"set to collide"

He awoke with a start. Ikharos felt wood at his back, bobbing up and down and up again, and the memory of what happened came back to him. The anger took over from there. He sprang to his feet on the spot - only wobbling a little, to his credit, and catching the lip of the hull with the right hand - and quickly looked around. Formora was to the rear of the dinky little vessel, already well aware of him. She watched expressionlessly as he moved for her; Ikharos felt the thrum of paracausal energies at work the closer he inched, hanging in the air around her with uncertain potential. Hexes and wards. It was the only thing that kept him from turning his own power on her - the fear of what she'd retaliate with.

What a world. Where Risen lived in fear of mortal hedgewitches.

"You ever do that to me again-" Ikharos started to say, scowling, but she quickly cut him off.

"You'll visit some manner of great harm unto me," Formora blankly finished, "or even death."

"This is your last warning."

"I'll do what I must to ensure your survival. If that collides with your own wishes, so-"

"Don't!" Ikharos snapped. "Don't say that word."

She frowned. "Which word?"

"You well know."

"I clearly do not."

Ikharos glowered. "I'm not joking. I will end you. Do not do that again."

"Duly noted," Formora said drily. She glanced past him and tightened her hold on a length of rope. The sail twisted, one the supports almost catching Ikharos's head. He ducked beneath it and braced against the hull, throwing her a bitter look. "If you are recovered enough to argue you might lend assistance."

Ikharos took in a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. His pride didn't like it - letting it go. Xiān wouldn't have allowed it had she been there. Sometimes she was worse than he was. "How?"

"Keep the sails steady." Formora stood and offered him the rope. Ikharos reluctantly took it in his remaining hand and settled into her spot. "The wind is at our backs; I intend to make the most of it." She glided past him, too smoothly for something that should have been human, and began adjusting the knots at the base of the mast. "Are you hungry?"

"How long was I out?" Ikharos shot back.

"You are avoiding the question."

"Don't care for it. How long?"

"A day and then some." Formora finished up and pulled a small pack out from beneath a tarp of some unfamiliar composition. The entire boat was formed from some unnatural material - something grown rather than hewn. It reminded Ikharos of Hive shell-work, only prettier to look at. "I kept you subdued only to ensure your wounds were properly cleaned."

"I dealt with them."

"And then dealt yourself some more." Formora shot him a harsh look. "You removed your hand. Why?"

Ikharos shifted. He glanced at the stump - still glazed over with Stasis but... somewhere approaching healed and sooner than it had any right to be. "You tried fixing it up."

"Yes. It won't grow infected if that's your concern. Now answer the question."

"Do you know the story of Hansel and Gretel?"

"No. How does this have any bearing?"

"Hansel and Gretel got lost in the woods," Ikharos said. He raised his voice to be heard over the rising whistle of the wind. "They left breadcrumbs to find their way back."

"Breadcrumbs?" Formora frowned. "Did they intend to draw all the beasts of the forest after them?"

"Children aren't known for being particularly bright."

"I'm aware. So you intend for someone to follow after us?"

Ikharos wordlessly inclined his head.

"But why your hand?" Formora pressed. "Why not a finger? Why a piece of yourself at all?"

"Flesh is more meaningful. And bones don't rot." Ikharos paused. "I can live without a hand."

"There was no need."

"Not on my end. Plenty on hers."

Formora's frown deepened. "Are you referring to Elisabeth?"

"Not at all."

"Then who-"

"If we're asking these sorts of questions," Ikharos said coldly, "then it's only fair I get my turn. Like what you were doing on that island with the dragons."

Formora grimaced. "I was not aware of their presence."

"Not those ones. The others. Those with meat still on their bones. I saw the memory of them. Of you. Burning a hamlet. People."

For a moment she stared at him - the shock on full display before a cold mask settled over it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fine. Just don't expect me to reciprocate."

There was a long pause before Formora spoke again. "I'll ask once more: are you hungry?"

"What've you got?"

"Fruit."

He turned a puzzled look upon her. "Fruit?"

"Yes."

"That's it?"

"Were you expecting more?"

"Yeah. Venison or fowl or something. Or maybe biscuits, crackers-"

"From Vroengard?" Formora spared him a haughty look. "That island is rife with poison-"

"Radiation."

"Poison. The life there is tainted. I dare not eat anything that lurks there."

"But fruit is fine?"

"They grew under my watch."

"That doesn't keep them from becoming irradiated."

"The poison doesn't affect me. My wards guard against it."

"But not for meat?"

"I am an elf," Formora said, as if that explained everything.

Ikharos exhaled slowly. "I don't have wards. Your food'll cause me problems."

"I'll erect a ward around you." Formora rose.

"You'll do fuck all," he snapped. "Keep your magic to yourself."

"Then you can make your own ward," she said calmly. "All you need is the words."

"If you-"

"I won't."

"There'll be hell to pay-"

"I won't," Formora said firmly.

Ikharos took in a deep breath. "Fine," he reluctantly grated out.

"Very good. Say it after me. Vardi edtha frá du eitrum."

"Vardi... edtha frá du... itrum."

"Eitrum," Formora corrected.

"Vardi edtha frá du eitrum." He found the words difficult on his tongue. Strange meaning ran through each syllable like a Hive hex, but they flowed rather than grated. A more pleasing language all considered, if still alien.

"Good. But put power in it as you envision the very poison you seek to protect yourself against. Capture it in your mind, then say the words."

Ikharos tried to picture radiation poisoning as a base concept. "Vardi edtha frá du eitrum," he intoned. There was a brief sensation of energy leaving his body in a similar fashion to how he wielded the Dark, but the expenditure was scarcely noticeable. His brow furrowed in contemplation. It felt like dragon-magic, but... something was missing. Probably the whole dragon part. "That's... it?"

"That's it." Formora tossed him something small and red. Ikharos tried to catch it, but he momentarily forgot he was down a hand and it bounced against his chest. He clasped the rope between his knees and scooped the strawberry up with his good hand. "Eat," Formora bade him. "You'll need your strength."

Did he really? All the same as meals went, a single berry bothered him the least - that was something he could stomach without thinking about the waste. Ikharos popped it into his mouth and chewed experimentally. Flavour burst on his tongue, bitter and sweet at the same time - a beautiful rich twang, perfectly ripe. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. What was radiation poisoning supposed to taste like? Because it wasn't this. Had it worked?

"That's..." Ikharos breathed in. "That's good."

"Another?"

He caught the second deftly enough. And the third - and no more than that, to Formora's growing chagrin.

"You need to eat," she chided. "After your ordeal-"

"I'll worry about that."

A fourth strawberry splattered across his collar. "Eat," Formora ordered sternly.

"No."

"You've hardly had your fill."

"Don't need much."

"Eat." A fifth strawberry nailed him between the eyes. Ikharos glared at her.

"Stop."

"Eat." Formora readied a sixth but Ikharos allowed the Void to gather around him. Indigo smoke rose from his irises; it was warning enough and Formora heeded it unhappily, her mouth tightening to a thin line.

"How are we in terms of rations?" Ikharos asked.

"I hadn't the time to prepare. A few days' worth."

"Then why waste any on me?"

She shot him a criticising look. "You are wounded and I am älfa. I need little."

"I'm Risen. I need less."

"I beg to differ. You are too thin."

"And you aren't?" Ikharos raised an eyebrow.

Formora exhaled sharply. "I am älfa," she said again.

"And I grew up in low-G. This is how I'm supposed to be."

"Low... gee?"

"Low gravity. You know what-"

"Yes," Formora said sharply. "I know what gravity is."

Ikharos inclined his head. "There you have it."

"So you come from a place with little gravity?"

"No. I come from a place with the same gravity. This body," he gestured to himself, "was born and raised in an orbital city. Caer Lerion. Heard of it?"

"I have not. What is it like?"

"Gone."

Formora paused. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"What happened?"

"To Caer Lerion? Someone, ah..." Ikharos hesitated. "Someone dropped it." He expected a quip to follow - something along the lines of oh sure, SOMEONE dropped it - but it never came. His neurosymbiotic bond remained closed off. He felt that much lonelier for the reminder.

"Dropped it," Formora repeated dubiously. "A city."

"An orbital city. It was in orbit. Someone preceded to take it out of orbit. What did you think I meant?"

"A city founded to follow the progress of celestial bodies, perhaps. A city in the sky? You are telling me that is from whence you came?"

"No, I've told you I come from a different place. I was just..." Ikharos grimaced and stopped talking. "Keep your rations. I won't need them."

"We have a week of travel. You will."

"We'll see."

Formora regarded him with distaste. "Yes. We will."

As dreary as it was, the first day passed relatively quickly. There wasn't much to be done - or rather Formora insisted he sit back, treating his injury as if it left him infirm. She obviously didn't trust him. Not with his own welfare. As it was she knew the vessel well and took to it with practised ease. There was something fascinating about watching her turn the wind and currents to their own purposes. Ikharos had never engaged in maritime activities, sailing foremost among them; he'd never had the time. It was one of those luxury experiences well within his power but far beyond his means. A shame, but poor as his circumstances were he was always eager to learn more.

It was likely that lapse in caution that proved his undoing.

"What is that power?" Formora inquired. "The one you used to bind your wrist." She wasn't even looking at him; her attention was squared on the sails as they billowed it, catching on a gale. It howled over his shoulders, flinging his unbound hair into his face. Ikharos brushed it back.

"Stasis," he answered and regretted it on the spot.

"And what is Stasis?" Formora pressed.

He'd said too much.

"It's the magic you wield-"

"It's not for you to know," Ikharos snapped. He glared at the back of her head a moment before shifting his attention to the grey horizon. "So don't bother asking."

"You are a miser with your magic," she observed.

"What about it?"

"Is it so dangerous to know?"

"More than you realise."

She didn't reply. Formora was too patient for that, he was learning. She waited until eve, when the winds calmed and they glided along the ocean's surface near silently, before asking again, "What is Stasis?"

Ikharos shot her a look.

"You need not explain how to wield it," she reasoned. Formora passed over another clump of ripe berries. It was all they had for supper. "But I'd like to know what it is if it's all the same to you."

Ikharos stared at the food in his hands. One, maybe two. That would be enough. He could stomach that much surely.

"Ikharos-"

"Who said you could use my name?" he snapped.

Formora raised an eyebrow. "Should I not?"

Ikharos glowered. "We're not familiar."

"I never pretended otherwise." She regarded him warily.

... Maybe he was being a little over-aggressive. Ikharos exhaled softly, letting the hot air out. The sun had been beating down on them all day long and he'd come dangerously close to suffering from heatstroke. The temperate weather was going to be his undoing. "Stasis," he said at length, "is the reduction of entropy - a perfect suspension of temporal state."

"It looks like glass."

"Crystal. Perfect crystals. When water hits a freezing point it becomes ice - which itself is a lesser kind of crystal, flawed. The analogy's the same, but the perfect crystal doesn't need water necessarily. Any substance works, even air."

"Is it cold?" Formora asked.

"No. Well... cold is a catalyst for Stasis. The crystals, however, are not inherently cold themselves. It's all to do with the process, not the product."

"So it will not melt?"

"No."

"Is there any way to remove it?"

"Pure will." Ikharos met her gaze. "The perfect crystal does not make Stasis. Crystals are, again, a byproduct. The true state of Stasis is the effect it has on everything it touches. It's not a physical thing but a paracausal force. Stasis is the manifestation of I want everything to be still."

"So it is desire-"

"Willpower," Ikharos coldly interrupted. "None of that dragon nonsense."

Formora huffed. "Desire did not begin with the dragons."

"No, but they've got a monopoly on it."

"Their magic, though reckless, is not within their control. You cannot blame them for their impulses."

"Impulses?" Ikharos said incredulously. "They're predators. To them we're the prey. That's not impulse, that's instinct. There's nothing good in them. Nothing to be salvaged. They deserve our spite and little else."

"You are a hateful little creature," Formora scowled. "Hateful and misguided."

"Every dragon I've met was a monster. Even after what they did to you, you're still defending them?"

"Dragons can be as kind or cruel as any people. I won't condemn the last of their species for the actions of a few."

"A few? There were hundreds-"

"Scared and cowering beneath the earth. It was all they could do. And I..." Formora trailed off. She looked away and sighed. "I'll take watch this eve. You must rest."

"Can't. Won't."

"Why are you so set on driving yourself to your limits?"

"I know my limits," Ikharos said sharply, "and this isn't it."

"As you please. In any case, I will need to rest. You must take over the till."

"Fine."

"Thank you." Formora allowed the sails to fall slack, then dragged out a cloak from the front of the boat and pulled it over herself. Ikharos scooched down to the back and took the till in hand. It was fast growing dark but the waters were calm and they were much too far from the closest coast to worry about rocks.

The second day was altogether stranger. Formora greeted him with a forced smile and passed over a red apple. Ikharos took with a hesitant frown. "Is everything alright?"

"Gipta daga," she said, and the sentiment as he understood it was something along the lines of good morning. She made a motion with her hand, touching her lips with two fingers. "Eka weohnataí líki nosu eom waíse aln mor'ranr. Eru ono-"

"Stop," Ikharos said. "You're going too fast. I can't understand you."

"I could teach you the words."

He didn't answer. Didn't want her to know how sorely he was tempted. Ikharos took a bite out of the apple and made a point of ignoring her.

Formora took it in stride. He'd been expecting a quip, a barb, anything, but she didn't bother him any further and hummed to herself. Ikharos didn't recognize the tune.

The third day was more of the same. Neither of them said more than a couple of words to each other. The waters became a little choppier so Formora finally asked him to chip in. Ikharos took a hold of his Arc Light to shield them from the winds but a storm was on its way and he didn't want to waste all his energy just yet.

It hit some time after the false-sun fell beyond the horizon. Formora brought the sails down and Ikharos redirected the elements as best he could. The air crackled with static and flashes of thin lightning scored overhead, seeking him out. He took the ambient electricity into his own body to spare the boat. It was reinvigorating to the finest degree - the only silver lining in their predicament. His torn robes were getting soaked, his back ached from bracing against the hull and, possibly worst of all, Formora was watching him conduct the storm's destructive power with narrowed eyes. The boat shifted violently but she moved with it, blessed with an unnatural sense of balance. He was beginning to think nothing could tip her over.

The storm passed in the early hours of the fourth morning. Exhausted, Formora assigned him to keep them on an even keel while she slept. She only took a couple of hours every second night, endowed with a sort of vigour only paracausal enhancement could grant, but it was more than he needed. As set-ups went it was smooth. He wasn't so proud to think he would've been able to do it without her; Ikharos was still getting used to just having the one hand. At times he almost agreed with Formora that it had been an overly hasty decision - but then his thoughts would swing back around to Xiān, alone, and that was the end of it.

It was during that watch, though, that he grew curious. Formora, still asleep, was facing him. He figured she didn't entirely trust him because at the slightest motion her eyelids would flicker, but he made no move to disturb her. All the same it allowed him to get a good look without eliciting a raised eyebrow or a warning stare. The pathologist inside him was baying to investigate; even her features were altered just so to push her into that uncanny valley. The älfan bone structure was sharper, cheekbones prominent while the chin was narrow, and her eyesockets seemed to be genuinely tilted in a feline fashion. Her ears were certainly the most prominent part of her altered biology; they lacked lobes while their upper shell was pointed to a dramatic degree. What he could see of her musculature largely matched that of the baseline human but he couldn't be sure nothing else was changed.

Not for the last time Ikharos wished he'd had the time to look over the other elf's body - perform a quick inspection, with x-rays and tissue samples. He wanted to know, oh Traveler, he needed to know so bad.

"If there's something on your mind," Formora murmured, "then ask."

Ikharos shifted. "It's rude."

"You threaten to kill me, but asking about my appearance is too far?" Her eyes flitted open and she fixed him with an amused look.

"We all have a code," Ikharos coolly replied. "Need to draw a line somewhere."

"Put it out of your mind. Ask."

"Alright." Ikharos leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Your ears. I'm assuming there's a genuine biological reason for them being what they are - likely to assist with your balance and hearing. The increased size to catch more soundwaves, maybe? Not quite so bat-like but that'd be overkill. Your senses, as far as I can tell, are heightened well beyond what a human being is capable of, and your reaction speeds are quickened. You're stronger, faster, but lighter. I estimate that you have a condensed muscle mass but thinner skeletal system. Then there's your eyes. There's some raptorial influences but it's mostly felid. Comparatively to a human there's a larger eye-to-body ratio. I also suspect you have a tapetum lucidum with rudimentary retractable properties - though how this works I don't know.

"This means you can extract more information out of low-light situations while avoiding the pitfalls of most nocturnal mammals during diurnal periods, where it reduces visual acuity. Your irises are shaped in a particular fashion as well. Human retinas can expand and retract but never to such a dramatic degree. Yours shift depending on the lighting available. I'd label you a hyper-advanced hominid predator but your teeth structure, so far as I can tell, is unchanged. And then, your nose. It's just a nose. Most predators, especially land-locked ones, invest in the ability to track prey by scent alone. I think you've still got a one up on baseline humans in that respect but not to the degree of your other senses. You're no bloodhound."

Formora blinked, groaned and sat up, wiping the sleep from her eyes. "I haven't heard a question."

"I'm bouncing ideas," Ikharos said. "Humour me.

"Mm." She plucked the last of their apples and scrubbed it with a clean cloth. "Go on."

"This could all be conjecture, as I understand you can alter your biology on a whim-"

"Most of what you said is correct of every elf."

"Alright. Can I see your hand?"

Formora furrowed her brow but held out her arm all the same. Ikharos took her hand in his own and lifted it for a closer look. "Nail and dermal formations are still the same. Bones are longer but thinner. But yeah, lot of muscle squirrelled away here, more like Exo synthcord in form than human tissue." He glanced up her arm. It was bare up to the shoulder. "Mild elastic properties, well conditioned. You're in great shape but there's something more inherent here. The tattoos-"

"Only if you explain your own." Formora took her hand back and shot him an expectant look. "Yours move of their own volition."

Ikharos rubbed the base of his neck, all too quickly aware of how much of himself was exposed. His robes and biosuit were in shambles. "Chameleonid dermal cells containing guanine crystals. They're coded to shift colours on a loop."

"Chameleonid?"

"Chameleon. Lizard with the capacity to change colours. Cephalopod chromatophores are more popular but the place I went to didn't deal in squid. Plus I like reptiles."

"You have a lizard's skin?" Formora questioned.

"Cells. Vat-grown tissue. Where I come from it's popular enough," Ikharos explained. "Don't think you have any right to be weirded out when you have gills."

"Perhaps."

"So...?"

"What does it mean?" Formora looked at his tattoo curiously. "A serpent biting its own tail?"

"It's an ouroboros," Ikharos told her. "And it's what I am. Killing to be killed, over and over."

Her eyes darted up. There wasn't pity there per se but it was something. "And the rest? There's more on your back."

"Just plain ink. It's a mantis hiding in a bushel of flowers."

"What does it mean?"

"Mean?" Ikharos raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't mean anything. It's just cool."

Formora frowned.

"So what about you?" he asked, nodding to her arms. "Those're glyphs?"

"Runes in the ancient language," she explained. "Written in the Thrangvik style - a dwarven script."

"What does it mean?"

"... This is a promise," Formora explained with some reluctance, raising her right shoulder. She gestured to the other. "And this is a reminder. That's all I'll say on the matter."

"And here I thought we were sharing." Ikharos paused. "These dwarves. What're they like?"

"Short. Strong."

"Stronger than you?"

Formora answered him with a smile. This time it didn't seem so weird.

On the fifth day they had visitors. Ikharos woke to the sound of splashing; he was up in an instant, knife drawn, but a hand closed around his wrist.

"Wait," Formora said softly, then she glided to the back of the boat, leaned over the edge and dipped her hand into the water. Something swam underneath.

"What is it?" he asked. The memory of the mosasaur was still too fresh on his mind.

The water's surface broke. A grey snout, narrow and wet, poked out to press against Formora's palm. No mosasaur. No shark either. Ikharos carefully made his way over beside her. The creature dipped back warily, then pressed up again. It was large, with a rubbery hide, and shaped like a torpedo. Beady black eyes stared at him with remarkable intelligence; this was no beast of instinct but a being of higher thought.

A dolphin, Ikharos concluded, and the realisation brought a grin to his face. He sheathed his knife and knelt against the hull. "I've heard of your kind," he said to the animal. If it understood it gave no indication. "But I never thought I'd meet one." He raised his hand slowly, so the dolphin could see it was empty handed, and lowered it into the water. The dolphin watched him for a moment before brushing its characteristic bottle-nose against his knuckles. It was smooth, hairless; it was hard to recognize the animal as a mammal when its piscine features were so strong.

The dolphin ducked below the boat. Another pair, smaller, replaced it. Their faces emerged from the waves with exuberant clicks. Their good cheer was infectious. Ikharos laughed as they pushed at each other trying to reach him, to investigate this strange being from the world above. Before long another three dolphins arrived, ushering the youngsters onwards. The pod circled the boat a couple of times before dipping away at last.

When Ikharos turned to Formora he found her studying him. "What?" he asked, smile fading.

"... So you are capable of kindness," she observed, then slipped past him.

He had no response.

On the sixth day they sighted land. It emerged along the horizon at midday as a purple-greyish blob distorted by mist and distance. Ikharos squinted at it, driving his sensorium to maximise the image, but the strain was too much and he was forced to stop lest he chance a malfunctioning retinal implant. "What's our plan?" he inquired.

"Plan?" Formora glanced at him curiously.

"If the mainland's populated then there must be a port."

"Oh, many."

"Do we have one in mind?"

"We do not." Formora made to move on, then seemingly thought better of it. "The Broddring Empire controls most of the port settlements. An elven vessel would draw attention."

"I'm guessing the wrong kind?"

"Indeed. We might have better luck in the realm of Surda, but that would triple the length of our journey, let alone the danger."

"These nations, who controls them?"

"Lady Marelda seceded from the Empire near a century ago and installed herself as queen of Surda, so I have little doubt one of her descendants sits the throne."

"And the Empire?"

"... That would be the King Galbatorix," Formora said coolly. "He assumed the Broddring crown near the same year as Lady Marelda through murder and conquest."

"So one of his line?"

"No. Himself."

Ikharos absorbed that slowly. "I take it he's a neohuman?"

"A what?"

"A post-Collapse human subspecies. Like yourself."

Formora shot him a strange look. "I am clearly an elf."

"Convergent evolution is one helluva thing, but that's not what you got. Somewhere back your ancestors used to be baseline human - homo sapiens sapiens."

"They were not." She regarded him bemusedly - debating whether to be upset or amused. "What makes you think that?"

Ikharos just gestured to her. "Everything. The closest non-Terran thing to a human I've ever encountered are Psions, and the differences are still night and day. I'd bet a DNA analysis would prove me right."

"Pardon?"

"It's... nothing. Let's move one."

"No, I'm curious."

Ikharos exhaled. "As you will. DNA is the framework of a living being. It's in everything - our skin, our bones, our saliva, our blood. It's the schematics of how to make an animal, a human, etcetera. The DNA of a human species, even unrelated genetic lineages, is closely matched compared to something like, say, a fish. And that's only in regards to Earth-descended lifeforms. A human and Psion shared almost nothing, though both are conscious and emotionally driven bipeds with complex social systems. You're not baseline human, that's clear to both of us, and I can't think of you as such, but that's because the similarities make the differences that much more stark."

"So because I bear a superficial resemblance to a human, I must be related?"

"Not when you put it like that, but I'm confident. Nature doesn't just fill niches, it makes them. No two species are entirely the same. A strong likeness is often the first indicator of relation."

Formora leaned back against the mast. "You sound like a scholar."

"That surprises you?" Ikharos raised an eyebrow.

"I thought you a warrior."

"An uneducated soldier is a brute, no more and no less. War is a complicated business. To decisively end a war, one must understand how and why it began."

"So your war hinges on knowing what is human and what is not?"

He shrugged. "It helps. Which brings us back to my original question - is this King Garbalorix-"

"Galbatorix," Formora corrected, though she didn't seem all that bothered.

"Right. He's a neohuman? How long do elves live?"

"Indefinitely." She looked at him expectantly.

"Is that supposed to surprise me?"

"It doesn't?"

"Awoken live indefinitely. Risen live indefinitely. Paracausal attunement lends itself to dramatically increased lifespans. So Galbatorix is an elf?"

"No."

"What about these dwarves?"

"They can live for a couple of centuries, but he is no dwarf. The king is a human Rider."

Ikharos paused. "How the hell does that work?"

"The bond with a dragon invokes old magic. Humans gain the same longlivedness as we älfya when a dragon hatches for them. It's one of the many changes the bond brings."

"Your dragonling-"

"I don't know if you'll be affected," Formora admitted. "As I recall, though you touched the egg you did not develop a gedwëy ignasia. Physical contact between yourself and the dragon was needed to complete to cement the connection."

"Wait, go back a bit. A gedwëy-"

"This." Formora held out a hand palm up. There was a marking on her skin, silvery and with the appearance of scar tissue in the shape of a whorl. "It imparts a Rider with a taste of their dragon's magic, thus elevating them far above most mages."

"May I?" Ikharos nodded to her hand.

Formora dipped her head and knelt in front of him, offering her hand. He took it in his own and traced the marking. The texture was... strange. It fizzled against his Light. There was something there, an ember of alien power, but despite his reservations of everything dragon-related the mark had him transfixed. It was as if a paracausal-sensitive material had been worked into her skin.

"This... this is hadium," Ikharos murmured. "Traveler above..."

"Hadium?" Formora questioned.

"A special metal capable of storing paracausal energies. Magic. Your... ged..."

"Gedwëy ignasia," she clarified.

"Yeah, that. There's a deposit of pure hadium dust worked in beneath the skin. A dragon formed this?"

"Mine, yes."

"When it hatched?"

"Yes."

Ikharos's mind was a-whirl. "It left you with a piece of its power - a piece of the Anthem Anatheme itself. Oh Light..."

Formora took her hand back. "Tell me more of this hadium."

"Your connection to-"

"I insist."

Ikharos blinked. "Ah," he said. "So that's what this is."

"It's only fair." Formora smiled thinly.

He gathered his patience. He needed answers, needed them yesterday - but he wasn't about to lose his chance to learn more. "Hadium," he said, "comes from the stars. It's the purest metal, incredibly dense but equally light. Once it sets it won't bend, won't dull, won't break. Given its rarity most weaponsmiths choose to use it to make blades. Swords and glaives.

A spark of recognition entered her eyes. Formora stood up, stepped over to her packs and returned with a heavy greatsword swathed in silk. "Like this?" She offered it to him hilt first. Ikharos pulled it free. It came easy, soundlessly. The grip, guard and pommel were lightly ornate but the blade itself was coloured the contrasting shades of orange and red. It was a flamberge, forged with many small teeth along its edges in a manner reminiscent of tongues of flames. Its edge slithered sinuously like a viper, never quite straight. As weapons went it was beautiful.

And it was pure hadium.

It pulled at his own power, aching to leech away the godly essence inside him. Ikharos allowed a spark of Arc to run from his arm to the hilt and it danced along the weapon's length, briefly coating it in azure lightning before fizzling out.

"What..." Formora said. "What did you do?"

"Imbued my Light." Ikharos held it across horizontally. As well as beautiful it was rather large for a sword, easily seven feet in length from guard to tip. "This was made for an elf."

Formora frowned. "You can tell?"

"It was made for someone tall. Elves are tall in general, yeah?"

"Taller than humans."

"Thought so."

"But your people - low-gravity born. The weapons of your homeland must have been designed with a similar fashion."

"No."

"No?" Formora echoed, confused.

"Caer Lerion wasn't in the business of making weapons at all," Ikharos explained. "The city was founded in a time of utmost peace."

"And yet it produced you."

Ikharos wordlessly inclined his head.

"You've an eye for detail. Is there anything else?"

"It's well balanced." Ikharos gave it an experimental twirl. "Not heavy, but it'll cleave a Goliath tank's armour all the same. It's meant to be wielded by someone who uses magic. Does it have a name?"

"Múspel. In the ancient language it means wildfire."

"'Course it does." Ikharos snorted. "Someone had a theme in mind. Is it yours?"

"No." Formora's hand fell to the sabre sheathed at her hip. She drew it out. "This is Vaeta - Hope."

"It looks like it's made of wood," Ikharos commented.

"It's brightsteel, what you call hadium. The colour is merely a result of magic."

"Said looks like." Ikharos glanced it over. "Short. Curved. Bias towards quick slashes. You're reliant on your own natural speed."

"Is that criticism?"

"I haven't seen enough of your form to cast judgement."

"If you'd like I could show you. That is, if you're able." Formora looked at him. There was a challenge there.

Ikharos glanced at her, bored. "I'd cuff your pointy ears."

"Will you? Human bravado knows no limits."

"I'll be sure to tell that to the next human we meet."

"You look the part."

"Appearances can be deceiving."

She tilted her head. "I suppose they can."

"Is it my go? Can I ask my question now?"

"One more thing, if you'll allow me," Formora said. She sheathed her sabre. "For one so familiar with brightsteel you're woefully short on weapons crafted from it."

"What makes you think that?"

"You carry no blade of your own, besides that dagger, and it, so far as I can tell, consists entirely of common steel."

"True." Ikharos paused. "I do have hadium weapons. In fact, the bow you stole from my ship was made using a refined hadium alloy - enactine. Hadium imbued with psionic energy."

Formora's expression hardened. "I see."

"There's no need to look so serious. I found it where you dropped it." Ikharos's smile was thin. "Agnisia, on the other hand...""

"She stole a sword. And a halberd."

"A glaive, not a halberd. And the cleaver was one of her people's, so hadium at its core." Ikharos took a deep breath. "She knew what she was looking for."

"What is she?" Formora asked. "I've never seen the likes of her before."

"If you had, odds are they would've killed you. They're called the Hive, and they're monsters through and through."

"Like dragons?"

Ikharos's smile fell. "They're a different sort of evil, just more honest about it. A dragon will play with you, but most Hive will gut you on the spot."

"Agnisia didn't. She spared me."

"Agnisia's not most Hive. She favours torment." His mind jumped back to the Apothecary, and the myriad jars of Light within. Hundreds of lives slaughtered, their souls herded into glazed shell containers. A nightmare in blinding white. "I don't want to talk about this."

"I see." Formora sheathed her sabre. She held out the silken wrap and Ikharos handed the flamberge over. "What was your question?"

Ikharos took a deep breath. "You have the Anthem Anatheme in the palm of your hand."

"I don't know what that means."

"The ability to make your desire a reality. Dragon-magic."

"I cannot simply make things happen," Formora told him sternly. "I need the ancient language to guide my intent. Wordless magic is too dangerous. Errant thoughts are oft the undoing of reckless mages."

"Sure, you need your scaffolding to keep your magic in check, that's no surprise, but that doesn't explain everything." Ikharos hesitated. "If that hadium and the spark within gives you the ability to wield your magic, then how is it I can do the same? I've no gedwëy ignasia."

"It's not needed," she explained. "It bolsters magical might, but every elf alive is a mage - and there are some, though rare, amongst the other races of this world who are the same. Is it not true of your home?"

Was it? Every Risen was inherently a paracausal entity. The same went for the Awoken, and all Exominds to a lesser extent. Humanity, and the Eliksni before them, had basked in the ambient Light radiated by the Traveler, and the people of the Last City saw some benefits as well; they were only recently seeing signs of increased lifespans in the mortal populace after finally shaking off the chains of the Dark Ages. But did that mean humans had the capacity to manipulate paracausal forces? Ikharos wasn't so sure. The Light and the Dark were present in all things, but that did not mean it defined their existences. After all, not everyone could wield the Darkness so easily. Though he hated the primitive superstitiousness of the concept, the presence of an 'umbral centre' was imperative towards controlling Stasis. Not every Risen could so easily access it, and it seemed to pay no heed between Guardian and Lightless. Plenty of mortal Eliksni used technology to gain control over Stasis, but since the death of Praksis more and more of House Salvation were finding it in themselves to draw on the Dark naturally.

"I don't know," Ikharos answered honestly. "There're too many variables to be certain, and too few mortals in a position to test it."

"Many go their whole lives without ever realising what they're capable of."

"But not elves?"

Formora shook her head. "We breathe magic. Our lives are driven by it. It is too great a part of us to ignore."

"I can tell," Ikharos said drily. "But where do you draw the line?"

"What do you mean?"

"You have gills. You're aware how absurd that is, don't you?"

"Ah. Perhaps. But I can go much farther, if I were so inclined."

"Are you?"

Formora seemed to consider it. "When I have the time," she said quietly, "I will give myself wings."

Ikharos tried to picture it. In his mind it seemed a little silly. "Why?"

"Because I miss the sky."

"That's it?"

"That's it. I am älfa," Formora said, "and our desires are everything to us."

It was nearly midnight when they closed in on the coast. Formora guided the boat; her sight was better suited to the moonless dark. The waves rose and fell with a hiss, rocking them about, but despite it all the weather was remarkably calm. Sooner than he'd been expecting, but later than he'd hoped, the boat crunched over wet sand and came to a stop. They'd made it. The mainland. Alagaësia

Formora moved past him and began gathering her belongings. Ikharos double-checked he still had what meagre possessions were left to him and leapt over the side of the boat. His legs sank into the water up to his thighs. The cold shock registered in his brain as the seawater seeped in through the dozen rips and tears in his robes but he shoved it down. With one hand following along the side of the boat he trudged up onto the beach and swept his head left and right, searching.

But there was nothing, and no one, to see. Just a lot of trees and a lot of rocks. Not much else. A moment passed before Formora joined him, silently appearing by his side. "We can't leave the boat," she said. Her packs sat by her feet. "We'll have to destroy it. Without drawing attention."

"I take it you don't care for this local king?"

Though he could scarcely see it Ikharos felt the intensity of the glare Formora threw his way. "An understatement. The ruin of Vroengard - do you know what caused it? Who caused it?"

"I'm sensing this is a rhetorical question," he muttered.

"Galbatorix. He destroyed it, destroyed the order. The dragons? They cower there in fear of him. If he discovers they survived..."

"Don't tempt me."

She grabbed his arm tightly. "This is no time for making jests."

"I wasn't." Ikharos pulled free, waved his hand and a pulse of Void ripped from his palm to consume the boat from prow to stern. The water sizzled and flooded in to fill the sudden gulf. "There."

Formora let go and stepped away. She said nothing.

"Now we go our separate ways." Ikharos squinted at her. "Thanks for the lift. Ciao." He turned and started walking.

"Where are you going?" Formora called after him. She strode after him.

"North," Ikharos replied

"Why?"

"Because I like it better than south."

"That's it?"

Ikharos shrugged. "I melt in any temperature over twenty degrees celsius."

She was staring at him. He could feel it. Probably of the incredulous variety; he was used to getting those looks. "There's nothing north," Formora said after a moment's pause. "But there should be a port town south."

"I thought you wanted to avoid civilization?"

"Approaching from land raises fewer questions. We can disguise ourselves-"

"We?" Ikharos repeated. "We've arrived. That's it. That's the end of our arrangement."

"We must find your dragon."

"Must we? I never asked for it. There's bigger fish to fry and I'm keen to finish here sooner rather than later."

"You aren't concerned?"

"About?"

"Agnisia. Skuldu. Elisabeth."

Ikharos paused. "Of course I am," he said quietly. "But it's a big planet."

"So that's it?"

"Yes."

Formora exhaled hard. "At least-" She stopped to gather herself. "At least come with me as far as Narda. You're searching for your companions. If they survived and made it here someone may have seen them."

"That's a stretch."

"Is it? Giants aren't a common sight, nor one-eyed men."

No, Ikharos supposed. Probably not. "You say it like news travels quick here."

"On this side of the Spine? More than you realise."

"Spine?"

"A mountain range. It runs from the Northern Headland to the fiefdom of Feinster."

"Now you're just making words up." Ikharos chewed his cheek. "Is this Narda in the business of selling halfway decent maps?"

"I'm confident we'll find one."

"And if not?"

Formora considered it. "I'll draw one up for you."

"That's awfully charitable," Ikharos commented. "What's the occasion?"

"Your welfare."

"I can manage just fine on my own, thank you."

"Can you? The further north you go the harsher the elements will become. The Spine is brutal on those unprepared to tackle her, and you've got nary but the clothes on your back."

"Clothes that'll draw that attention you want so desperately to avoid," he pointed out. "I can't claim to know the running trends in the Broddring Empire's fashion, but somehow I doubt Dawning robes will fly."

"We can take what we need on the way. There will be farmsteads-"

"No." Ikharos scowled. "I'm not ransacking mortal homes."

"That's not what I'm proposing," Formora fired back. "I'll barter for clothing for the pair of us. I have gold."

"Gold? Seriously? That's the local currency?"

"What's your alternative?"

"Glimmer: the universal tender."

"I don't know what that is."

Ikharos made to hold out his hand, but recalled Xiān's absence at the last moment. Transmat was a luxury he could no longer call his own. "Forget it. I'll join you. But only so far as Narda." It was true he needed supplies. Extra bandages and rations for if his Light ran short.

"We'll see," Formora said.

"Yeah," Ikharos muttered. "We will. How far a march is this place?"

"Provided we've landed where I think we have, another two days. Less if you can keep pace."

Another challenge. Ikharos decided to take it in good humour; he wasn't in any position to make another enemy. Certainly not of her. Not with his Ghost lost and Psions missing. "I dare say I might."

"There is another thing."

"What?"

"Carry these." Formora shoved a couple of somethings into his arm. Swords from the feel of them, three in total and one being Múspel. His Light flared with their proximity.

"They're all hadium?" he asked incredulously. "Where did you find these?"

"The battlefield," Formora said cryptically.

Ikharos recognized the tone. "You killed for these?"

"Some of them."

"How many do you have?"

"With me? Seven, including my own. I've left over a dozen hidden on Vroengard."

"Who even makes these?"

Formora paused. "An elven smith. I do not know if she still lives. She made every Rider's blade while the order stood."

"And after?"

"There haven't been any new Riders since. Until now."

"I'm not a Dragon Rider," Ikharos muttered with a scowl.

"More than I," Formora said bitterly. "Shall we set off or do you intend to argue your nature until morn?"

He glowered while he tied lengths of cloth around himself to keep the swords on his person. The flamberge he sheathed along his back via a bandolier and the other two, one a simple seax and the other a jagged-toothed swordbreaker, he slotted on either hip. They were so light he could scarcely feel the weight of them. "Lead on."

They marched into the night and the beginning of the next day. It was approaching noon when Formora spotted the faintest smoke trail far in the distance. "Chimney smoke," she observed. "A farmstead."

"What's our plan?" Ikharos inquired. "If I show up like this, it'll set lips flapping. Never mind the robes; I look like the world's most flamboyant highwayman."

"I've rarely seen a bandit so well-armed," Formora commented drily. "I'll engage, though I'll need a moment."

"Why?"

"Just wait." She murmured something under her breath and Ikharos felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Magic was at work. Both fascinated and ill at ease he watched as a change overcame her. First the gills melted away, then a glamour fell over her features. The prominent points of her ears blunted and her eyes leveled. Her face was no longer quite so sharp, quite so other, and if he hadn't seen her true form Ikharos might have believed her to be human. As it was she was still slight and tall, but could be written off as genetics. She dropped her packs, pulled free a fine cloak and pulled it over her shoulders to cover her tattoos and hair. A golden brooch bearing the symbol of a swallow in flight pinned it together at her collar. "I shan't be long."

"It's your show," Ikharos murmured.

Formora nodded. "Remain here. I'll return as soon as I can." She strode ahead, slipping between trees until she disappeared from view entirely. Ikharos knelt down and began meditating, filling his mind with cleansing Void. The earth fell away as the Light raised him into the air and soon all stimuli ceased to be.

There was only the emptiness. Only the sea of absence. A nullscape, perfectly at ease. Beautiful. Minutes turned to hours and the sun began to fall, but time ceased to affect his person. Ikharos basked in the violet hunger, content.

A presence grazed the edges of his mind. It didn't sense him, no; the nullscape was nothing and so long as he held it blanketed his consciousness that was the illusion it cast over him. That it knew where to look for him at all was worrying enough-

Ikharos? it said in Formora's voice, wary.

Psionics. Indilic had warned him of that. Ikharos was only now realizing the sheer scope of danger she posed. I'm here, he just as cautiously replied, throwing the thought out for Formora to catch.

A moment passed before she responded. Come here.

Where?

The farmstead. There is a problem.

Ikharos opened his eyes and touched down on his own two feet. The smoke trail was still going strong. You're already there?

Yes.

He deduced that the smoke was emanating somewhere several miles ahead. A distance she'd closed in an instant with telepathy. Ikharos had half a mind to turn around on the spot and leave her behind. It would have been the safer option. Certainly the easier one. Why? he inquired.

A man is lying dead in front of the door. His family still lives but I don't know for how much longer. There are soldiers here.

Well. She knew how to tempt him. On my way, Ikharos sullenly replied. He gathered up Formora's bags and Blinked fast - a continuous series of teleportation, manifesting far ahead of each translation point the very moment he materialised, over and over again. His vision seared with violet as a result of over usage, but the distance closed fast. It wasn't long before the forest gave way and a sizable cabin complete with an accompanying barn reared up in front of him. Ikharos paused by the tree line, looked around, and all but jumped when Formora appeared by his side.

"Five men, armed," she warned. "They bear the king's colours. Those are their horses." She pointed. Ikharos followed it to a throng of animals with their reins tied to a post. They bore leather saddles and their hooves were shod with steel shoes. "We should claim them."

"Later." Ikharos scanned the surrounding area. He saw the corpse Formora had described, an older man well into his forties with a hole in his gut, laid across the porch without a care. Clumsy work. Emotional. Would have made for a messy end. Ikharos didn't envy him. "Where's the family? How many?"

"Inside," Formora said. She was watching him carefully, her expression unreadable. "Three still living, so far as I can tell: the farmer's wife, his daughter, and his young son."

"Classic nuclear family." Ikharos laid down the packs and unsheathed his knife. "Soldiers are in there with them?"

"Yes."

"You've said some humans can wield magic. Think one of them might be capable?"

"I doubt it. Their minds are open, bared. Mages are trained to keep their thoughts private."

"What're they doing?"

Formora's mouth thinned. "Looting. Taking their dues. They've come to collect taxes. The farmer-"

"Protection racket, I know the kind." Ikharos stepped out into the open. There were fields to the south, weeds pushing in on haggardly crops. It wasn't looking to be a profitable harvest. "Take the horses. I'll deal with the soldiers."

"Are you sure? Your hand-"

"I'll be fine."

Formora nodded and moved to the animals. Ikharos cut a straight path to the crooked cabin door. He didn't bother knocking, simply shoved it open and marched inside. Someone was whimpering, someone was crying, and someone was trying to shout but their voice was muffled. Most of the cabin was just the onebig room, table in the middle iwth benches on either side. A bag of grain had been upended on top of it. He spotted three men, one of which was pressing a middle-aged woman against the far wall with his hand over her mouth, and there was a child on the floor with another soldier standing over him with their sword drawn. The third and last thug had been leaning against a support beam with his arms crossed but pushed away from it at the sight of Ikharos. "What the..." he started to say. "Who the fuck-"

Ikharos threw his knife. It caught the man by the child between the eyes. He collapsed on the spot. The closest man jolted with surprise and tugged at his sword, still sheathed by his side. It stuck. Even if it hadn't it was already too late. Ikharos swept his hand through the air, caught him by his neck and squeezed until he heard a pop. He dropped the dead man and closed the distance between himself and the remaining soldier, who threw the woman aside and brandished his blade.

"You... you bastard!" The soldier made to thrust. Ikharos sidestepped the blow with pitiful ease, plucked the handle of the greatsword over his shoulder and tugged it free. He struck down on the man. The soldier saw it coming, raised his arming sword to deflect the attack - but such was Ikharos's strength that the hadium flamberge cracked the steel blade in two and kept on going, splitting the thug from crown to navel. It made for quite a mess.

The woman screamed. The boy stared. From the back of the cabin in an adjoining room Ikharos heard someone stumbling about. "Deckard?" they called out. "What the fuck is going on-" The door opened. A half-dressed soldier stood in the doorway, weapon in hand. Their eyes bugged wide as they took in the scene before fixing on Ikharos.

He didn't give them a chance to do anything else. Ikharos pulled his arm back and threw the greatsword like a common javelin. It took the soldier in the chest and the force of it pulled them from their feet, driving them against the far wall and pinning them there. There was another shout from within, then a slam as a back door was flung open. Ikharos heard the receding footsteps as the last man fled - only for a muffled scream to split the air before being brutally cut off.

Dead, Formora reported. The rest?

The same, Ikharos replied. He strode into the backroom, grabbed a hold of Múspel and tugged it free. The soldier dropped like a sack of potatoes. He wiped the blade down on the man's undershirt, then turned his head. The farmer's daughter stared at him in sheer terror. One of her eyes was black and her lip was split. Her dress had been torn.

A flush of white-hot rage thundered inside him, but there was no one left to take it out on. He took a step towards her, then stopped when she cowered back, trembling with fright. Ikharos exhaled heavily. "Are you alright?" he softly asked.

The young woman stared. He could see the whites of her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he told her, meaning it, and stepped out. Her mother was waiting for him, one of the soldier's swords clutched improperly in her hands and the boy cowering behind her. Ikharos jutted his head to the door behind him. "She needs you. Go," he said, and stepped around the pair. Ikharos sheathed the greatsword, snatched his knife and took up the body of the man he killed with it, bringing it outside. Formora was waiting there, a pair of horses behind her. She raised an eyebrow.

"Got us garb," Ikharos said gruffly. He dropped the body, went back inside and collected the man whose neck he'd crushed, bringing him out as well.

"They have Imperial regalia," Formora pointed out.

Ikharos reached down and tore away the closest tabard. "There. Done."

"You'll have us don chainmail?"

"We're not going to cut it as anything other than mercenaries. Might as well embrace it."

A moment passed. "It's not a common vocation for human women," Formora said bluntly.

Ikharos looked at her. "You can't be serious."

"I assure you I am."

"What about elves?"

"Both elven men and women equally detest the idea of selling their services for gold."

"Fucking stupid." Ikharos knelt down, raised the dead man's arms and, with some difficulty, began tugging the mail shirt free. The lack of a second hand was starting to be a pain.

"Here." Formora knelt beside him and helped. The shirt came free, followed soon by the boiled leather pants, boots and gloves.

"Only need the one," Ikharos pointed out.

"Not for long We'll fix that tonight when we make camp," Formora said cryptically. She glanced pointedly past him. "We can't let them tell anyone."

"We saved them."

"What difference does that make? Their lives are forfeit anyways. These were the king's tax collectors. Their absence will be noted. Others will come to investigate."

"We're not killing them," Ikharos snapped.

Formora shook her head. "I didn't mean to suggest that. But we can't take them with us. Someone may recognize them - or worse yet, they'll try to flee. I must remove all trace of our presence by altering their memories."

Ikharos looked at her with narrowed eyes. "You can do that?"

"Of course."

"Will it hurt them?"

"No," Formora assured him. "It will not."

Ikharos dropped his gaze and glanced around. "I guess it's too much to ask that you make them forget everything else about this?"

"Their husband and father is dead. That's irreversible. Unless you can rectify that?"

"No."

"Then it would do more damage than to leave them as they are. Let them grieve."

"But we can't just..." Ikharos sighed. He stood up and walked inside. He found the family in the back room, the mother clutching both the young woman and boy close. They wept while she raised her head and gave him a hard look. Her cheeks were tear-marked. "You need to leave," Ikharos told her. "Gather your belongings, everything you need, and hit up the next town over. It's not safe for you here."

The woman said nothing.

"Good luck," Ikharos said quietly. He stepped out. Formora was already tying her packs to the horse saddles. The animals whickered nervously at the sight of the stripped corpses but she comforted them with magical words in a low voice. She glanced at him.

"Yeah," Ikharos said with a curt nod. "We're done here. Go ahead. But..."

"I'll leave them with the notion of fleeing," Formora told him. "It's the best I can do."

"... Thank you."

AN: Hugest of thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!