of title one would be under pressure to live up to. Even making the effort to actively do good is more than enough."

"I can imagine."

"And you do live up to it," Formora added pointedly.

Ikharos raised an eyebrow. "Was that a compliment?"

"Yes?"

"Wow."

Her brow furrowed in faint puzzlement and a hint of offense. It was scary. "I've given you compliments aplenty."

"Yeah, but usually only when I'm in a mood and need to be cheered up."

"Yes, well... you are horribly depressed."

"I am," Ikharos nodded. "I am. Thank you for that."

"You're very welcome."

A period of near-quiet stretched out. For Narí it may have been uncomfortable and Formora it just was, from the looks of them, but for Ikharos it was... it was thoughtful. Not in a good way, though not in a bad way either. He couldn't keep the idea of-

"Got it."

He looked up, scanning the horizon. "You do?"

"I said I did. Don't trust me?"

"Of course I do. I was just confirming that you did."

"This is getting needlessly complicated. I've broken into the BattleNet. No one's noticed me. Will I...?"

"Do it."

"Can I personalize the message?"

"What?"

"Can I add some flair to it?"

"No. Leave it as it is."

"Spoilsport. Fine. The footage is a bit... meh, but the Psions will make it out. Eliksni are supposed to be techno-geniuses, but their Skiff-cams are so mediocre it's painful." Xiān radiated a faint aura of disgust. "I'm going to have to talk to the Splicers about that."

"Please don't."

"You're so paranoid."

"Pissing off Splicers is never good." He sighed. "What were you going to do to the BattleNet message?"

"I want to add something onto the end."

"What, exactly?"

"A velociraptor riding a motorcycle over the Grand Canyon while shooting piranha out of a pair of pistols."

"Feathers or scales?"

"What?"

"The velociraptor. What will it have? Feathers or scales?"

"Scales."

"No."

"What?"

"Inaccurate."

"There's nothing accurate about a velociraptor riding a motorcycle in the first place. Let me have my movie monster."

"... It was a good film."

"Try great. You loved the Triceratops."

"How could I not? Big, strong, peaceful? Speaks to my soul, it does." He stopped and looked down. "Speaking of soul..."

"What do you... ah. Well, I'm out."

"Can't handle-"

"Yeah, this isn't for me. I prefer less lovey-dovey relationships. I'll go hang with Melkris, he understands me."

Ikharos plucked the plant, swiveled about, and offered it to Formora. She looked at it, then at him, then back to flower, and finally back to him - and blinked.

"Here you are," he murmured. "A flower. Or an abnormally coloured weed. One of the two. Maybe both, depending on personal opinion towards certain forms of flora."

"It's a flower," she confirmed, looking back at the plant. It was crowned with petals of bright violet, and the strandy bits inside were a rich gold. She took it from him and brought it up for a closer inspection. "Surely you know what it is?"

"What makes you think I do?"

"You're a well-learned man. I would be surprised if you didn't."

"Fair," Ikharos shrugged. "It's an alpine columbine. Alternatively known as the breath of God."

"I haven't heard that before. Which god?"

He shrugged a second time. "No idea. Zeus. Cthulhu. Buddha. Tlaloc, even."

"Who are-"

"Again, no idea. Just some names that've caught on my ear. Not Hive. Or anything Dark, for that matter. Just old human mythos." Ikharos looked around. Something had piqued his interest. "Most of the life here resembles that of the Alps."

"What are the Alps?" Narí questioned. Ikharos had almost forgotten about him.

"They're a rather famous range of mountains on Earth. I wintered there a few times. The west portion, particularly Chamonix, was under the grip of House Kings, but there was still enough left over for the rest of us to enjoy. Beautiful place. Hazardous to those with poor balance - or foresight. It could get frightfully cold at times."

Formora stepped close. Her fingers brushed his arm. "Thank you," she told him with a soft smile.

His spirits soared. Ikharos deeply inclined his head. He didn't say anything; there was no need to. Instead, he waited a short time to ask, "What do you call it?"

"Ginfellfëon."

"That's a mouthful," Ikharos muttered. "Say that again?"

Formora's smile widened - by a fraction, perhaps, though it was more than enough for his heart to skip a beat. Truly a terrifying experience. Hearts weren't supposed to work like that. "Ginfellfëon."

"Splendid." He loved the sound of her voice. The elven accent was a fascinating thing. "Purple... mountain-flower?"

"Yes. Perhaps not the most imaginative of names."

"At least it's accurate."

"That it is."

Narí awkwardly moved on. Raksil chittered and pulled on the younger elf's sleeves to hurry him on, yapping in Low Speak all the while. Good. It gave him some time to talk with-

Movement.

Ikharos snarled, grabbed Formora, and twisted around to keep her behind him, but the bullets were already flying, already tearing across their position. His shields roared to life, staving off two high-calibre rounds and cracking under the pressure. His ears popped. The force of the impact spun him around and sent them sprawling. Ikharos landed on his back, in a perfect position really, because all he had to do with his hand was point and loose.

The Chaos Reach traced where he'd spotted the shooter a split-second earlier, some distance back the way they'd come. The bullets stopped firing, but that didn't matter, because as soon as the Arc steam petered out there were smoke-dark shapes moving through trees and over boulders, armed with shineless black weaponry. Each of their optics was a cold pink.

"Exos!" He gasped out, winded. He glanced to the side. Formora had already shimmied away, bleeding from a shoulder but otherwise intact. Parts of her armour bore dents and scorch marks. That was too close. His eyes drifted up and behind them. Narí and Raksil were out of view. No bodies from what he could see - the shooter had been aiming for him and Formora, not the Eliksni. Good. No one dead. Not yet.

Ikharos picked himself up, dove for Formora, and as soon as he caught hold of her he Blinked them a couple of meters ahead. They rolled across the dusty trail. Clawed hands grasped at them and pulled them into cover behind a ridge of too-fragile rock. Kida fearlessly stood up and offered them covering fire, shooting in short measured bursts. The Exos answered with the same, chipping at their cover and the Frame's armour both.

"PSEKISK!" Formora swore explosively. Her lungs heaved.

Ikharos tore his Lumina out of its holster, giving the chamber a quick cursory glance. "Well that answers that question."

"What question?!"

"They were looking for us." A round of rifle fire forwarded his point. Chips of stone showered over them. "Bloody hell!"

He Blinked to the side, some ten metres away right in the open, and fired. An Exo's head snapped back, one optic going dark. The other assassins reacted with silent and ruthless efficiency, shredding Ikharos's position with a concentrated barrage of firepower, but he had already teleported back into cover.

A brief shrieking whine marked Melkris's counterattack. The shockshooter was laying on his belly, the barrel of his rifle snaking through the notches in their rock-cover to deliver stings of deadly Arc. His shots were measured and precise, killing two and forcing the rest of the pack of corrupted transhumans into a stumbling race for objects to hide behind.

"Brisingr!" Javek chirped. A gout of flame sparked up somewhere down the trail, outlining a Exo Ikharos hadn't seen. The robot swatted at the flames out of irritation rather than pain, but that wasn't the Splicer's intent. The fire highlighted a perfect target. Melkris dropped the soldier not a split-second later, searing a hole through the Exo's synthsteel skull.

"How many?" Ikharos mentally inquired. His helmet materialized around him. The radar flashed red in one, no, wait, yes, one direction. Forward. It was too simple. Sure, the mountain trail inhibited movement, but these were-

His Light, once wispy and bright, shivered and curled up. Another presence was closing in and it was unkind. It was... wrong. Not fiery and sickly sweet like Hive Dark, no, it was cool and sterile. He'd felt it before, and recently.

"Harmony's here," Ikharos called out above the steady pop-pop-pop of scarily reliable human-forged firearms, "and closing in. That third tosser must have survived."

"Where is it?" Formora clipped her own helm on, drawing Vaeta and splaying out the fingers of her free hand for spellcasting. "I'll kill it."

A massive four-fingered hand dragged over the side of the almost vertical cliff to the right of their position. The fingers dug into stone and earth and pulled taut. A huge silver body followed it up. The head boasted short, thick horns trailing back from the side of its sleek head, with a single gem-like eye in the centre of where its face should have been. There were burns across its chest. Some of its steel skin was chipped and scratched up.

Ikharos pointed with his Lumina. "There it is."

Formora raised her empty hand. "Garjzla verda verma!" Her palm flashed - was that her gedwëy ignasia? - and bright autumn-orange energy bloomed forth. It struck the rising Harmony dead centre - or it would have, if not for the wards that ate up the magical missile in its stead. There was no effect. Then Raksil plucked his scorch cannon from his motionless Pike and fired into the centre of the climbing giant's chest. That did something. The Harmony almost lost its balance, but it possessed an uncanny sense of balance and agility for something so large and caught itself on the rock ledge.

Taking a page out of Formora's book, Ikharos pointed with his hand and filled the giants face with fire. It didn't care. With a crashing groan the Harmony thrust with its spear. Ikharos moved, but too late; white-hot steel parted the skin, flesh, and bone of his flank and sent him reeling back with shock and pain. Oh, it burned.

He was dimly aware of Formora taking his place, sending spell after spell at the Harmony. It shook and trembled under the barrage, and struck out with vicious intent, but she was an elf - faster than what the human frame was supposed to be capable of.

Ikharos flushed his Light into a handheld Rift and repaired what damage the Harmony had inflicted on him. The burn faded away and his body knitted back together. He swung around when it was finished and lanced an Arc strike against the silver warrior, forcing it to stumble and falter. It came at him, first with spear but when he avoided that with a hand slamming him against the mountain face.

Taniks tossed him against the Ketch's hull with enough force to crack his spine and fracture his skull, even through all the layers of armour he wore. The mercenary bellowed with insane laughter and scuttled towards him like a massive bright-eyed spider. Everything smelled like fire and tasted like blood.

In other words, an average Wednesday night.

Hah. Joke. Where was Lennox? She would have loved that.

The Houseless killer was on him, talons curling around limbs and shoulders and digging in deep. His big armoured head leaned close, like he wanted to watch Ikharos die.

It exposed his throat, the fool.

Ikharos bit his tongue, filling his mouth with liquid copper. He didn't have time for this. Unfettered anger gave way to burning rage, and that in turn guided his Light back to the passions of Solar. The Harmony let go with a metallic shriek as blazing wings formed and burned its palms terribly. Ikharos rose up, unfettered by gravity and causal limitations. When the spear came for him, he parried it with a blade of glittering night and attacked with a twin sword formed purely from flickering flames. He bloodied the Harmony with roaring retribution, carving out chunks of armoured skin and lopping off a horn - though he had been aiming for the head itself.

"Vidira vergandí!" it gasped. (Father-slayer!)

He didn't care for whatever it had to say. Ikharos struck and struck and struck, forcing it back, forcing it down, trying to force it to die. It was a resilient creature - or maybe he just didn't know which vitals to hit. It could have been both. Ikharos had to shatter one of its leg joints and practically sever an arm to get it to fall, and by then his Super was tapering off. He extinguished the wings and forced it all into the Daybreak sword, diving down with it aimed at the Harmony's sternum. A hand - the only one still operable - shot up and caught the blade. Solar ripped through organically-grown steel and what flesh lay beneath, but hand held true and kept him from killing the damn thing.

Formora leapt onto the Harmony's head and plunged Vaeta into its maybe-eye. The giant shuddered again - and its hand gave out. Ikharos forced the rapidly disintegrating spike of Solar into the creature's chest and-

It finally went limp.

A bullet chipped his shoulder. Ikharos rolled off, but not before another round had scraped across his neck. Blood welled up. His heart raced, inadvertently worsening the situation. His Lumina was transmatted into his hand from wherever he'd dropped it. Ikharos fired off in the direction of the Exos, hoping more to buy a couple of seconds rather than score a hit. Invisible hands - with claws, yay - grappled with his shoulders and dragged him back into cover with surprising strength.

Beraskes.

She didn't uncloak, instead slipping away to do... something. Ikharos couldn't stir the interest in focusing on her at the time. He clutched at his neck. Narí leaned over him, whispering something. The sharp pain receded. He stopped feeling so cold.

"Thanks," Ikharos breathed, and he lunged up into the air with a Nova Bomb already forming under his fingertips. He slammed it in the vague area occupied by the Exos. The damage was cataclysmic. What wasn't messily devoured by the yawning singularity was glassed into violet crystal. Life ceased to exist wherever the Void hit.

A couple of wire rifle pulses and one scorch cannon blast later and it was over, as quickly as it had begun.

Ikharos glided back down and checked himself for additional injuries. Cuts and bruises, nothing more. Narí had dealt with the worst. He looked around. "Anyone hurt?"

There were a couple of disconcerting Eias.

"Anyone dead?"

The Namas were welcome. Everyone was still breathing and conscious. Melkris had taken a bullet to the arm and Raksil had been burned by the proximity of the Harmony's spear. One of Kida's fingers had been shot off. On the other hand, Beraskes was intact and Javek was trembling with giddiness. His magic had come a long way from being barely capable of moving pebbles. Narí set to work on healing those who needed it. Xiān helped by instructing him on what needed doing and what could be ignored, particularly where Melkris's injury was concerned.

"That was... sudden," Formora observed. She stood by the dead Harmony, looking it over with narrowed eyes. She glanced at Ikharos briefly. "It called you father-slayer."

"The only Harmony I've killed were Midha and... well, the other one with Midha." Ikharos walked over to join her. Even burnt to a crisp the silver giant was a daunting sort of enigma. It didn't resemble any living thing he knew. It had no orifices, no pores, no external features at all - besides the shattered crystal growth affixed to its head. How did it feed? How did it sense its surroundings? How did it speak?

What made their language so powerful as to change their very bodies?

"Midha could have been its father. Or the other one."

"Maybe." Ikharos crouched down. "My question is how on earth did they track us? We've masked our tracks, our energy trails, our noise."

"Your Light?"

"I've pulled it in. If even if they're as far gone as the Hive, there's no way they're that sensitive." He hefted Néhvaët, walked over to the Harmony's neck, and beheaded it. Just to make sure. "We need to kill the Exos."

"You mean their secondary minds?"

"Yes."

Formora looked like she was going to argue, then thought better of it. "That may be for the best. I'll gather them." She half-turned, was about to leave, and paused. Her hand shot out and grabbed - something. "What... what's this?"

"What's what?" Ikharos swiveled to face her.

"This... insect?"

"What-" Then he saw it. The tiny six-legged creature struggling between her fingers. "Oh shit."

"What?"

It looked like a restraint spider shrunk to a thousandth of its original size and given rudimentary wings in recompense. "Sensor mite." Ikharos turned to where the others were recuperating from the firefight. He couldn't see anything, but... "Crush it. Now."

Formora didn't hesitate; she brought her fingers together and squished the miniscule drone. "What about-"

"I'll deal with the Exos. You check for more of these. Tell the others."

She nodded and made her way to the others. After a brief spell of low, hushed talking, Melkris sat up and started to vigorously pat himself down. Narí held his injured arm still and gave him a scolding.

Ikharos left the dead Harmony and meandered to where his Nova Bomb had struck. A couple of Exos had been caught in the first immediate blast and disintegrated on a molecular level, but for the others there were a few meagre remains. What odd spinal datadiscs he found he gathered up and cracked under the heel of his boot. He felt only the slimmest sliver of reluctance, for their allegiances had been made clear.

And the Dark was not a master easily deserted.

"I found three more," Formora reported. They were moving again. Ikharos didn't doubt for a moment that the loss of a Harmony and an ExSec squadron would go unnoticed. "They're gone now. I've raised wards around us to notify me if any others choose to follow."

"Good. Thank you."

"What were they?"

"Drones. Robots, like Kida, but designed to track rather than kill. They send signals to an operator when they've got a lock on a suspicious heat signature."

"That's... frighteningly ingenious," Formora murmured.

"I suppose it is." Ikharos shrugged. "It's Golden Age tech. Ingenious is a given."

He didn't get a reply. Formora was looking off to the side, back the way they'd come. Her armour was fixed up and her cuts healed, but...

Ikharos gently touched her shoulder. "I know."

"We killed it."

"We did."

"How many more will there be?"

"I don't know."

Formora set her lips into a thin line. "It doesn't matter. We have to keep fighting them."

Ikharos's hand dropped away. "Yeah." He looked ahead. The mountain range broke apart not far ahead. It looked likely that they could quit the valley before night descended on them. And after that... well, they'd reach the carrier by then. "We sure do."

He wasn't looking forward to it.

From one valley into the next, and then into another; they traveled through the night and into the morning, and Ikharos knew they'd crossed the border of Hive country when they found Ogre tracks in the mud. The carrier wasn't far. And it was bleeding fanatics.

"Fine," Ikharos said tiredly, readying his bow. He needed a break. The universe had seen fit to deny him. "Let's get to work.

Ogres weren't subtle creatures. They were the complete opposite: loud, obnoxious, destructive, and radiating a thick stench of rot. And it wasn't just one Ogre they were following; there were two sets of massive footprints left in plain view. Finding them was easy. It was the taking them down part that was the issue.

Ikharos snuck through the forest's undergrowth, whispering into his helmet's mic to keep in contact with the Eliksni. Kida and Narí had been left behind to guard the Pikes, while all the rest had been gathered and instructed on what to do. While Ikharos had laid down the plan, he decided to give Raksil a taste of command. The Baron's son would be the one to bark orders and finalize preparations for the hunt.

The Ogres had settled by a downed tree to munch on a wild moose. The noise of bones cracking and limbs being mangled was horrible. The tortured groans of big happy Hive was even worse. Ikharos moved slowly and quietly in tandem with the others, surrounding the two hulking beasts and readying his bow. The objective was to hammer as much hurt in as possible and work from there. If things went south, he was to try and grab the Hive duo's attention; of all the hunters present, he could take the most punishment. Or, at least, he was the only one capable of surviving an Ogre's punishment.

"Remember," Ikharos murmured, "watch the eyes."

"Where're the eyes?"

"Heads, then. Watch the big glowy heads."

One of the Ogres grunted and lifted its bloated head, half of the carcass hanging limp from its yammering jaws. It grabbed a nearby tree, tore it out of the ground, and tossed it at the other Ogre. The second monster rumbled and lugged back a bloodied limb.

They were playing.

The first didn't like having viscera spattered across its front, apparently, because it charged and grappled with the second. They were rough, even for their size, and they pummeled at one another with enough power to crack chitin and draw blood.

"Now!" Raksil barked. Arcfire filled the air. Ikharos loosed, and his arrow burrowed in one of the Ogres' heads. Dark sludge flooded out, like a giant boil just waiting to burst. The monster yelped, stumbled back, and fell over to twitch at irregular intervals as the Void venom set to work.

The second didn't die so easily. It shot its Void gaze into the trees, hitting no one but getting much too close. Melkris and Formora managed to take it down, what with their high-powered rifles, yet it was still too slow for Ikharos's liking. He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been keeping in when the second behemoth dropped.

"That works," he muttered. "Good job."

The gathered Eliksni excitedly chirped back. They exulted in their victory. Ikharos didn't remind them that there was a whole brood yet to exterminate. It weighed on his mind, but it didn't have to be the same for them.

Formora shot him a knowing look. She smiled with the others, but it was strained. Non-committed. Maybe it was the same - at least for her. As irrational as it was, it felt good to know he wasn't the only one thinking about what was ahead of them.

"We're butchers," she whispered to him, guilty and ashamed. "I hate this."

Ikharos almost said the same, but that would've been a lie. He wasn't okay with it, but he wasn't disgusted either. It was revolting work, though necessary. The reluctance had been scoured from him the moment Crota first woke up. All he could manage to say was, "I know."

They watched the carrier through the magnified lens of her rifle. There was odd motion from loping Acolytes and scrounging Thrall, but nothing more than that. They were situated miles upon miles away, at the edge of a mountain range. They'd been using an outcropping of rock as cover for their camp. So far, nothing had disturbed them. It gave Ikharos a small window of opportunity for experimentation.

He had both the dead Harmony's spear and one of its horns laid out on the dusty ground in front of him. It was of the latter he tested first, running his knife along the horn's edge. There were sparks, but nothing concrete. As sharp as it was, the knife couldn't cut through the material. Néhvaët, on the other hand, sank through the metallic growth with relative ease.

Formora handed over Vaeta. Ikharos tested it out and found it to be much the same case, shearing off a portion of horn with only a little resistance. "Enchanted weapons are their bane," he surmised.

"Our swords are ward-breakers. Perhaps their skin is reinforced with magic?"

Intrigued, Ikharos allowed his Light to reach beyond his person and probe the alien growth. "You're right. There's something there." He opened his eyes, lifted it up, and studied the bottom of the horn. It wasn't metal the whole way through; there was bone in the centre, with an odd material between it and the metal covering. Ikharos prodded at it with his knife, cutting out a sample and giving it a closer look. "Some kind of vascular material. These are blood vessels. I think. Weird blood... But here. On this side, there's some... I want to say calcification, but that's not quite right. Some sort of metallization?"

"So they treat themselves to become metallic?"

"Maybe. I don't know." Ikharos tossed the horn sample away. "Doesn't matter. As long as we know how to kill them, I'm perfectly content not knowing."

"You're not curious?"

"Sure I am. But... I think it might be for the best that I give them the Hive treatment. The less I learn, the better I'll sleep." He scooped up the spear. The weapon was massive and just as heavy as he expected it to be. The haft was so cold it numbed his fingers, but the blade burned with a heat on par with Solar Light. It was forged of a metal not unlike that of the Harmony-skin.

Ikharos searched it over for a trigger or similar mechanism, but he found nothing. Firing it wasn't a physical process, apparently. Not unlike Hive weaponry. Shredders and Boomers were much the same, linked to the will of the wielder and killing only when intended - which was often enough. It could have been a thing of magic. Or maybe, just maybe, it was more in line with Vex-tech, being a construct of pure and incredible science.

But magic sounded far more likely.

"May I?" Formora inquired, putting down her rifle and holding out her hands. Ikharos wordlessly gave her the spear. It looked comically oversized. Formora hefted it and pointed in the distance.

"Please don't fire. The Hive'll come running."

"I'm not going to." She lined it up with her sight. "It could prove useful later on."

"It could," Ikharos replied neutrally. He wasn't fond of the idea. It was too cumbersome, even if powerful. The last thing he wanted was to trip up over his own weapon while playing with the Hive. The Darkblade would carve him up. "Xiān."

His Ghost appeared. The spear dematerialized into their vault. Formora dropped her arms, unfazed, and went back to studying the distant carrier.

Ikharos sat down. He wanted to let go of his Light, let it expand back to its usual size, but with the Hive so close he didn't dare let it go any farther. He tugged it into his chest to writhe and thrash about the prison of his physical being. It was suffocating. Latching onto something, anything to take his mind off the horrible feeling, he asked, "How's the BattleNet?"

"In chaos?" Xiān settled on his knee. "There's a lot of shouting and a lot of accusing. There's something else too, something big swimming through it all and enveloping them. I think it might be a portion of the metaconcert, but I'm just not sure."

"So they received our message?"

"Yes."

"And they believe it?"

"I... think so?" Xiān scrunched her fins over her eye. "It's coming this way."

"What?"

"The metaconcert thing. Well, not this way. It's coming towards where I am. In the BattleNet. It's... huh. It's at the files."

"They've seen them already, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then what is it-"

"It's putting something in. Now it's retreating." She looked at him. "Should I...?"

"Check it out."

"On it." Xiān hummed as she set to work. "Right, this is... lightly encrypted. They want this to be seen. They want this to be seen by us."

Formora looked over. "The Cabal?"

"Yeah. But this is Psion handiwork. Too elegant for Uluru."

"What does it say?" Ikharos pressed.

"It's... It's, uh, it's a set of coordinates."

"Where?"

"Carvahall."

Ikharos frowned. "But why would they..."

"There's a message. It... oh."

"What?"

000

"Midha and his lineage have perished." Iorves, Sub-Orator of the Cerazhen Pass, cradled the body of the fallen Singer and carried it back down the mountain. There was a flowering meadow with a freshwater spring - as perfect a resting place as any on the alien world. His vassals, Beltan and Faoriso, marched with him. Together they dug out a hole, tenderly lowered the deceased Singer within, and piled a high cairn above. They marked the stones with colour formed of empowered song.

"The Fifth Tidal Opera have no helmsman to lead them." Faoriso tightened her grip on her spear. "We have been robbed of beautiful voices and elegant direction."

Beltan whistled lowly. "Midha was charming and his children dutiful, but their boldness crossed boundaries. They overextended themselves."

"Did they?" Iorves shuddered with grief. Midha had been kind to her. His sons had been a testament to true Harmonic strength. "This was the Traitor-Child's doing."

"The other Traitor-Children were dangerous - but not like this."

"This Lightmonger is not alone. He employs followers. The many-armed and the forest-dwellers."

"And the Fire-Song." Faoriso gazed up at the twinkling eyes of the world-encompassing intelligence. It glared down at them with icy promise.

000

Elves were strange. Dragons were stranger. Wish-Dragons were the strangest, but it was in Arke that Kiphoris found an odd sort of normality - something not all that unlike the mysticism that surrounded his once-home in the Reef and the people who had oh so briefly welcomed him into their world.

It was then that Kiphoris realized, with a pang of grief and homesickness, that he missed Sol, as terrifying a place as it was. He buried the bitter thought under the monotony of everyday work. And by the Great Machine was there a lot of work to be done. The mess of anger and derision and confusion Ikharos's brief arrival and departure had sparked took him precious time to smooth over. The Lightbearer was an able warrior, true, but it was as he said so many weeks and months ago: he was not a diplomat.

Yet neither was Kiphoris, but there he was, working diligently to further benefit his people. It was a thankless task, and so much of it had been dropped onto his shoulders as one of the few Eliksni capable of speaking a human language. Obleker had the capacity to translate, and Drotos made full use of the Servitor, but there was something... slow and uncomfortable about it to the elves. Which meant they preferred to speak through Kiphoris whenever possible - or mostly speak directly to him. At least they made the effort of being polite.

On the morning of the third day since Tarrhis had arrived in Ellesméra, Kiphoris had been invited to tea with Lord Däthedr, who theoretically governed the region outside the city's borders - if there was any governing to be done. Mostly he was the commander of the elven militia whenever it gathered - which was exceedingly rare, being the largely pacifistic people they were. So, as influential and highly-regarded as he may have been he was not as regal as some other aristocrats.

But they were to have tea, and Tarrhis had told Kiphoris to go meet with the elf-human. Not that he was all that opposed to the idea; it had been an age since he had drank tea. The horrible mixture Ikharos had prepared by Du Fells Nángoröth did not count.

Arke followed him to the elven lord's residence and curled up beside the entrance. She did that often; accompanying him on his ambassadorial rounds throughout the city and beyond. If it had been any other time or any other place, he would have found it suspicious, but his work was too mentally exhausting for such demanding thought processes. In the end, he was just glad for something to be there with him, who understood the reasonings behind what he did and knew how he felt about it.

Maybe it was his simple desires that led her to do so, or the fact he held the keys to her magical cage. In the end, Kiphoris couldn't muster the energy to care. She could not kill or injure him, his people, or their allies. As long as the oath was in place, she was beholden to his orders and wishes - and left utterly harmless.

And strangely helpful.

"Ask after the welfare of his family," she murmured to him as they neared the door to the tree-sung manor, "particularly of his grandchild. It will draw him into a more generous mood."

Kiphoris softly grunted in confirmation. That was good advice; he wouldn't have known Däthedr had a grandchild otherwise. He looked rather youthful for a well-aged human. Elven appearances were very misleading. Why couldn't they be the same type of immortal as Awoken? Why did they have to make themselves look as strange as magically possible?

An elven woman with bioluminescent markings on her sharp cheeks answered the door. The ends of each thread of her heavily stylized hair sparkled like glimmer.

Why?

"Captain Kiphoris." She bowed her head, held the door open and stepped out of the way. Kiphoris blinked and entered the too-small hallway. His helm's wings tapped against the ceiling. He hunched to avoid it.

The walls were sung from wood, of course, but they were painted with dazzling displays of incredible artistry, depicting a myriad of mythical and fantastical scenes. One showed a group of elves disembarking from a silver sailboat, and another of them encountering a group of dwarven outriders astride heavy-horned Feldûnost.

At the end of the hall, another scene had been erected onto the walls, but it was colourless and half-done. Regardless, the two figures in the centre were obvious even from outline alone: a slender elf and a many-limbed Eliksni, both holding out their hands to one another. Behind the elf was a tree and behind the Eliksni was the a Skiff.

Kiphoris straightened despite himself. He traced his finger in the air just over the figures, not daring to touch but wanting to get closer nonetheless. It was beyond encouraging; it was a mark, a place in history, evidence to show that his ailing people were alive. Maybe they would be remembered, millennia onwards. Maybe all they had and were wouldn't be devoured by the encroaching darkness - that something would be left of their civilization, something to tell further generations that they once existed.

A pit opened his stomach, and no amount of ether would fill it. Kiphoris clenched his mandibles tightly, just to feel his fangs grind and slide against one another.

The elven woman glided past him and opened up another door, into a room that boasted a fortunately higher ceiling. The walls were painted green, with white vine patterns climbing up all around. There was another door on the other side, of the sliding kind, and it was opened. Kiphoris could hear water trickling - and then saw the fountain, carved in the likeness of a young dragon.

The furniture in the room was low. The chairs were but pillows on the smooth wooden floors, and the table was only knee-high for a human. Mid-calf for him.

Another elf, male this time and with no overly ridiculous features, strolled in from the garden and bowed his head.

Kiphoris hurried to greet him, lifting two fingers to his rebreather. Elven tradition dictated that the lower-ranking individual speak first, and though he was a noble-captain, Däthedr was a high lord of Du Weldenvarden. "Velask," he said in Low Speak, then switched to the elf's preferred ancient language. "Atra esterní ono thelduin."

Däthedr smiled. "Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr."

"Un atra du evarínya ono varda." The words were not meant for Eliksni voices, and his own accent mangled it all the more. The sharp, chuffing tones of his Wolven heritage didn't do him any favours. What few Scars picked at the human and elven languages had better luck - their House was more inclined to such things, having braved a thousand alien worlds during the Long Drift before ever reaching Kepler.

Däthedr gestured to the table and pillows. Kiphoris sat down and crossed the wrists of his prominent arms. His lower limbs stayed where they were, brushing and feeling for the fabric of cloak in search of reassurance. He was armed, though only with two pistols and a dagger - he didn't expect to be pressed for battle in the elven capital. They were too innocent and welcoming as hosts for him to ever imagine them turning on the Scars. Humans were not Hive; they were not mindless, senseless, soulless killers.

Even the most despicable of Lightmongers had their reasons, however warped said reasons might have been.

The elven woman returned, with a pot of pleasant-smelling black tea and two porcelain cups with painted saucers. Däthedr poured himself some and then hovered over the second cup, looking at Kiphoris questioningly.

"Yes please," Kiphoris told him. His cup was filled almost to the brim. He picked it up as gently as he could, separated his mandibles to keep them out of the way, and supped. It was scalding hot, he discovered - much to the detriment of his poor, poor tongue.

Just how he liked it.

Past the burn, past the shock, past all of the initial bite there was a subtle rich taste he'd been yearning after for over a century. It was tea as he remembered it, exquisite and calming. There were many kinds of tea among the many different peoples of the galaxy, but in his experience only the humans made the drink worthwhile. Maybe their plants were simply superior to those cultivated within the many cultures behind the borders of the Cabal Empire. Or maybe humans were just that gifted in all culinary matters, be it food or drink.

He reckoned it could have been both.

"We have been graced with fine weather as of late," Däthedr noted.

"Eia," Kiphoris replied, but all he could think was that they were fortunate to stand on a planet that had weather. He leaned forwards, putting his tea down on the saucer - and what a strange, strange thing saucers were. "I must thank you for this, Däthedr-Mrelliks."

The elf smiled. "Mrelliks? Is that not Tarrhis's title?"

Kiphoris shook his head. "Nama, Mrelliks is his noble rank - that of lord or baron. Denaan is his title."

"Oh? What does it mean in this language?"

"Oathkeeper."

Däthedr gave him a thoughtful look and nodded. "Oathkeeper? A humbling name. And reassuring for me and mine. How was it your Baron came by this name?"

"It was gifted to him by Skriviks-Archon for remaining true to our Kell's legacy after her passing." Kiphoris thought back to the wriggling little hatchling confined to the Baron's skiff. "And for saving the last of her heirs."

Däthedr raised an eyebrow. "And who is this heir we have not met?"

"Mezha-kel is too young. Tarrhis-Mrelliks is to be regent of our banner until he is grown." The conversation was going a route Kiphoris didn't feel comfortable with, so he turned it around. "What of you, Däthedr-Mrelliks?"

"Of me?"

"Have you or your kin been rewarded with honourable titles by your Kell?"

The elf smiled. "As you know, I am lord of House Baharöth and marshal of the Fyrnvard - our voluntary militia. I am considered a patron of the Äthalvard, who overlook our greatest works of art, and I am sovereign over the hamlets of Mierthandrel and Ulfíad. Beyond those, I cannot claim any other titles or positions - only that I am an elf of Du Weldenvarden." He clasped his hands around his teacup. "I must return the question, Captain. I have heard some things, especially of you, but very little has made sense to me. Might you alleviate my curiosity?"

Kiphoris knew of Eliksni who loved to talk to great lengths about themselves. He was not one of them. Boasting never sat right with him, and being asked to always invited a touch of discomfort. "I was hatched into the lineage of Argekshraa, or the Silent Fang in your language. We were... warriors who operated in the legacy of Eiriver the Unseen. Mist-walkers and Kell-loyal." He paused. "But that was in Mraskilaasan - House of Wolves. Now I am of Scar, of Kelekhselen, and loyal to Tarrhis and keeper of Arke."

"Then we are well and truly met!" Däthedr laughed. It was a pleasant sound, if strange. "How are you enjoying your stay?"

"It is peaceful," Kiphoris admitted. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been anywhere so... serene. It wasn't that it was quiet, because it wasn't. The forest was brutally loud to a people who'd only ever known the silence of deep space. But what truly hooked him to the tranquility of it all was the atmosphere of contentment. The elves had cultivated a place of comfort and satisfaction.

What he didn't mention was that he hated it. He liked it too, but he hated what it did to him - to all his people stationed within the forest. It was too distracting, and there were far more important matters that necessitated his attention. War was to be waged. Kiphoris envied Palkra for the position he was assigned, running missions with the Varden and watching for Krinok's inevitable offensive. It would have been a better use of his skills than negotiating for a magic he could not wield himself.

"And your kin? Have they found our hospitality agreeable?"

"Eia, they have. Thank you. What of your kin?" Kiphoris leaned forward and closed his outer eyes to assuage any offense that might have been unintentionally received. "How do they feel about mine-people's presence?"

Däthedr shrugged effortlessly. "Some are enamoured, others are frustrated, and many are neither. It has been some time since outsiders have visited Du Weldenvarden, let alone Ellesmera, and never in such abundance. This change is a stark one." The elf smiled wistfully. "Though a pattern has emerged. Those of fewer years and lower standing have less experience of the outer world and find themselves more invested in learning all your people have to tell."

"And of you, Däthedr-Mrelliks?" Kiphoris quietly rustled his mandibles. The tea had put him at ease. "I hope mine-words do not convey insult, for I intend none."

"I fought in the first war against Galbatorix, alongside the good King Evandur." The elf stopped smiling. "The divisions between men, elves, and dwarves did us little favours in that fight. Some have taken that lesson to mean that seclusion is our greatest hope for survival, that we should not want for any friendships with the other peoples of this land. Hubris, I say. Our seclusion cost both the Varden and the dwarves greatly in their time of need. If we had but opened our borders, then we would have sooner learned of the existence of Eragon and Saphira, and the survival of Arya Dröttning. Earlier yet and we might have learned of Formora Láerdhon's rebellion against Galbatorix by ourselves, without need for Ikharos's intervention."

Their tea was going cold. Kiphoris supped from his cup, trying with great consideration to not chip the porcelain material with his teeth. Damnable humans and their fancy lips.

"I cannot abide with these notions of isolation and disregard. So, to that, I bid your people welcome - for you have safeguarded our lost kin and a Dragon Rider, who may prove to be our true last hope."

Kiphoris had the thought of Eragon and Saphira fighting Hive, but he quickly banished it from his mind. They wouldn't last long enough to have any impact. Worse yet, the Hive might capture them and claw dangerous secrets from their minds. And neither would the pair fare better with Cabal, Krinok's wretched murderers, or the accursed Harmony.

When all the talking was finished and the tea was gone, Kiphoris bid Däthedr farewell and made his way outside. Arke had been dozing away on a bed of delicate flowers - now thoroughly ruined. She raised her head from her paws and asked him, "Did you ask after the welfare of his family?"

Kiphoris slowed to a halt and cursed. He looked back at the manor, wondering if he could-

"Oromis would like to speak with us," Ark said, shooting down the budding plan.

"Did he send you a message?"

"No." Her golden eyes glinted. "I can taste his wants. No words are necessary."

Kiphoris laid a hand against the Ahamkara's neck, letting his fingers run through cool, soft feathers. She hummed lowly, pleasantly. "So be it. I will meet with him. Where is he?"

"Crags of Tel'naeír."

"You will have to lead me. I do not know the way."

Arke lifted herself up and padded out of the flattened garden. Kiphoris marched alongside her, not quite comfortable though not quite alarmed either. He bemoaned the lack of Ka'Den - he had left the sword behind in his Skiff. It had been too large and cumbersome to drag along for tea drinking. Now, though, he would have welcomed its weight - for though he trusted Saphira, Glaedr was yet an unknown to him.

It occurred to him that he should have been more wary of Arke than the golden dragon, but she had been so helpful in winning over their elven hosts that he was finding it a little difficult. Kiphoris slowed and narrowed all four eyes. Arke turned her head and shot him a draconic smirk. It was disturbing.

That made things easier.

When they arrived at the elderly elf's home atop the steep cliffs of Tel'naeír the Riders were already in session. Eragon and Oromis glanced over, sending Kiphoris differing gestures of greeting. There was no sight of the dragons.

The elf raised a mug to his lips and drank, his bright eyes fixed on Eragon. "What do you actually know of Urgals?"

"I know their strengths, weaknesses, and how to kill them. It's all I need to know."

"Why do they hate and fight humans, though? What about their history and legends, or the way in which they live?"

"Does it matter?"

Oromis sighed. "Just remember," he said gently, "that at a certain point, your enemies may have to become your allies. Such is the nature of life."

Kiphoris paused. The lesson struck a chord in him. There was truth in it. Some creatures could not be negotiated with at all, but others... Well, Ikharos was one example. Though Kiphoris fully intended to settle that when all was said and done. His honour as a Wolf, even if former, demanded it.

He walked over. There was a stool provided, but it wouldn't have held his weight. Kiphoris moved it aside and crouched. Arke settled down behind him, laying her pointed snout over her paws. Her claws kneaded the dirt. A low hum rose from the base of her lilac-coloured throat, reverberating through the ground below them

"Arke said you requested mine-presence?" Kiphoris said.

Oromis smiled pleasantly. "I did not, but I had thought about it. How do you fare?"

"Alive and whole. And you, Riders?"

"I'm well enough," Eragon said, welcoming if nervous.

Oromis nodded in accord. "We have not spoken many times before, Captain. I feel as though we should have."

"Once," Kiphoris replied. "We spoke once. You were focused on Ikha Riis at the time."

"I hope I did not offe-"

"Where your attentions lie does not concern me." Kiphoris narrowed his inner eyes by a fraction. Arke's breath drifted onto his neck. He paused and took a breath; he was being needlessly brusque. "Why have I been summoned, Oromis-Elda?" The Rider's elven title was easier on his tongue than most.

"It is to my understanding that you seek instruction in the ways of magic."

Kiphoris shook his head. "Nama. I cannot wield magic. I seek it for those of mine-House who can."

"All the same..." Oromis gave him a studious look. "You have kept my presence, and the presence of Glaedr, a secret from your own kind."

Kiphoris's mandibles tightened. "Eia," he said lowly, "I have, but I do not appreciate these secrets."

"Surely you can understand the necessity of it."

"Nama. You fear Galbatorix learning of your survival, yes? The human-king is insignificant. He poses little threat."

"He poses the greatest power yet faced by all elven and dragon kind."

"If he comes to wage war, mine-people will kill him. Ikha Riis and Formora will kill him. Someone will kill him."

Oromis sighed. "You do not seem to understand the grave threat Galbatorix poses."

Kiphoris straightened up. "This argument is pointless. Neither of us will be swayed."

"Astute." Oromis nodded regretfully. "All the same, you have done us a service with your secrecy. Your discontent has been made clear, and for that I feel I must offer a gift in return."

"I do not desire a gift."

Arke's feathers rustled at the mention of 'desire'.

Oromis smiled. "Not even for magic?"

"You will teach us?"

"No. But I have requested that Bellaen of House Miolandra offer rudimentary lessons to any Eliksni with a propensity for wielding gramarye."

That was exactly what they needed. Kiphoris bowed his head. "My gratitude is limitless, Oromis-Elda. House Scar is indebted to you."

"It should be to Bellaen. It is he who will enlighten your people." The elf shifted and looked up at the sky. The dragons were returning.

Arke perked up and met with them as they landed. Saphira playfully snapped at the Ahamkara, earning a round of hissing whispers in retaliaton. The blue dragon basked in the riddled offers and swatted them aside with clumsy perceptiveness. Glaedr was more sophisticated in avoiding Arke's invisible bite; he gave her a fleeting sort of greeting and nothing more. Both had been quick to learn how to act around the not-dragon.

Unsatisfied, Arke stalked back to Kiphoris's side and pawed the ground. Her eyes glittered with an ever-keen hunger. She prodded his side with the tip of her beak-like snout. "We should return to your kin. There have been developments, o liberator mine."

"With Krinok?" He inquired, suddenly on alert.

Arke laughed softly. "Your Kell-slayer is eager for war-won prizes, this is true, but the changes I speak of are of more dire importance."

"Ikha Riis," Kiphoris realized. He gathered up his cloak, bowed to Oromis and Glaedr, said his farewells to Eragon and Saphira. The latter ignored him. Feeling the tug of duty, Kiphoris summarily left - though he was left sorely displeased with how little progress he had made in repairing their lost friendship.

Arke offered to fly them back. Kiphoris declined. He trusted her to a very limited extent, and there was an unspoken rule about not taking up an Ahamkara's invitations. Instead, he ran, ensuring that his arms and legs were subjected to the satisfying burn of light exertion. She followed at a more leisurely pace, keeping up solely through the longer strides of her larger form.

The small camp Tarrhis ruled over was docile and neat. The Skiffs were arrayed around a central pavilion belonging to the Baron, and around the ships were all the other tents wherein the lesser warriors slept and lived. A few cosy fires were burning, and there was a smell of sweet ether and lush fruit in the air.

Kiphoris entered Tarrhis's tent. His Baron glanced up and waved him over to the communications terminal. A Splicer operated the machine in respectful silence. The radio spat out the static-bitten words of Ikharos. "-y the name of Invoctol is invoking rites of peaceful conduct between two powers. I'm under the impression that they want to negotiate."

"Who?" Kiphoris asked.

Tarrhis rumbled darkly. "Cabal."

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for the edits!

I hate essays.