"endeavour, forever"

He tied the horse's reins to a log along the edge of the river, removed his bracers from the saddlebags, and picked his way up along the river by the light of a crescent moon. The forest was quiet. All he could hear was the trickle of water; in the dead of winter there weren't even insects to break the silence. It was the loneliness that bothered him most. Ikharos hated chatter - hated the rambling of people who knew not the value of silence - but he missed Xiān's voice something fierce. The emptiness pained him. It was a strange feeling for a Voidwalker.

Indigo power gathered in his hands. He fed from dust in the air, scraped residual flecks of foreign matter from the fabric of his new clothes, left grooves in the surfaces of rocks and trees where his fingers trailed along - he devoured it all, building himself up. The pressure of Dark thickened around him; they'd noticed. The thin miasma of ghoulish air, stretched taut by the wind, sensed his Light. He made no move to hide it. Ikharos marched further inland - drawing them away from Formora, from the boy, from Narda to the north. Dire power filled Múspel to the brim. The hadium blade dripped with sizzling Void, eating into the ground below.

But with the Dark Ether came the Egregore. Microscopic spores carried along on invisible currents. Ikharos tried to burn them away, to consume their mass, but they were unending. It was inevitable that some would settle within his lungs and no amount of Void Light would shake them loose. The red mists followed soon after. Folk long since deceased watched him pass from the shadow of the treeline. The sky took on the constellations of Sol - a facsimile of real stars, a real sky. It tried too hard to be home.

The suffocating burn of Nightmare essence scalded his throat. Ikharos tugged at his collar, braced his back against an upright boulder, itched at his oaken hand. Sensitive wood echoed with a phantom feeling, shelled in hardened bark. It wasn't right but it was real and that boggled the mind.

"You are a collector." A deep, grisly voice burrowed inside his eardrums. "You have molded your own self into a hoard of lingering tokens, won through glory and goodwill. You wield them poorly."

"Leave me be," Ikharos sighed. "You're not welcome here, Subjugator. You never were."

A dark shelled head swooped down, six yellow pits searing their alien spite straight into his soul. A red hand, thin and delicate and impossibly inhuman, slashed through the air with heated disregard. "I do not ask for it."

"Are you here to complain about the misuse of your power?" Ikharos craned his neck. "I oppose domination. I don't condone it."

"You are a conqueror."

"No. I'm a murderer. I leave the intricacies of those loftier logistics to others more suited."

"You are a liar," the alien scoffed.

"You've mistaken me for someone else."

"Oh, oh no little one. That's you. You're the victim of your own con. The Witch Queen, that deplorable frog, can only wish to deceive others as you have, as you've been. If truth is power, then the mistruths you sell yourself make for deplorable deficiencies."

"What's your point?" Ikharos demanded. "C'mon, you're a Nightmare - you're here to drive home one of my shortcomings. So out with it."

"You love pain."

"Like hell-"

"You wallow in it." The Subjugator made a sound of disgust. He straightened - a twenty-foot monstrosity cast in carrion colours. "Suffering is a journey. The destination is the prize. Those who fall to rest along the way are weak. That they can't admit as much to themselves is just another layer to their depravity. I thought you different."

"Pleased to be a disappointment."

A slap of wet flesh on hard earth caught his ear. Ikharos twisted, caught the leaping Stalker by the throat and ran Múspel through its sternum. The Scorn dragged its claws along his arm, spitting pus and alien obscenities. He forced his Light through the sword's hadium length until it spread from the sharpened edges like a cancerous growth, turning violet and infecting the Scorn's every rotting cell. It gave a shriek as it disintegrated - and the energy gleaned from its unmaking slipped down to the greatsword's hilt. The sensation was otherworldly. Ikharos rolled his shoulders in relief, renewed vigour filling his muscles. Oh to Devour - there was nothing like it.

"You can be beautiful," Rhulk sighed ruefully. "You have the propensity for it."

He moved, cracked Múspel's pommel against a Raider's skull as it manifested behind him, and he annihilated it with a sharp breath. His very proximity was caustic.

"Alas, your fixation with ephemeral mundanity reduces your magnificence to a mummer's farce."

"Be quiet!" Ikharos caught a Ravager's censer, pulled it from the Scorn's grasp and beat the ghoul down with its own flaming weapon. The chains were slick with seawater and gore but he clutched them tight, allowed the Void to wreath about this new extension of his murderous will.

The Scorn were moving now, pale lanky shapes in the dark, and they telegraphed their arrival with a chorus of gurgling howls - with not a single comprehensible word between them. Ikharos took to them with grim drive, meeting their savagery with his own flavour of brutality. In the shadow of the false night he did battle with the undead and from their living carcasses he fed, consuming them body and soul so absolutely no amount of Dark Ether would ever bring them back.

He fought. Fought fought fought, foughtfoughtfought-

-and when dawn broke he braced against a withered old pine, alone at last. Ash and viscera dripped from his torn coat. Ikharos had an arm held across his stomach to keep his insides from spilling out. The local Chieftain had struck lucky. A part of its scimitar was still lodged in his gut. He looked around and blinked away the trance of war - groaning as the numbing feel of adrenaline began to fade, allowing the throb of mortal wounds to make their presence known. The blood tasted bitter on his tongue, but the Void on his lips was sweet enough to drown it out.

Ikharos straightened. He sucked in air; the exhaustion caught up with him at last. Too tired to find anything else, he channelled the Void through his very fingertips and Devoured the tree on the spot. Wood blackened and cracked; leaves were drained of their life and fell rotting from drooping branches; dire power followed its roots to their very ends, leaving nothing to waste. Matter was mapped, gathered, slurped up, and as reward for the sacrifice Ikharos gleaned raw energy predigested by the crushing will of utter nothing. It went to mending his very flesh, to suffusing his muscles with ill-earned strength. He teetered for but a moment as the Void set to work, but when it finished he stood tall, refreshed, well able to scan the horizon for stragglers - a reluctant dessert for his grisly feast.

Nothing. Not a one. The fields were streaked with scorch marks and patches of blood, some of it his own, but not a single Scorn remained. The air stank of Dark Ether and Voidsmoke. A stiff winter breeze glided in to buffet his ragged clothes and chill his bones. Not for the first time Ikharos bemoaned his loss of a biosuit and its insulative effects, for the local garb left much to be desired.

"Alright," Ikharos said to himself, if only to hear his own broken voice. His throat felt raw. He might've been shouting, though he couldn't recall. There had been Nightmares enough to garner so belligerent a response - each of them insistent, needling, uncharacteristically malicious. Loved ones, strangers, most of them somewhere in between. The haunting reminder of a long-lived life spent in perpetual war.

The countryside was still dark, cast in sprawling shadows by the towering peaks of the Spine, but there was enough light for Ikharos to pick his way down without activating his implants. He travelled quickly, throwing a wary gaze in every direction. He still held onto the stolen censer; it was quick and impactful and he found it appealing to wield alongside Múspel. Under normal circumstances he would have prepared to have a hand free to wield his Light, but with his options so limited he wasn't adverse to sampling the enemy's own tools.

Ikharos followed along the river until, some hours later, he found the spot where the ransacked wagon and the dead mule lay. His horse was gone. There were other tracks in the earth. Fresh. Hooves, many of them - and then the indent of claws overlayed on top. He hurried on down the road, already fearing the worst. It was that fear that betrayed him, that let the Nightmares back in.

"You've had some cockeyed plans but this, my man, might just take the cake."

Ikharos shrugged the crimson fingers from his shoulders. He refused to look at her, to poison his memory of her. No more than he already had.

"Scorn aren't anything new," Lennox-2 remarked, "but you've never fought them on this level. Ghostless, gunless, hopeless - I swear if you make it out of this, I owe you a drink."

"You never deliver."

"No!" She guffawed. "Nah, not like I am. Or even as I was. I'd been saving those debts up. It's great being indebted to the one and only Ikharos Torstil - because he never asks you to break even."

"Those weren't debts. We were friends."

"Few enough of those left, eh?" Lennox hovered beside him. "But where you're going you won't find any. Guess you've caught on. You always leave us behind in the end."

Ikharos gritted his teeth. "Len-"

"It didn't start with me, and it definitely hasn't ended with me. Not a word to Jaxie, huh?"

"I left him a letter."

"A letter? He's a Titan, Ike. Would've been better off drawing a picture, wrapping it around a brick and throwing it at the back of his head."

"He's a bright young man," Ikharos muttered. A familiar anger burned in the pit of his stomach. "You should be proud of him."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Because abandoning him like you did makes me think otherwise." Lennox-2 sighed. "You found him in the ditch and that's where you've left him."

"It's better for him."

"What, losing his entire fireteam in a day? I died. You fucked off to the Reef to stay - up 'til the Witch Queen did her thing. S'like you were trying to find someone else to blame. So... what, scapegoat got lost in the post?"

"That's not it."

"No? No, of course not. You just wanted to protect him. How precious."

"Stop. Talking." Ikharos's hands tightened painfully around his weapons. "I never meant any harm. Not for you, not for him."

"Good intentions don't survive a dragon, Ike." Lennox-2 caught his shoulder and twirled him around. Her expression was grim, bathed in bloodied red. "Not the first, not the last - so why am I still here?"

"Because I cared," Ikharos pathetically retorted. The anger faded. He couldn't muster it. Not against her. "I was at the end of my tether but you gave me another spool."

"And now you've hung yourself with it."

The phantom sensation of a tightening rope slithered across his neck. Ikharos wrenched it away. "Excuse me for caring about you."

"I won't. I can't." Lennox-2 pointed between his eyes. "That's your problem. What was it you told her? You want to love. Need to. Stop trying to be human. You know it ain't us. My own humanity left me screaming every other night."

"I know," Ikharos said. "I was there."

Her glare softened. "You were, but you never heeded the warning. Me, Jaxson, Cayde - and that's just in recent memory. How 'bout everyone else you've left in the dirt? Quantis put up with your shit for a loooong time, but you never left her a letter. Eris?"

"She made her intentions clear."

"Oh, so respectful. So nice. She adored you once. You felt the same, didn't you? And you let it die."

"The Hellmouth-"

"What? Took its toll?"

"She asked for space," Ikharos said slowly. "I gave her space." He turned and walked away. "Enough. Please. Leave me be."

"What about the rest?" Lennox called after him. "Poor little Arthur, all on his own? Keres, who only ever wanted to be like his dad-"

"He's not mine. Hasn't been for an age."

"You taught him. He was your first. Your first failure. Or what about Imezanthes? Oh, you loved her. Your own pet killer. Never liked her myself, but she was useful. She's gone now, gone to do more of your dirty work. And who was there before her?"

"There was no before," Ikharos growled. "There was no one else-"

"There was. Zahl. Precious Zahl Amand. I'm surprised we haven't heard from him."

"I buried him a long time ago."

"Then why am I still here?" Lennox-2 appeared in front of him. "There's others. Other names."

"Leave them be." He stepped through her. She followed close behind.

"Socrates, Ranveig, Torehund-"

"You never knew them," Ikharos said. His breath was drawing shorter and shorter.

"I'm a Nightmare, Ike," Lennox-2 deadpanned. "I'm in your head. I know them all. Better than you do."

"So bother them about it." Ikharos walked through her. She dissipated and manifested once more by his side.

"You leave 'em all in the dust and complain you're lonely."

"Len-"

"She seems... well, I'm not gonna say nice. Your new friend. Lil' weird, definitely not nice, but I suppose she has good intentions. 'Course, we know where good intentions get us."

"Len. Stop..." Ikharos said, fighting to keep his voice calm "Just leave it."

"Lookin' out for you, Ike."

"No. You're just here to haunt me." Ikharos saw that the Scorn tracks veered away from the road and followed them. The Void was gathered around him, thick as seafoam, and through it he drew sustenance from stray particles in the air.

"Oh, I'm here to haunt you, sure," Lennox-2 scoffed. "You're the vampire, Ike. You're the monster. Look at you. Everywhere you go you leave death and destruction. You eat little pieces of the universe knowing it'll never recover. What are we supposed to call that?"

"Don't know what you're trying to prove."

"I'm here to hurt you, Ike, just like you said. No more. No less. I'm a Nightmare."

"This isn't you."

"Then why won't you let me go?"

Ikharos turned to her. He said nothing.

"Because that's the only way you can keep us alive, isn't it?" Lennox mused. "In your dreams. Revenants of your past. When I dreamed it was of a black tower across a field of golden reeds. Everyone I knew was there. Every lover, every stranger, every single person - and I had to kill them. Now you're no Exo, but you're hurtling down the same path."

"You're asking me to forget you."

"No, not that." Lennox-2 shook head. "Just the pain."

"And the love?"

"Can't have your cake and eat it too. Should've buried me from the get-go."

"There was nothing left to bury."

"You know what I mean. Do as you always do and move the fuck on. Because this is just sad."

"Len-"

"You're losing yourself. Have been for a while."

"Leave me be," Ikharos begged. "Please, Len."

"... alright." Lennox-2 looked past him. "But only 'cause you've got company."

He turned and the Raider creeping up planted a blade between his ribs. Ikharos gasped. His throat quickly filled with blood. A lung had been nicked, but his heart - somehow the dagger had missed it. In the limited time he knew he had left Ikharos dropped everything, grabbed the Scorn's arms and he reduced it to sizzling violet energy, scrubbing out its very existence. The knife melted away and its mass fed the growth of new cells. Ikharos doubled over and hacked out a globule of blood, rubbing the spot on his chest to relieve the diminishing ache.

Lennox-2 didn't comment on it. Ikharos raised his eyes and found himself blessedly alone again. His hands trembled as they found his weapons - and he took to following the tracks once more. Fifty yards out he caught the scent of red blood. After that he found the bodies. Soldiers. Twelve human soldiers, torn from their saddles and butchered without mercy. A single horse remained, dutifully standing by the crumpled form of its dead rider, but the rest had seemingly run off. One of the soldiers he recognized as Ordock - the very sergeant from the inn, his throat laid wide open and his glassy eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky.

Most peculiarly, the wounds on the bodies were left by blade and nothing else. Clean, precise, lacking the Scorn trademark of messy savagery. Ikharos had no need of Deepsight to know who was responsible. It should have bothered him but the fury refused to manifest. That he recognized as a problem - one look at human depravity and already he'd given up on his species. Perhaps she had a point after all.

He carried on quickly. There was no time to waste, and he didn't care enough to give the soldiers a proper burial. The actions of their peers had drained him of sympathy. He marched and marched until the forest gave way to a set of crossroads half-overgrown with wild weeds. To his relief he found her there - Formora, stood to the side of the road with her horse's reins in hand. A boy sat in the saddle. His hair was the colour of straw and his face was dangerously pale. Formora's jacket hung about his scrawny shoulders.

She saw him first. Ikharos half-suspected she sensed him long before that, because there was no surprise on her face when she beheld him. Formora did not smile, did not call to him with relief; the only welcome she spared was a stiff nod. With a pang of unwelcome guilt Ikharos remembered the words they'd shared before parting, but pride forced him to measure his steps and respond in kind. She wrinkled her nose as he closed in, and remembering her reaction to Narda Ikharos banished the covering of filth as best he could with a wave of cleansing Void. He sheathed Múspel and extinguished the censer's flame, then set the Scorn weapon aside.

"You live," Formora coolly said. She still wore the glamour of a human but he doubted he would ever mistake what she was. One of her hands was red with dried blood. There were flecks of crimson across her shirt too. "Good."

Ikharos said nothing. He diverted his attention to the boy, who stared at him with tired, fearful eyes. "You must be Destris," he said, forcing a smile. "Are you alright?"

Destris said nothing but he nodded after a worrying moment.

"I know you've been through a lot last night," Ikharos continued, "but I promise you you're safe now."

The boy just looked at him.

He hasn't spoken a word since I found him, Formora said. Ikharos suppressed a flinch; the psionic intrusion was abrupt, sharp, and lacking entirely in her prior restraint. Not even Indilic for all his familiarity would have addressed him in so crass a manner. He's in shock.

Ikharos absorbed that. Does he know about his father?

Yes. I told him.

Are you sure that was wise?

He deserves to know. I won't keep it from him. Formora shifted. Where is your horse?

I think the soldiers took it. They found you?

They left me no choice. I did not think to take their steeds. She looked away into the woods. We cannot stay here. Others will come to investigate. What of the Scorn?

Dead.

Will they return?

No.

Formora exhaled softly. We have to move on.

Ikharos looked to Destris. "Where are you from?"

The boy didn't respond.

He hails from Teirm.

Ikharos glanced at Formora. You looked into his mind?

I did.

Does he have family there?

His father's cousin.

That's all?

Yes.

Ikharos grimaced and looked back the way he'd come. We should leave him in better hands.

We should.

I'll take him-

But we can't return to Narda. Formora gave him a firm look. Your words will have marked you for a criminal. The only way they will welcome you back is in chains.

I don't fear them.

No. But you should fear the consequences. If you show your strength the king will respond in kind. His agents are everywhere.

Alright. Ikharos crossed his arms. So what now?

We cannot remain here.

Yeah, you said that. What are our options?

South. We can only go south.

That's where people are. I won't find my soldiers there. He sighed. There may be more Scorn that way too. Are there any other settlements close by?

Here? No. There are villages on the other side of the Spine - along the Ninor river and in the valley of Old Palancar - but such a heading will be difficult. The boy won't survive.

We need to drop him off somewhere. He's not safe with us.

Formora shifted and whispered "sitja" to the horse. She took Ikharos by the elbow and led him a small distance away. "There are hamlets to the south. We can find a merchant or farmer - someone who needs to visit Teirm to sell their produce - and pay for them to give the boy over to his kin."

"And after that?"

"I don't know."

"Can we just lay things out?" Ikharos exhaled. "I'm tired. What do we want to do next?"

"We?"

"Yes, we. It's too dangerous to travel alone. For either of us."

"Pragmatic," Formora murmured. "You know what I want."

"Not this again again."

"I am referring to your dragon."

Ikharos gave her a hard look. "It's not mine."

She ignored him. "Agnisia has it. What do you think she'll do with it?"

"I don't know. I don't. I don't much care to know either."

Formora's eyes flashed dangerously. "You'll leave it to its fate?"

Ikharos made a face. "I don't... no."

"No?"

"Don't ask me that question."

She tilted her head. "You're afraid."

"Like hell."

"You are."

"Enough." Ikharos tightened his jaw. "We'll go south as you say. Find somewhere to drop Destris off. After that... well after that we'll have to see where we stand."

"I must find her," Formora stubbornly said. "If you won't help then I will do so alone. Where do you believe her to have gone?"

"Honestly? Anywhere that isn't Vroengard. That island's too hot a spot to stick around. Other than that..." He took in a deep breath. "She's a Wizard and a particularly strong one. Her morph and brood mean she's adept at hiding herself with illusions. If anything I expect you'll find her somewhere populated. Centralised cities. That's where the produce is."

"Produce?"

"People. Mortals. She's an Agonarch - a painsmith. She may be Risen, but she still has to eat." Ikharos paused. "You won't find her. No one will. Not unless she wants to be found."

"That's no answer at all."

"It's all I can offer."

Formora scrutinized him. "Very well," she said after a lengthy pause.

"Alright." Ikharos nodded and walked back to Destris. "Hey."

The boy looked at him. His eyes were puffy with tears.

"We'll see about getting you back home," Ikharos told him. "How's that?"

Destris didn't respond.

"Yeah," Ikharos sighed. "I thought so."

Formora followed him over. "We shouldn't tarry," she said. "We can't look for your horse. More of the king's men are bound to come looking. The risk is too great."

Ikharos took the reins to her horse. "We'll walk."

"We will have to." Formora glanced at Destris. "He will not last."

"We can take a break."

"Only when I'm confident we are beyond the soldiers' reach."

Ikharos grimaced. "Onwards then."

They followed the road south. Doing so left the sea within view, though it was miles downhill, and Ikharos' gaze often landed upon it. He didn't trust it. The tides were a murky cloak, hiding Dark, fetid things beneath tonnes of crushing water - things that refused to die. Allowing the Scorn to make landfall, he reflected, was his greatest mistake for it gave them the freedom to move unharassed and unseen. His mind wandered back to the skirmish above the anomaly and he considered how he might've done things differently, how he could have stopped the Locus then and there.

By his own judgement the issue lay with the Scorn. He understood their common tacts and preferences for ground-based engagements, but they so rarely opted for naval confrontations - the opportunity simply wasn't there, and those few documented occasions correlated with every other report on the Scorn. They saw prey and they swooped in for the kill. It was their nature. They were base beasts, little given to higher thought.

Yet this was something more insidious. The Locus had been a clever creature, of course, but bloodthirsty. By withholding its own desires it, or whatever had taken the chance to act through it, had defied all expectations and played them like a fiddle. Ikharos felt as if he'd failed in some great capacity, though he couldn't quite pin down why. The Locus was dead and at great cost. Only - now its kindred were free. On a world populated by a repressed humanity, woefully unaware of that which was now hunting them.

Was that it? A sense of guilt? Certainly he felt it when he considered Destris and his father, but... was that all? Or was it for what was to come?

It was just shy of nightfall when Formora allowed them to stop. The sun rested just above the horizon, splashing its false-light across the waves. Destris' hands had begun to shake - so tired, so very, very tired.

"Easy," Ikharos murmured. He slid his arms around the boy and, gently as he could, lifted him from the saddle. Destris' head lolled against his shoulder. "Easy. C'mon." He turned. Their chosen camp was a small glade a stone's throw from the road, hidden by a copse of trees. The grass was mercifully dry and the surrounding trees spared them the worst of the wind's chill.

Formora had already removed her belongings from the saddlebags and laid out before an old pine a bedroll - hers, Ikahros presumed, though she gave him an expectant look. "Set him down here," she instructed.

Ikharos nodded gratefully and ushered Destris into the bedroll. The boy fell unconscious almost immediately. "Didn't get him anything to eat," Ikharos said ruefully.

"There will be food when he wakes," Formora said.

Ikharos exhaled. He suddenly found himself at a loss. He looked at her, found her watching him in return, and said, "Thank you."

Formora gave no indication of having heard. "We cannot risk a fire," she said.

"I know." Ikharos felt the last of his Void-strength drain from his body. He sat with his back to the pine and closed his eyes. Wisps of bloody red gathered at the edge of his mind. The quiet gave them confidence; lacking a tincture to put his mind at ease, he needed a diversion. Fortunate, then, that one was so close by. "I'm... sorry."

There came no answer. He opened his eyes but Formora was ignoring him. She pulled her blade free of its sheath and began cleaning it down with whispered words whose power tickled his Light.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, taking care not to speak so loud as to wake Destris. She heard. He knew she did. "For what I said."

"Words in this language have little power," Formora replied. She refused to look at him.

"They have power enough," Ikharos refuted. He felt... uncomfortable. It would have been easier to drop the topic entirely, and under normal circumstances he would have, but his mind was working against him. He already had enough Nightmares to contend with. "I... fucking hell... Look. I understand I can be... difficult. I was uncivil. You've given me your aid and I snapped. I don't understand who you are, or were, but I knew it would hurt you and I said it without thinking. I want to apologise for that."

Formora paused, set her sabre aside and looked at him. "It is becoming clear to me that the measure we have of one another is lacking. We have allowed our presumptions to render us inconsiderate."

"That's right-"

"I am not asking if you agree." She waited, but when he didn't respond Formora carried on. "I am not proposing we divulge our life stories; there are... aspects of my past that I would rather not relive, and I presume there is much you would prefer remain hidden."

Ikharos nodded slowly.

"But... a degree of clarity and transparency would be... welcome." Formora glanced at Destris. Her expression was measured; he couldn't tell what she was thinking. "I must apologize as well. I was curt and... I have not been around another living person in a very long time. Not a decent one. I fear I may have lost my own decency in the process."

"You found him, protected him," Ikharos said, "and I'm grateful for that."

"You truly care about them."

"Mortals?"

"Yes."

"They're my purpose. I'm nothing without them." The tension, he felt, had begun to ease. The red at the edge of his vision started to recede.

"I see." Formora sheathed her sabre and set it by her side. "I will endeavour to take that into account."

"Great." Ikharos leaned his head back against the trunk. "Get some sleep. I'll watch."

"No."

"No?"

"You fought through the night," she said. "You must be exhausted."

"As did you."

"The soldiers were nothing more than a necessary distraction."

"I can make do."

"No. I will take the first watch. Should I tire, I will wake you."

"Alright. I won't argue." Ikharos shut his eyes. The tree was rough and hard at his back and the air chilly, but sleep found him quickly enough - followed by red-cloaked dreams best left forgotten.

He woke quickly when something prodded against his side. Formora nudged him one more with the toe of her boot and dropped a pile of clothes on his lap. It was still dark. "Change," she said.

Ikharos groaned and wiped a hand across his face. "What time is it?"

"Almost dawn."

He'd overslept. Ikharos grimaced, already irritated, and grabbed the clothes. His own garb had become stiff with dried viscera, itching at his skin. "How's-"

"Still asleep. I'll wake him shortly. Go change." Formora's tone was uncompromising, brooking no argument. Ikharos, however reluctantly, did as he was instructed, leaving the glade and stripping down behind the cover of the trees. Some of the items Formora had given him he'd bought for her, but they were of similar enough size that it mattered little. Ikharos set his old clothes in a pile and disintegrated them with a click of his fingers. They were too badly damaged to keep and the stink would only draw attention.

He returned to find Formora and Destris sitting cross-legged opposite each other. The boy's eyes were downcast and he ate from a handful of various berries. Formora offered him her flask. "Drink," she said.

Destris took it from her with shaking hands and sipped warily - only to then gulp down as much as he could bear. Ikharos lowered himself down beside him. Destris stiffened; he looked between the two of them nervously and lowered the flask from his mouth.

"How are you feeling?" Ikharos asked with concern.

Destris' eyes settled on him. He swallowed. "I..." he started to say. Tears welled up. "It... hurts."

"I know. Hey-" Ikharos wrapped an arm around him, but he wasn't prepared for the boy to hurl himself into his embrace. Huge wracking sobs shook his entire body; he pressed his face into Ikharos's shoulder. "I know, I know," Ikharos murmured. He held him close.

"Why?" Destris whimpered.

"I don't know. But it wasn't right. I know you're scared, I know you're sad, I know. It hurts your heart, doesn't it?" Ikharos paused. "Do you know my name?"

Destris shook his head.

"My name is Ikharos. I'm a warrior. Those things? Those monsters? They're gone now. I found them and made sure. I know it doesn't make the pain go away, I know, but I hope you'll find some peace in it. Destris, I need you to do something for me. I need you to be strong - no, I need you to pretend to be strong. For me. Can you do that?"

A moment passed before Destris nodded.

"Thank you. You're a soldier, you know that? No, you're a hero. Let's pretend you're a brave hero. Hell, you don't even know what fear is!" Ikharos gently pried him from his shoulder. "Can you look at me?"

Destris raised his head.

"Good lad. Remember when I told you yesterday that we'd see about getting you home?"

The boy nodded.

"Exactly. So my friend and I-" Ikharos jutted his head towards Formora. "-are going to do everything in our power to make sure that happens. You live in Teirm, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You have family there? A cousin?"

"Alberd," Destris whispered. "He works the docks."

"Does he? An honest trade. He must be very strong."

"He is."

"Mhm." Ikharos smiled encouragingly. "Now what I say next might seem a little scary. We're going to make sure you get home, but the wilderness might be a little more dangerous than usual. That means we're going to have to hurry - just to be safe. Can you ride a horse on your own?"

"Yes."

"Good. You can take our animal. We'll be right there with you, don't worry; it just means you might find it a little tiring, but you have to power through it. This is how I want you to be strong. When it's all over you'll be home with your cousin. How does that sound?"

Destris didn't say a thing.

"This means we'll have to leave early in the mornings," Ikharos continued, "and stop late at night. We'll take breaks whenever you need to, don't you worry. Is there anything you need to ask?"

The lad shook his head. He shrunk into himself and pulled away.

"Alrighty." Ikharos stood. "Do you think you're good to go?"

A nod.

"Fantastic." Ikharos glanced at Formora. She looked back expectantly, a single eyebrow raised. "Let's see about getting you mounted up. C'mon, up and at 'em."

They set out a little before first light. He and Formora took turns - one of them would stay with Destris, keeping ahold of the horse's bridle, and the other would range ahead to check for kingsmen or Scorn. Little of note happened that day, though around noon they took a break to give Destris a rest. Formora returned from up the road and looked at Ikharos curiously.

You must be a father, she said.

He'd been in the process of drinking from his canteen; the moment he realized what she'd said he started to choke. Destris looked up with alarm. "No it's-" Ikharos struck his chest and painfully cleared his windpipe. An irritating tickle persisted at the back of his throat. He turned on Formora and shot her an annoyed look. Excuse me?

She was unapologetic. You are. You're too...

What, familiar? I've known people with kids. That's it.

I find that hard to believe.

Either way, it's not for you to know.

... Clearly. Formora moved on to patrol the area. He watched her go; the exasperation faded, only to be replaced with confusion. She was, he decided, an odd person.

The following morning brought light rain. Ikharos passed his jacket over to Destris atop of Formora's coat, which left both of them down to tunics, but she muttered a spell and he quite simply didn't care. If exposure wanted to kill him it was going to have to do a better job. His hair stuck slick to the back of his neck and his shirt grew coldly damp, but the Light in his body banished the worst of the cold.

"You'll freeze," Formora chided him.

He looked her. "Will I?"

She frowned, but that was that. The rain gave out a little after midday. When they settled for the night Ikharos sat down, pulled the tunic off and began to siphon the water out of the wool with the barest touch of Void. He made sure to do so after Destris had nodded off, but Formora was wide awake and watched him work.

After a while she shuffled closer. And closer. And closer yet. Then- "What are you doing?"

"Snacking," Ikharos murmured distractedly.

"I'm... sorry?"

"For what, watching?" He looked at her. "I'm gleaning raw energy from the moisture trapped inside the wool."

"Water is a poor carrier for raw power," Formora dubiously pointed out.

"I don't mean it like that. I'm destroying it and the process is feeding me."

"How?"

"I could give you the long version but we'd be here a couple of days, so instead: there's an aspect to this universe that loves to consume. To call it an element is too little a word. I give it something - matter in one form or another - and in return it provides me with energy harvested from that sacrifice." He returned his attention to the tunic. "It's... complicated."

"It's a magic?"

"No. But... yes. The way I use it, it is." Ikharos waved the freshly-dried tunic out. He pulled it back over him. He looked at her again. "And no. You'll never be able to learn how to control it."

Her gaze cut through him. "Is that a warning?"

"It's a fact. You lack the necessary prerequisites."

"And what are those?"

"Chiefly? Undeath." Ikharos leaned back across the cool grass and stared up at the sky. "Goodnight."

A couple of seconds passed before he heard her take her leave.

The next day brought more of the same: sheer nothing. Ikharos took his turn to scout the road ahead. When he returned for the customary midday pitstop he found Formora and Destris... well, talking was too big a word. She asked him something, he replied, and they both became quiet again. The pair of them watched him come back and neither said another word.

Formora handed him a ripe red apple. Ikharos regarded it with equal parts yearning and disgust. "Right," he said, mostly to himself, and cut it into neat portions with his knife. He threw the core aside, kept two slices for himself and gave the rest to Destris. Formora gave him a disapproving look. On the other hand Destris didn't ask why, didn't even seem to notice his reservation, and that was all Ikharos cared about in that moment.

After that they roused themselves back to the march and carried on well into the night.

On the fifth day Formora saw smoke.

"Where?" Ikharos asked. It was a little after dawn but the sun hadn't yet reached its zenith. He scanned the skies but even his implants were blind to it.

She pointed. It was directly down the road.

"Cooking fire?"

"No. A pyre." She looked at him.

"If it's a village," Ikharos said, "we have to investigate. They might have supplies we can use - new clothes for Destris, preserved foodstuffs-"

"Another horse."

"We'll see. C'mon."

They carried on for another hour, rising up a ridge - only for Formora to falter ahead of them just short of the lip and turn her head away. She swivelled, came back to them and touched Ikharos' arm. Blood, she whispered into his mind. I smell blood. And worse.

He looked past her. The smoke in the air was oily black but wispy and faint. The pyre, if that was it, must have burned all through the night. Whose handiwork?

I don't know. If it was soldiers, then they've left it awhile. I can taste the decay. She swallowed thickly.

He pulled his arm away. I need to see. Ikharos stepped around her and warily approached the summit of the ridge. He looked beyond it and saw a hamlet by the shore - or the remains of one. Some of the houses had collapsed, their wooden supports cracked and blackened by flame and their thatch roofs utterly disintegrated, while others were... vandalised. Crude brown-red markings had been scrawled onto their walls, while human and animal remains had been affixed to various places. A man's head had been mounted on the upstairs window of the sole two-storey house, its eyes removed and its dark beard crusted with dried blood. An effigy in the likeness of Fikrul's helmet was nailed together from bits and pieces, including bones, in the hamlet's centre.

Most alarming of all was the lone Scorn Skiff that hung motionless over the settlement. Its prow was modified with a strange machine he didn't recognize, but the purpose was readily apparent. The miasma of Dark Ether gathered beneath it, drawn from the earth in some sick perversion of a Servitor's harvest function - automatically refocusing raw biomolecules into Ether and infecting it with their own vile sickness.

Ghouls blindly milled about in the ruins below. As Ikharos watched one of them suddenly lunged into the ditch by a desecrated house and emerged with a sickly rat, its flesh already distended by glowing boils. The Scorn wasted no time in stuffing the wriggling rodent into its mouth and tore its head off with its yellowed fangs. The animal suddenly erupted, taking half the Scorn's head out in the process; the ghoul staggered then levelled, and the Dark Ether in the air patched its flesh back into a semblance of what it used to be. It continued to eat.

Ikharos backed away from the edge and turned, but where he expected to find Formora and Destris there was nothing. Even the horse was gone. No, not gone; he could sense the tingle of magic in the air. He almost spoke out - stopped only by a soft growl. The Void wrapped around him, obstructing him from all visual fields. A Stalker stepped out in the light from the treeline - its helmet was pulled low over its face and clutched a single brutish maul. A brace of human fingers hung on a string about its bare neck. Other than its helm it wore only a loincloth, leaving its decrepit pale body on full display. It still had its Dreg-docks but one of them was broken and wept stinking pus.

Softly, slowly, so aware of the proximity of the local hivemind, Ikharos allowed his Void to expand. Too quickly and the rest would be alerted. He crept towards it as quietly as he could muster and he drew it into his Nullscape - blanketing its presence from the rest of its kindred without alarming them with a sudden death. He knew it had worked when the Stalker flinched and looked around, having entirely forgotten what it was even doing. By then Ikharos was close enough to lunge forward.

His oaken hand pressed into its back. The ghoul's flesh gave way too easily and his fingers plunged into its body, closing around its brittle spine. Before it could cry out he pulled his other hand over its wet mouth. The Void manifested in force around him and his touch burned through it. The Scorn bucked against him; he shattered its backbone with a squeeze but it wriggled out of his grip regardless. It tried to drag itself away but he was on it again in a flash, straddling its back and pressing his hands into its dead flesh once more, eating and eating until there was nothing left.

Ikharos quickly stood up, scanned his surroundings, and, confident the Stalker had been alone, dropped his cloak. "We're clear," he breathed out.

Formora's illusion dissipated. She was by the horse, tightly holding onto its bridle, while Destris was turned into her with his face pressed against her shoulder. The boy was trembling like a newborn lamb. She stared at him.

"How many?"

"Too many," he said, but it was a lie. Not for him. With Xiān by his side he could have taken to the wing and blazed the entire hamlet down to ashes. Centuries ago that wouldn't have been out of order. The Skiff was low to the ground. Exposed. A chance like that was hard to pass up.

Yet that would bring others. That many deaths was one thing, but a Skiff? The Ketch would be on top of them before the day was out. He might survive it if he were lucky. Formora? Possibly. But not Destris. Doing so would kill the boy and there was no way around it. That was a risk he wasn't willing to make.

"Everyone's dead," Ikharos bleakly continued. "Scorn must've caught their scent. We need to backtrack, circle around-"

Formora was already moving, leading Destris' horse off the road. Ikharos followed after them.

They settled down somewhere around midnight, far from the hamlet. Formora helped the exhausted Destris down while Ikharos set a perimeter. They were downwind of the Scorn; he could still feel the itch of twisted Darkness but it was... distant. Muted. The warband hadn't followed. It was nothing short of a miracle that they'd escaped discovery. All the same his mind kept flashing back to the fanes and idols, to the desecrations left in the Scorn's wake. Feral animals that they were, they were clearly evolving - building a culture around cruelty and bloodshed. He should've killed them. He should've sent Destris and Formora away and set upon the pack with impunity. The dead knew no peace but they deserved justice all the same.

A presence brushed against his thoughts. Ikharos steeled his defences but outwardly he remained perfectly still; he knew who it was.

We cannot continue like this, Formora said. He heard the shuffle of dead leaves and crinkling pines as she moved to join him - and he knew, with utmost certainty, that it was for his benefit alone, to warn him of her approach.

Like what? Ikharos refused to turn. His eyes scoured through the night, slotting his implants' infrared settings over his base sight.

Rebounding. She brushed against his elbow. Her touch was as cold as ice. We are spiralling from one disaster to the next. This is untenable.

I don't know what you want me to say. I don't have a magic fix in my back pocket. Ikharos exhaled. The air was brisk. He anticipated frost come morning. How is he?

Shaken. Nay, terrified.

We're past them.

It is not the Scorn alone that scares him. What you did-

Saved us.

I know. By virtue of a power no mortal has ever borne. We are not his kind.

What's that supposed to mean? Ikharos craned his neck around. Formora evenly met his gaze.

Nothing, she replied. I am not making a point, only telling you how he feels.

Ikharos bit the inside of his cheek. He turned his head forward. How far to Teirm?

Why Teirm?

Because a smaller townstead doesn't stand a chance. We'd be leaving him to die.

Formora audibly sighed. Another week of hard marching.

Ikharos nodded. We need to stay inland. If the Scorn keep coming in from the sea I won't leave it to chance.

Will that be enough?

No.

Then we'll need one regardless.

He frowned. Need what?

A magic fix. You have your magic, I have mine. We have to consolidate our strengths in the event we run afoul of another group.

I can't... Ikharos scowled. Not at her, but to himself. Her proposal was logical, reasonable. He didn't blame her for asking. It was logical, yet his heart wasn't in it. It didn't want to risk it. Didn't want to be responsible for another fall - another descent into Darkness. But the choice - or lack thereof - bothered him to no end. She was right. They were, each of them, beings of considerable paracausal might. It only made too much sense to pool those resources together to escape the Scorn.

He breathed. In and out. In and out.

Ignoring me will not solve our predicament, Formora said sharply.

I'm not ignoring you, Ikharos coolly replied. I'm humouring you. Just leave me a moment to think.

What is there to think about?

Whether I can trust you. Ikharos twisted around and looked at her. She coldly stared back. There are things I can't teach you, I can't share with you, and there are things I will not. If I did, it would ruin you.

Ruin?

Yes. You and everyone around you. For that alone I can't do it.

I don't ask this out of ambition, Ikharos. Only need.

That doesn't change a thing/

She looked at him a moment longer, utterly unreadable, and left without a word. Her thoughts roughly extricated from his own; the last thing he felt was the growing feeling of frustration.

When morning came no words were shared, neither spoken nor imagined. Formora grew herself and Destris a helping of assorted berries and Ikharos stood guard. They took to the road quickly and marched without pause. It was shortly before noon that the cloudy skies began to open up - not with rainfall but heavy snow. Ikharos remained close to the horse and checked that Destris had enough layers on, only to realize Formora had paused a ways up the road.

"What is it?" he called.

She didn't immediately respond; rather, she turned her head this way and that before gradually returning to them. "A bear," she reported. "Somewhere close by. It watches us."

"Do you think it'll be a problem?" Ikharos asked, more for show than anything else. A bear posed little threat.

"I'm not certain," Formora replied. Her brow was furrowed. "If it comes..."

"Shouldn't it be hibernating?"

"Yes. It must be starved."

"Then it best look elsewhere." Ikharos looked at Destris. "You alright?"

Destris refused to look at him.

"It won't hurt you. I promise."

Formora took up position on the other side of the horse. They continued to march but she regularly glanced over her shoulder. "It follows."

Ikharos looked over his shoulder but he saw nothing. The contrast of white snow and the shadows between the trees were too drastic. Only when he switched to infrared did he see the hazy outline of the beast. It was close. And getting closer. "It's swaying. Wounded?"

"I can smell blood," Formora admitted. "And infection. It may be rabid." She stopped. "It's coming."

The bear stepped out onto the road and began to run. It was a big animal - enough muscle and fat packed beneath a thick layer of fur to outsize the horse itself. Discoloured drool lathered over its bobbing snout and half of its face was torn open. The eye on that side was a deep swollen blue.

"Formo-" he started to say, but before he could even finish her name Formora was racing to meet it. She lunged for the animal, her sabre already drawn, and spiked it through the roof of its skull so fast the animal never even saw the blow. The bear collapsed on the spot - and she stepped out of the way as it slid across the frozen ground.

The horse jolted but Ikharos held tightly to its bridle. Destris whimpered.

"It's alright," Ikharos murmured. "Keep looking forward, there's a lad. Everything's alright."

Formora knelt by the bear's side only to jump back to her feet. Her consciousness barreled against his own. Ikharos, she said with alarm, Dark Ether.

I gathered.

Its wounds are the same as the pedlar's. The boils are still small-

How recent?

Formora jolted back and twirled around to stare back at the treeline. "Scorn!" she hissed.

His implants revealed nothing, but the shadows were writhing. Moving.

"Shit." Ikharos pulled Múspel free. He could see the gleam of light bouncing off of crude helmets - but his gaze snapped over to the moving plume of Ether rising from a dark puddle of Solvent at her back, heralded by a low creaking noise. "Behind you!"

She turned and raised her sword, just in time to catch the Raider's cutlass. It was as large as a Chieftain and its dress was elaborate - a Baron or something equivalent. It towered over her and pressed its weight against her. She tried to fight it but it was many times stronger, and cried out as one of the Scorn's lower hands caught her leg and pulled it out from under her. Formora fell to the road. The Raider followed her down.

Ikharos pulled his knife and tossed it. It caught the side of the Raider's head and the ghoul listed to the side, but other Scorn appeared from between the pines and ran to join the fray. It was an entire hunting party.

"Destris!" Ikharos shouted. He waved behind him. "Ride!"

The slap of hooves on hard earth rewarded him. Ikharos Blinked forward, appeared by Formora's side and helped her shove the Raider off, pulling his knife free in the process. The Raider reanimated and tried to bite at his hand. He kicked it hard enough to cave in its skull.

A Stalker threw itself at him from the right but Formora's sabre found it first, lodging in its chest. She twisted the blade and pulled it free, separating the Scorn's shoulders and head from its torso. "Brisingr!" she snapped. Magical fire enveloped its dead flesh.

The oversized Raider's remains began to sink into the ground. Ikharos grabbed its arm and plunged Múspel between its ribs but the limb came loose and the Scorn wriggled off the blade's length. The earth creaked as the Solvent moved through it. He could feel the Scorn just underneath, returning to life and righting itself up. The arm he still clung to swung and lashed out blindly with its broken claws, scoring across his cheek. Ikharos consumed it with a burst of Void and moved back.

"With me," he said. Formora followed him, her eyes and blade trained on the enemy.

The Raider burst up like a crocodile and reached for them. Ikharos caught its cutlass by its guard in his offhand and ran the ghoul through, but the Scorn was unperturbed; its talons found his flesh and laid him open. The very ground below him began to give way, drawing him in. The Solvent was going to swallow him whole. Searing pain cut across his shoulder, his chest, his back. The Raider would've dug deeper if not for Formora barking "Jierda!"

It shattered. The Scorn shattered. Bones broke, flesh ruptured, boils burst. Its remains squelched and slipped off of Múspel's length - and melted back into the earth below again. Ikharos swung his hand through the air and froze the earth solid beneath them. Solvent bubbled against the layering of crystal, unable to break through.

"Chattel first!" Ikharos shouted. "Then the Baron!"

"Aera moi!" Formora called. Ikharos' ears popped; bubbles of vacuum yawned open in the air around them, catching a trio of charging Wraiths and slapping them together. "Boetk istalrí." Their bodies immolated, melting straight to blackened bones. Formora pointed with her sabre like a conductor before an orchestra and the sizzling heat rose. "Sharjaví, haina, brenna." The flames coiled and whipped, striking a pair of Ravagers and embracing them until they too were rendered flesh-less. Not even their Dark Ether was spared; the winter chill was banished the moment the Scorn mists caught alight, scarring his retinas with their blinding explosion.

A Ravager came for him. Ikharos spoke no word, uttered no incantation. He met it with a sword dripping with violet hunger and the moment he parted its skin with steel it was finished. He drank the essence of its un-life through Múspel's hadium core, then moved onto the next. The pack pressed them almost back to back, testing their flanks for weakness, but they covered themselves well. Ikharos dropped a Bleak Watcher by their side and its umbral projectiles slowed the Scorn just enough for Formora to finish them with flame.

It took the arrival of an Abomination to scatter them. The lumbering mutant surged from the treeline and fired an Arc blast. Ikharos shoved Formora out of the way and tried to dodge himself, but the bolt caught his shoulder and spun him around. Múspel dropped from nerveless fingers. He was already rolling when he hit the ground, snatching up the greatsword in his oaken hand, and held it aloft to expand the field of protective Void just as the follow-up strike slammed against him.

He Blinked, appeared behind the Abombination and cut the back of its stump legs out from beneath it. It hit the ground with a reverberating thump and tried to right itself with its crackling hands, only to shudder as several feet of Void-charged steel drove between its shoulder blades. Ikharos choked on the release of Dark Ether, yet remained to feast and feast until there was nothing left.

The Baron came for him then. It burst from the ground already swinging. Ikharos caught the sweep, locked their guards, but the Scorn didn't try to disengage. It leaned forward and, too late, he tried to escape it. Dozens of teeth sliced through the place where his shoulder met his neck. The Raider shoved him back against the trunk of a tree and ripped its head away. The pain disappeared much too quickly, replaced by a feeling of ice. When it came back in for a second bite he broke Múspel loose and drove it through the ghoul's neck. Its cutlass chopped into his side. Ikharos supped the matter from its form but the Baron dug deeper, deeper, deeper-

He let go. Superheated mass filled his hand. Ikharos willed the Dark Resonance to fire even before it was fully formed. The Baron was flung away, taking its cutlass with it, and landed awkwardly. It tugged at the sword still lodged in its neck. Ikharos shoved himself to his feet and fired again, throwing the Baron onto its back. Only a couple of its kin remained and Formora was keeping them at bay with her dragonspeak.

A third blast reduced the Baron's cutlass to molten slag. A fourth shattered its hips, leaving it to crawl towards him. The Bleak Watcher peppered it with freezing bolts until the Scorn was covered in Stasis, and the fifth blasted it into a million crystal shards. Ikharos fell to a knee and took up both his knife and Múspel back up.

The rest were gone. Charred bones and scorched shell was all that remained. Formora lurched over to him, breathing hard. Blood trickled down her face from a cut over her eyebrow. She staggered against him and, without bothering to ask, began to weave her magic over him. "Waíse heill," she gasped. The pain returned with a vengeance. Ikharos gritted his teeth. "Waíse heill. Waíse-"

He caught her arm. Shook his head. "Leave it," he croaked. "Leave it for yourself."

Formora stared at him. Eventually she nodded and stepped away. Bereft of her support he collapsed onto his hands and knees. Ikharos bound his wounds in Stasis to start with, then fell against the closest Scorn remains to Devour to his heart's content. "That-"

"Destris!" Formora took off at a limping run. Ikharos swore and hurried after her.

They found the horse first. Along with the Stalker who'd killed it. Formora fell on the ghoul with a roar and cut it to pieces with ferocious speed, finally destroying its body with a furious spell. Ikharos skidded to a stop beside her. Beyond the horse-

He just... froze.

His heart hammered in his chest. It was the only thing he could hear. The blood and sweat on his skin was beginning to freeze. He couldn't move. Something ripped open inside of him. The pain. The pain. Not even his treatment at the hands of the Baron could compare. A gulf opened beneath him - his own pit of Solvent.

A second passed. An eternity. His heart bled. Rusty pragmatism roused from the recesses of his brain, a half-forgotten necessity of a darker age, and he found himself moving. Walking. Walking away.

He stopped by the edge of a gurgling brook. Night had come and gone and the sun was on its way back. Ikharos fell - fell in so many ways, but the moment his back hit the tree stump the jarring impact and strike of pain was all he could think about. At least until Formora lowered herself down beside him, her shoulder brushing against his own. Neither of them said a thing. Not for a long time. Not until the sun rose above the Spine's jagged peaks.

His hands were dark with ash. Ikharos turned them palms up and experimentally flexed his fingers. The air in his lungs was heavy, pressing down against his diaphragm like a Cabal power-gauntlet. Every breath was a battle. The cold burned his throat. Blood caked his skin as ice, sapping him of all feeling. It was going to kill him. He was of half a mind to let it happen.

Formora shifted. "Ikharos."

He exhaled. "Yes?"

"... I don't know." She exhaled. "We have to keep marching."

"We should've left him at Narda."

"Ikharos-"

"He could've lived. Narda was alive and well; we could've done the right thing and given him over to them."

"And how much longer will their walls hold?" Formora questioned. Her voice was whisper-soft. The hard edge he'd grown to expect from her was conspicuously absent. "The Scorn are arriving in force. Narda will not last."

"I could've held it"

"Ikharos, we cannot tarry. The Scorn will find us again."

"Destris is dead," Ikharos said bluntly. "The boy's gone. He was our reason for marching south."

"Yours. Now it's ours. If we don't reach Teirm's walls the Scorn will catch us. They will kill us. You may be deathless, but it will be the end of me. I intend to survive. If there are more on the road ahead, I'll need your power with me."

He hung his head forward. Ikharos closed his eyes and unlatched the clasps of his left bracer - warring all the while with his own certainties, his own reservations. Do, don't, leave it, ignore it, take it all; he knew the logical path, the right path, but his heart wasn't in it. Not to cement an ill-fated future to secure the wretched present. It was a choice that wasn't one at all.

He held it out for her.

"I can't teach you Light, elf," Ikharos croaked. He turned to look at her. "But I can show you the Dark."

AN: Huge thanks to Nomad Blue for the edits!