"glimpse of a malady"

There was a freshwater stream half a league from the farmstead. They led the horses to a nearby clearing and picketed them to a sapling. Formora warned against a fire. She expected a retort but only received a shrug in return. "I'm going to wash," Ikharos announced, "and change."

"I will stay," Formora told him. "Don't be long."

Ikharos nodded. He avoided looking at her. Perhaps she should have said something - but the cloying smell of blood was too strong on him, and Formora was just as eager as he was to be rid of it. In his absence she prepared a handful of seedlings and set to growing their supper. Her mind wandered to the horses and she idly studied their memories, taking note of the route the soldiers had chosen and from whence they came. They were not natives or Narda - conscripts of further south, she deduced - but their animals were not beasts of war. So far as she could tell the mares had been requisitioned from local breeders to equip the town's growing garrison. Their temperance was milder, and for that she was glad. Never had she cared for the broader breeds humans engineered for battle - any animal would do as she asked, there was no need to employ a creature already crazed with aggression.

Of the soldiers' supplies, however, she was less than impressed. While there was a case to be made for such garb Formora had little confidence in its effectiveness. She knew well how easily armour gave way beneath elven blades, and no amount of steel would protect the bearer from magic. The weight was even less desirable. She would have preferred reinforced barkskin but even disguised it would give her away.

Before long Ikharos returned, washed and freshened up, his robes, boots and bracers rolled up in his arms. His hair had been tied back again with a thin bolt of cloth and his eyes were sharper, though the bags beneath still hung deep and dark. His lips were set in a thin line - a grim regard altogether. Formora surmised it to be his natural state of being: curtly morose. It made for poor company. The mail, though, looked fitting on him. His spine was straight and he cut a sharp figure, somewhere between a grizzled soldier's stolidity and a petty lordling's contempt.

He reminded her of Riders whose names deserved to be forgotten.

"Your turn," Ikharos muttered. Then, at last looking upon her he saw what she was doing. And said nothing.

Formora held the spell a little longer until the bushels bore fruit, ripe enough to eat. The strain left the faintest tremor in her hands and a lurch of need from her stomach. "So it is," she said, standing up. In truth she was just as eager to be rid of their journey's build up of sweat and dust, but something led her to linger. "Are you hungry?"

Ikharos glanced at the braces of vibrant blueberries. There was longing in that gaze - an aching hunger long suppressed. "I can eat," he said neutrally. "A little."

But something was stopping him. Formora could not pinpoint it. "What is it you fear?" she inquired. "Why do you shy away from the prospect of food?"

Ikharos's eyes shot back up to her - so pale, so stony, so full of mistrust. She could not help but wonder if they mirrored her own. "I don't care to waste," he said quietly.

"Waste? There is no one else here. Only you and I."

"Doesn't matter."

"It doesn't?"

"Don't push this," Ikharos warned. He glared, but it fell quickly, replaced by cool despondence. "Please."

"... As you will," Formora replied reluctantly. She grabbed her own set of replacement clothing. "I will not be long."

Ikharos inclined his head. He took up position against one of the trees, providing him with an ample view of the horses and their packs. Formora left him to it. She strode down to the stream, concealed by the thick of the trees, and washed quickly. The water was cold but clear, rich with mountain minerals. She would have to refill their flasks later; she'd made do with seawater filtered through magic, but it wasn't the same. Oh how she ached with wondrous relief to be back on the mainland - to see, to smell, to feel the world as it should have been. No poison in the air, no Scorn marching from the beaches, no shadowy beasts emerging from the earth below - all was well, all was natural.

Formora sang as she scrubbed away the weight of Vroengard. She sang to no common verse but one of her own making, words thrumming with magic. The earth, the water, the trees and animals heard her. Their presence embraced her with warm familiarity.

She was home.

Formora returned in high spirits, light as a feather. At the camp she found Ikharos wiping down Múspel with a rag, balancing the greatsword across his thighs. There was something practised and measured about the motions, something reaffirming. She knew well the relief to be found in the monotonous, but even so she took it for what it was - an unwitting cry for help

"I heard you singing," he said gruffly, not daring to look at her. The confrontation with the soldiers had subdued him. There had been rage but in its absence he languished in dire helplessness.

"To sing is to be free," Formora told him. He wouldn't understand; strange as he was, few could comprehend an elven mind. Her other habits were like to be just as befuddling to mere mortals. "Song allows magic to live."

He raised his eyes. They were tired, but above all else they burned with a curiosity tempered with suspicion. "You are the very meaning and antithesis of a witch," Ikharos said. She couldn't confess to understanding it, but she wouldn't begrudge him his eccentricities.

Her gaze dropped to his crippled wrist, cut woefully short. "Mercenaries carry scars," Formora said, "but rarely ones so debilitating. We must rectify that."

"You going to grow me a new hand?" Ikharos questioned. He glanced down at the berries - all plucked and gathered up in a clean cloth. She would have to thank him for that. Later.

"In a manner of speaking," Formora said, knowing the cryptic tone would irk him, and she began a new verse. Ikharos stiffened; that paranoia of his was dangerous and nerve-wracking, for she had no idea how he would react every time she wove a spell. He stayed his arm, though, and Múspel remained rested. Ikharos listened as she intoned the ancient language, so attentive, so wary, so threatening.

Formora ignored him. She walked to the nearest tree - an old oak, weathered and strong. She sang to it, sang in that oldest tongue and the oak heard her, heeded her, gave way before her touch. Her fingers danced across heartwood and emerged with a sample sticky with sap. The oak closed up in her wake, tribute given.

"Hold out your arm," she told Ikharos. He did so after a tense moment, after his remaining hand closed around a single point of frigid power. Frosting vapour rose from betwixt his fingers. The air grew cold in her lungs; Formora paused before him.

"Be careful," Ikharos warned.

She nodded. Formora knelt beside him. She took his wrist in one hand and with the other brought the heartwood to meet it. "Unbind your wounds," Formora requested. The glittering crystals lodged in his flesh faded, leaving welt-red marks in their wake. She filled the absence in with her magic, drawing wood and flesh together, vein and xylem, artery and phloem. Skin wove with bark. Dead heartwood revived beneath her touch, as strong as iron and deft as any limb. The joints she molded to match the other hand, forging five separate fingers from raw oak.

When she finished he was shaking. Formora sympathised the shock of alien stimuli - and the fear of allowing one's self to be physically changed by another.

"It is done," she said hoarsely.

Ikharos closed the hand into a fist, fingertips pressing into an oaken palm. He stared at it tight-lipped, stern, fighting so hard to keep that unflappable air. It didn't fool her in the slightest.

"This shouldn't be possible," he said at long last.

"But it is. I have made it so."

"I have a rudimentary understanding of horticulture," Ikharos murmured, "and I'm well aware of the practice of graftage, but this... this is not how it works. Am I rootstock now? And is this my scion?" He waggled his fingers. A golden glow emanated from his eyes. An aura expanded across his shoulders, ran down his arm and coated the oaken hand in raw magnificence. "This... this is a part of me."

"And always will be, until the day you learn how to mold your form to your own liking."

Ikharos looked at her. "Until the day," he echoed.

It sounded like acceptance.

Formora served herself a helping of berries compounded with newborn tubers and mild mushrooms. The spells had drained her, though she still had energy to power her wards and fight if it came to it; there would be no more fits of vanity. No wings. Not that night.

The sun fell over the horizon, shrouding them in darkness. The moon refused to show itself and of the stars there was little to be seen. Formora anticipated it would rain come morn. As it was, what little light was left to them was more than enough for her to see him. Ikharos breathed slowly, measured, but his eyes were open - staring at nothing and everything at once.

"What you did today was a brave thing," Formora said softly.

He didn't move, didn't shift. Ikharos was as a statue. Or a corpse.

"You saved the lives of those humans. You didn't have to."

"They're dead anyways," he croaked, rousing from somewhere dark and kindless. She saw it in the way he held himself. "Said it yourself."

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?"

"It... it is difficult for me to care," Formora admitted. "I did, once. But mortals come and go-"

"But mostly they go," Ikharos finished. "You get tired of it?"

"Numb. They have fire. Tremendous love, hatred without end. My people burn brighter, but always we restrain ourselves. We are too long-lived, too few in number to give in to petty feuds and tragic affairs."

"So you distance yourself."

"Do you?"

"... Can't." Ikharos wrapped his arms around his legs, hugging them to his chest. He rested his chin on his knees. "I'm still too much like them. I want to love. I want to be loved. But it's the hate - the fucking hate, the anger, all the fucking time. The universe keeps taking them. And I keep losing."

"Those soldiers-"

"I hate them. There's so many things I hate, but I despise them most of all. They pick the pettier cruelties to inflict on their neighbours. A soldier has a sword so he can kill a man and take advantage of his daughter? It's wrong. He knows it's wrong, but he does it anyway. He picks gratification at the expense of others." Ikharos took a deep breath. The forest was quiet. She could hear the horses stirring, trying to sleep but it may as well have been a world away. "Where's the justice?"

"Murder and rape are outlawed," Formora murmured, "but the king's soldiers are so often exempt."

"And he does nothing?"

"It doesn't negatively affect him, so he cares not."

"So it's one of those..." Ikharos exhaled slowly. "I'd rather we continue this conversation in the morning, when I have a clear head."

Formora inclined her head. "Sleep. I will watch."

"'Course you will." Ikharos leaned his head against the tree at his back and closed his eyes. Slumber did not come easily; some time passed before she heard a shift in his breathing pattern.

The morning arrived marked by an anxious tension. Ikharos moved about their impromptu camp stiffly. He avoided looking at her. Formora gave him space to come to terms with whatever was occupying his mind, but inevitably they had to move. After a quick breakfast of magic-reared fruit she took to the horses and led them out. "There should be a road close by," Formora said. She gathered up her hair and tied it back in the same fashion as he. With a muttering of magic she changed its colour, dyeing it a blank brown. She continued: "Underused and worn, but there all the same. It leads to Narda, however I would prefer that we approach the town from the south."

"Lessen any suspicion that we had something to do with the absent soldiers," Ikharos replied. He glanced at her briefly. "I understand."

"It will give us time to discuss the identities of our disguise, and any other topics that may come up."

"Right."

Formora held out one set of reins. "This is yours."

Ikharos fired her a strange look. "I can walk."

"I am aware."

"Do we really need them?"

"None would walk so far north. If we are to pass off as hailing from the Empire then we will need horses. It would do us well to conserve our strength."

"I'd really rather walk."

"We ride," Formora said. "Take her."

Ikharos approached warily. When Formora thrust the reins towards him he took them gingerly, uncertainly. "What..." he trailed off and cleared his throat. "What do I do with this?"

Formora frowned. "What do you mean?"

He looked at her lamely. "What am I supposed to do next?"

"... You have saddlebags. Store your belongings and mount up."

"Am... am I supposed to tie it down again?" The mare was watching him expectantly. Ikharos stared back, his brow furrowed with consternation.

"Sitja," Formora said. The horse stilled. "There. Will that do?"

"For now." Ikharos slowly backed away, then took his meagre belongings into his arms. He approached the mare oddly.

"Is something the matter?"

Ikharos didn't reply. He stopped by the mare's side, waited, then began shoving his old clothes into the saddlebags. The strange ornate bracers, she saw, he left near the top. Following that Ikharos put a hand on the saddlehorn... and stopped. "What now?"

With a rush of humour Formora realised his aversion. "You've never ridden a horse, have you?"

"It's inefficient," Ikharos fired back. "They need to eat and drink and stay healthy, and they don't run nearly as fast as I'd like."

"Oh?"

"And they have a tendency to kick. A shattered ribcage wastes everyone's time."

"Wastes time, does it?"

Ikharos fired her a dry look. "Don't get smarmy."

"I would never." Formora swung up onto her own steed with practiced ease. "That is how it is done. Do you see?"

Ikharos took in a deep breath - and he disappeared on the spot. With a flash of violet light he re-emerged atop the saddle and grasped for the saddlehorn. The mare's ears flicked nervously.

"Easy," Formora said. She urged her animal to meander closer. "Sit as I do. Hold her like so." She caught his horses reins and offered them. Ikharos grabbed them out of her hand.

"Done."

"Careful. She's sensitive to you. When she moves you need to move with her."

"So I don't fall?"

"Yes, but that should be a given. I meant that you will both be more comfortable if you do."

Ikharos grunted. "Seems more bother than it's worth."

She eyed him amusedly. For one so self-assured, he was lacking in many basic skills. This one, at least, was more harmless than the others. "Follow my lead," Formora instructed. Ikharos wordlessly dipped his head. Slowly, experimentally, they left the clearing behind and ambled towards a rough game trail. Truly she could have run faster than their current pace, but Formora hadn't lied when she'd said the horses would be expected. And though Ikharos was removed from his mortal kind, she wasn't confident he could keep up. An able frontiersman, certainly, as she'd heard nary a single complaint, but he was yet a visitor to the wilds while to her it was natural habitat.

"We should discuss our identities," Formora said. "Our reasons for being so far north. Who are you?"

Ikharos took a moment to answer. He looked ill-at-ease perched atop his steed. "Michael."

"Michael? No."

"No?" He didn't even look at her. His eyes were firmly set on the path ahead.

"No. It doesn't sound right."

"Marlen."

"No."

"Matthew."

"No. What do you think of Barrett?"

Ikharos paused. "I could live with Barrett."

"Very well. You are Barrett. Barrett..."

"Eastwood."

"No."

"Why not?"

"This is the north," Formora told him, "not Surda. Here surnames are taken after one's parents. Barrett Eamorsson. That is your name."

"Great," Ikharos drawled. "Fantastic. And you?"

"Syvonus Mareldsdaughter. Barrett and Syvonus hail from the city of Kuasta; that should cover any slip in mannerisms."

"How's that?"

"The people of Kuasta and the surrounding valley are... isolated. Their culture is somewhat removed from the rest of the Broddring Empire." Formora pondered the cover story. "We are bounty hunters. We make our pay on capturing runaway serfs and illegal poachers. We have come this way from the city of Teirm, chasing a kinslayer by the name of Jargen. He murdered his brother, who was a lord's... poet, over a heated game of cards."

"What were the stakes?" Ikharos questioned. He glanced at her. "Money? Maybe he fancied his brother's wife?"

"Does it matter? Our job is to hunt him down."

"What's his brother's name?"

"Brandon."

"Maybe Brandon was a real prick."

"It matters not. The lord was investing much in Brandon's arts and education, but all was wasted the moment Jargen cut him down."

"Which lord?"

"That's my concern as well." Formora considered it. "Not a lord - an ealdorman. Of the townstead of Yornic. It's relatively wealthy, but far-flung from here. His name is Micca Hrostsson."

"Better. But are you sure it'll fly?"

"We should be as honest as we can without giving ourselves away."

"No lie like a half-truth. Alright. Anything else I should know?"

"You would do well to keep that hand covered," Formora pointed out.

Ikharos self-consciously rubbed the back of his oaken knuckles. "'Course."

"And your tattoos. They would raise too many questions."

"Noted."

"And my swords..." Formora paused. "Do not draw them unless you have no choice. Their like hasn't been seen in mortal lands since the order fell."

"Haven't the space to hide them," Ikharos reported.

"We'll bury them before we reach Narda's gates. You may keep Múspel on your person, though; you've taken a liking to it, have you not?"

"'Spose I have," Ikharos said. "Thanks."

Formora nodded to herself and urged her horse onwards. "Follow closely. The path ahead meanders. It would not do to lose you yet."

They rode through the day. The rains came and went. By afternoon Formora spied the dark smudge of Narda down by the sea. She took them along an adjacent road, skirting around the busier routes to avoid curious travellers. They were fortunate with their timing; winter was approaching and so close to the Spine they'd find few strangers about. The air smelled clean, cloying with decaying leaves and recent rainfall. Not for the last time Formora exulted in it. The poisons of Vroengard were ample cover but only that. It was no way to live. This was where she was meant to be.

If only it didn't feel so dangerous.

She imagined eyes on every corner, swords clenched in twisted fists. Galbatorix was always partial to the monstrous, the warped, the terrible. She'd seen enough of his favoured pets to last a lifetime. Always loyal, always thirsty for someone else's blood. They'd not know of her survival, this was true, but she feared them all the same. And the less said of the king himself, the better.

With the sun overhead and Narda at their backs they at last turned around and joined the public roads. Along the way Formora checked for anyone watching - and once she was sure they were alone she called a stop and excavated a pit of dirt with a single muttered word. Ikharos flinched at the sound of it.

"You need not fear me," Formora said. She wrapped the swords in cloth and lowered them down. Everything but Vaeta, Múspel, and Ikharos's own knife were all they kept on their persons. "I am not your enemy."

"You've used your magic on me before," Ikharos pointed out. He sounded neither upset nor thankful, only distant. When Formora glanced at him she found him gazing out to the Spine's towering peaks. "For good and ill. You'll have to forgive me if I'm still hesitant."

"I could teach you."

"Your magic?"

"Yes." Formora straightened. "You'll need to learn soon. Without a proper repository of words you'll be at the mercy of every mage."

"Like you?" His eyes darted back to her - searching, scrutinizing, untrusting.

"Just so." Formora inclined her head. She bared her honesty openly. It did not come easily. Not after a century spent wrapping herself in lies and illusions. "You'll be able to form your own wards, to defend yourself as you see fit."

"Careful now."

"I am. This is why I am offering to teach you."

Ikharos looked past her. Formora craned her head around; she swore she caught a glimpse of bloodied red but it faded quickly. A moment passed and nothing presented itself. Her own wards hadn't tripped. A figment-

"Alright," Ikharos said.

Formora blinked. When nothing presented itself she turned back to face him. "Are you sure?"

"Might as well," he replied. Though it was framed unenthusiastically, Formora noted an undercurrent of veiled curiosity. He did not want to appear overeager. His damned pride - but then, who was she to decry pride of all things, when hers had led her so far down the path of darkness?

"Very well." Formora gestured to the half-buried swords. "Fill this."

"With magic?"

"With magic."

"Do I get any words?" Ikharos inquired.

"Sharjaví thornessa deloi." (Move this earth.)

"Sharjaví thornessa del-... deloi," Ikharos recited. His voice hummed with power. The dirt shifted and slid into the hole, filling it up in an instant. And Ikharos, Formora saw, looked none the worse for wear. He caught her looking and raised an eyebrow. "Is it to your satisfaction?"

"It is." Formora twisted her fingers and new weeds bloomed from the disturbed earth, covering it until it blended right in with the surrounding area.

"You didn't use any words," Ikharos pointed out.

"No," Formora admitted. "I didn't. It's not necessary, only safer. I can wield the ancient language as a thought."

"But you still need the words."

"I do. Do you know why this is more dangerous?"

"Because thoughts can shift at a whim?"

"Indeed."

"What you're describing is the very basics of psionic manipulation."

"The mind is a weapon," Formora said. "But you're already familiar with this, aren't you?"

"Yeah. But I'm not psionic."

"What do you mean by this?"

"I can't expand my mind like you can. You're closer to a Psion in that regard."

"And they are..."

"The, uh… the cyclops I employed," Ikharos explained. "They're natural telepaths."

"I thought as much." Formora walked back to the horses, indicating for Ikharos to follow. "All älfya can connect with the consciousnesses of other beings. All mages too, though there are those who lack the magic but can grasp the thoughts of others. Mind-breakers, they are sometimes called."

Ikharos awkwardly mounted up. He was improving. "This place is fucked," he murmured.

Formora hummed. She did not often care for his grumbling, but she agreed with the sentiment. "It's a concern to keep in mind. I doubt we'll cross any in Narda, but better to be prepared. Your mental fortitude is resilient enough, though I cannot profess to understanding how you manage to hide yourself so easily."

"It's nothing."

"On the contrary-"

"No, I mean that it's nothing that hides me." Ikharos exhaled softly. "I embody the meaning of the Void and I wrap it around myself as a shield. All the better to fend off Flayers and witches."

"Flayers?"

"Psion telekineticists. Powerful. Indilic was one. Do you remember him?"

Formora's lips set in a thin line. "I do."

Ikharos regarded her curiously. "You would. What he did he did on my behalf."

"I am aware."

"Alright." Ikharos's mare trotted ahead. Formora urged hers to to keep pace. "Back to the magic, if you will."

"Of course." Formora held the reins in one hand and with the other splayed it out. "Stenr." A stone shot towards her palm. She caught it and held it out. "This is what novice Riders practice with."

"I told you, I'm not-"

"And bondless mages too," Formora interrupted. She would have liked to argue the point but she was wary that his temper would win out and he'd quit her company. This was not an opportunity she could squander. There had been a thousand and one Riders more suitable to the task, but alas she was all that remained. Her only consolation was that Enduriel, the fool, had passed long before the egg had hatched. If he hadn't Formora would likely have killed him herself. His ambition and Ikharos's animosity would have resulted in disaster. If she could scarcely eke out a begrudging alliance on her lonesome, Enduriel would have doubtless earned them another enemy.

Or perhaps the two would have found accord in their shared disdain for most everything around them. No one would ever know.

"Fine," Ikharos huffed. "Continue."

"Novices find even the most menial of tasks taxing," Formora said. "I believe it comes as a result of lack of familiarity; the finer workings of the ancient language's meanings cannot be accurately described. It always comes down to sensation, to feeling. It is this reason why the magical elements of every other race but elves have such a disparity in skill and power."

"But it was simple for me," Ikharos said. It was no boast, rather an admission of confusion. "Is dirt easier to move?"

"So much of it? Not at all. Weight and distance are the only obstacles to magic - other than wards. You are just more capable."

"Thank you?"

"I do not mean it as a compliment," Formora said. "Only a fact. You are a mage already; though the ancient language is new to you, I suspect you'll take to it more easily than most."

"I see. Stenr." The stone slipped out of Formora's grip and flung to Ikharos's own wooden hand. He pinched it between his fingers. "This magic - it takes power from us."

"It consumes the body's energy."

"I can feel it. So if the body is stronger, tempered-"

"Then so is the mage's magic," Formora confirmed. "In this regard both mind and body are linked. It's not always the same; I've encountered many a powerful mage of frail form, but more oft than not the greatest of them are just as able to fight physically."

"Are you saying all this to tell me I've got a good workout routine?" Ikharos snorted. "Because I'll take it."

"I intended it as a lesson."

"Yeah, I hear you. But I don't know what you expect me to learn from it. Don't let go of yourself? Not much room for it in my line of work. Runs me ragged day-in, day-out."

"What I mean is a spell too powerful for you to handle will kill you," Formora firmly told him. "Each mage has their limits. Even I. Magic requires a sacrifice. Be careful that it doesn't become too great."

Ikharos quietened for a while. "Is there no alternative?" he asked after a while.

She shook her head. "No. But there are ways around it. One can infuse an object with raw energy. Precious stones like diamonds and rubies carry it best. Other materials are prone to losing their charge."

"Is that..." Ikharos reached over his shoulder and felt for Múspel's pommel. "Each of your swords has a jewel."

"Indeed. A Rider's most precious belonging."

He looked at her. "And your vambraces, the one with the gems-"

"For the same purpose," Formora confirmed, "though I dare not wear it openly. Not where the Imperials might see." The reminder made her shift with unease. The human garb was rough, stifling, uncomfortable. A necessity, but not a welcome one.

"And your silver hand?" Ikharos pressed.

She frowned. "What of it?"

"Can it store magic?"

"No, but it channels it."

"Suppose there's not much there to work with."

"What of your bracers?"

"Mine?" Ikharos's eyes glanced back to his saddlebags. "What do you mean?"

"There's fragment of metal in each of them. Is it brightsteel?"

"Hadium? No. Osmium."

"Osmium?"

"From High Coven. Hellish place. What about your other one? Without the gems?"

Formora's mouth turned dry. "Scales," she said stiffly. For a moment there was no reply. A moment and no longer.

"Dragon scales," Ikharos deduced. "Same colour as your sword."

"It would appear so."

"Your dragon."

Formora refrained from responding. She pointedly looked ahead, schooling her features.

"I won't ask why," Ikharos continued, "as I've not heard a whisper out of them. It's your business how you use 'em."

"Thank you."

"Did it have a name? Your dragon."

"... I don't remember." Formora sent her horse ahead. "Leave it be."

"Your choice," Ikharos muttered.

She didn't have the patience to correct him.

The stench of Narda washed over them long before they'd reached its gates. Gone was the sharp smell of the sea, replaced by the sheer stink of humanity. It drove Formora to a stop - too much to bear at once. She drew air in and out, shallow breaths, but even then it remained an overwhelming presence.

Ikharos brought his horse to a stop alongside her. "Are you alright?"

The animals stank worse than he did. It was a startling thing to consider. Mortals were forever wreathed in the pungent odours of their own sweat and oils, but all he smelled of was smoke - soft, not-quite-bitter, not-quite-acrid, certainly distinct. No incense, but far from noxious. He wore it around himself like a cloak, cleansing in its perpetual omnipresence.

"I am," Formora gasped. She raised a hand over her face and scrunched her eyes shut. Before long she'd caught a handle on it, suppressing the urge to gag. "Carry on."

Ikharos shot her a concerned look. "If you say so. Should I take the lead?"

Formora waved him onwards. He made for a poor barrier against Narda's reek, but she cowered behind it all the same. If there was one thing she hadn't missed, this was it. She hadn't the time to dilute the sensitivity of her senses. Her only choice in the matter was to suffer through it.

The walls of the town reared up soon afterwards, tall wooden palisades rotting in places. A couple of wagons tall with grain and crop waited ahead of them as a trio of guards spoke with the drivers. Each wore boiled leather and hardened cloth - a poor sort of armour, and the petty spears were no improvement. Volunteers for the local militia. Nothing like the Imperial soldiers of the day before.

One of the guards shouted for the wagon drivers to make way and waved Ikharos and Formora up. He frowned at the sight of them, looked at her twice over, but though his grip on his weapon tightened he made no move to attack. "And who're you, eh?"

"Barrett," Ikharos replied. He feigned an accent - nothing she'd heard before, but far from outlandish. For a moment she internally lauded the creativity; his true voice was too reminiscent of a native Imperial. "Eamorsson."

"And yer wan?" the guard asked. He pointed to Formora.

"Syvonus."

"Why's she got mail?"

"Because arrows kill," Ikharos deadpanned.

"Huh." The guard squinted up at him. A couple of his teeth were missing. "Bandit trouble?"

"Some."

"How'd that work out?"

Ikharos shrugged. "Won't be trouble anymore."

"Heh. Righto." The guard rubbed his chin. "Whatcha want?"

"Bed, board, some fucking wine."

"Don' we all, lad. Alright, git on in. But any riff an' it'll be the stockade. Or block. Ye get?"

"Got." Ikharos ushered his steed past. "Be thanking you."

Formora trotted after him. She ignored the looks the guards gave her. Beyond the gates the road opened up, meeting with poorly cobbled street. The houses lining it were short and squat, built from ramshackle brick and weathered logs. The thatch roofs were stiff with seaspray. The ditches on either side were full of muck.

"The inn should be down that way," Formora said.

Ikharos turned to her. "You know it?"

"No, but... people are predictable," she replied. "I dare say we might even find stables nearby."

"One can hope."

They found the stables first. Formora passed the horses off to a stablehand and tossed the boy a gold crown. The youth beamed and vowed to keep the animals well-cared for. Finished, she joined Ikharos by the entrance and together they wordlessly set out into the town. The inn was a row of houses down, situated perfectly on a sloping hill to overlook the docks. It was relatively large for such a small settlement, but given the seasonal influx of humans who journeyed north for seal hides it came as no surprise. The building had three storeys, the first of which was given over to a lively tavern manned by an elderly innkeeper, his wife and three of his daughters. Formora brushed by Ikharos and approached the bar.

"What can I do for you, dearie?" the innkeeper asked. His back was stooped and his hair greyed, but he greeted her with a kindly smile.

"A room, if you will," Formora replied.

"Oh, we've some. Just the one?"

"Please." She dropped a gold and three silver on the counter.

"Oh my." The innkeeper's smile faltered. "Uh... how long'll you be staying?"

"We don't know. Will this cover a week?"

"And then some. Welcome, welcome. I'll have one of my girls ready yer bed. Is there anythin' else I can get you?"

"A bottle of wine, if you have one," Ikharos requested. He stopped beside her. The innkeeper looked up at him.

"Aye, son, I think I have one lying around somewhere..." The old man turned to his wife. "Do we?"

"I'm sure we do," she said quickly, dusting off her hands. "I'll search for it now."

"Mm. Well, you two find yourselves some seating. We'll bring it out soon, my word on it."

Ikharos nodded and stepped away. Formora said her thanks and followed him over to one of the corner booths. There were a couple of other groups already present - loggers, sailors, a pair of traders and more. More than a few shot them strange looks.

The moment they sat down Ikharos said, "Soldiers. Other side, behind me."

Formora glanced past him. In one of the other booths were a pair of older men, wearing mail and tabards. One of them had a sergeant's mark on his breast. "I see them."

"They looking?"

"They are. Now they're talking."

"And?"

"Drinking."

"Alright." Ikharos leaned back. "How's the money situation?"

"I've more than enough," Formora explained. "We won't suffer for poverty."

"Just checking."

One of the barmaids swung by, a pair of tankards in one hand and an old bottle of wine in the other. "Hello," she said cheerily, firing them both a warm smile. Her gaze lingered on Ikharos. "Your room's jus' about ready."

"Quick service," Ikharos remarked. "Thank you."

She set down the tankards and uncorked the bottle. "There's some stew cooking if you'd like."

"What's in it?"

"Carrot, spud, lentils - hunter's pot."

"We'll take two bowls," Formora told her. "Thank you."

"'Course." The barmaid lingered. "If you don't mind me asking, where're you folk from?"

"Kuasta," Ikharos said pleasantly. He smiled to her. "But we've come by way of Yornic. Y'know it?"

"I... think so."

"It's south o' here."

"Whole world's south, sir."

"So it is, so it is..." Ikharos leaned forward, propping his elbows on the edge of the table. "How's the day been?"

"Quiet enough," the barmaid replied with a shrug. "It's the season for it."

"Aye, thought it might be. Guessing we're a strange sight."

"Oh, no sir, wouldn't call ye strange. Got to be 'nother word for it."

"Ah, but we are." Ikharos chuckled. She laughed with him. "People still chat? Or is that out of season too?"

"Never a day without it."

Formora poured herself a drink, content to watch.

"I have to ask," Ikharos said, "are we the strangest thing you've seen yet?"

The barmaid shifted, grinning. "Oh, perhaps."

"Can't be having that. Are you certain?"

"Couldn't say. You might well be."

"Hm. Because I love to hear about strange things. Haven't been any odd rumours lately, have there?"

"Not to my knowledge. Maybe-"

"Bruha!" the innkeeper called.

"Right. I'll bring out your bowls now." The barmaid demurely tilted her head, still smiling. "You need anything, just call."

"Thank you kindly, Bruha," Ikharos said. The barmaid left them with a saunter in her step. The moment she was gone, Ikharos turned back to Formora. "They haven't passed by."

She raised a curious eyebrow. "Your soldiers?"

"Mhm. Two places where you hear that kind of thing - the inn or the garrison. That's where people talk."

"We're not visiting the garrison." Formora filled his tankard.

"Maybe not. We'll see." He took it with a grateful nod. "How's the wine?"

"Awful."

Ikharos raised the cup to his lips. His eyes closed shut. "Mm. Understatement, that."

Formora took another tentative sip. "Do you mind?"

"Don't suppose they serve cider here?"

"Did you see any orchards on the way in?"

"Thought not. So no, I don't mind." Ikharos folded his hands around the tankard. "Suffering builds character."

"Indeed," Formora murmured. "It must mean you're quite the character."

"If you haven't figured that out yet then more fool you." Ikharos took another drink. He made a face and laid the tankard down. "Fuckin'... dangerously close to vinegar."

"An acquired taste, surely."

"How's one go about acquiring it?"

"Would that I knew."

Bruha returned with two steaming bowls. She laid them out in front of each of them. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," Ikharos told her. Bruha flashed him another smile before returning to the bar. He took up the spoon and stirred the stew about.

Formora mirrored the motion. Her appetite left her. Out of the corner of her eye she spied Ikharos staring into his own bowl.

"Are you going to eat that?" she asked, sighing.

"Why?"

Formora pushed her bowl over. "Meat."

Ikharos glanced at it. "So?"

"I can't."

"Vegetarian?"

"Elven."

Ikharos looked at her. "You say that like it means something."

"You'll learn."

"Or, you know, you could tell me."

Formora pressed her lips thinly together. "As I've said, we älfya can reach into the minds of those around us. We are too interconnected with the world. When you look into the thoughts of animals - bird, rodent, beasts of every kind - and share in their feelings, their drives, their emotions, you'll never stomach the idea of eating them ever again."

"You killed a man yesterday," Ikharos whispered. "Did you know how he felt? What drove him?"

"Did you?"

"Sure. That's why I killed the rest."

Formora shook her head. "It's not the same."

"Maybe not. Your choice."

"That easily?"

"What, you want me to force feed you?" Ikharos frowned. "I don't care how folk live, so long as they keep it civil. If you want to be vegetarian go ahead. More power to you."

"That's not a common mindset."

"I'm well aware. I'd be out of a job if it was." Ikharos looked down at his stew again, grimacing. He dropped his spoon.

"You aren't going to eat either, are you?"

"Can't."

"But not for the same reasons."

"No."

"Why?" Formora pressed. "Why do you insist on starving yourself?"

Ikharos shot her a warning look. "Don't."

"Help me understand."

"You don't need to. Stay in your own lane, let me stay in mine. You're the one who doesn't want to eat because of moral reasoning. Why does it make such a difference when it's me?"

"Because you're human. Not an elf."

"Yeah, well..." he sat back. "Fuck off."

They glared at one another.

"Excuse me," a voice chimed in. Formora glanced to the side - one of the soldiers had approached them. It didn't appear as if he'd heard what they'd been saying if the cautious smile was anything to judge. "I hope I'm not interrupting-"

The sight of the king's sigil did little for her mood. "Not at all," Formora said icily. "I was just leaving." She gathered up her belongings and left the booth behind. She approached the bar, where the innkeeper and Bruha were watching, and asked, "May I have the keys to our room?"

The innkeeper gestured sharply to his daughter. "'Course, 'course dearie. This 'un'll show you now."

Bruha offered her a fleeting smile. "Just this way." She stepped out and led Formora to the staircase. The room was on the second level, four doors down the hall. Bruha pushed it open; one of her sisters was inside, still laying out the sheets. She looked at them with mild surprise.

"I can finish that," Formora said. "I'd rather have some time to myself."

"Yes miss." The other girl left quickly. Bruha lingered by the door.

"I didn't..." she started to say, stammering. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean nothin' by it miss."

Formora gently laid her packs down. "Mean what?"

"Yer man-"

"He's not mine." Formora sighed and turned about. "No harm was done."

"Right." Bruha's head bobbed up and down, clearly relieved. "Me ma and pa would have me hide if I tried for a married man."

Was he? Formora couldn't recall. Ikharos certainly hadn't been forthcoming regarding his past. She hadn't spied a ring in any case. Another question for later, she decided - if there was a later. "Is there a market?" Formora asked, eager to think of something else. Something less aggravating. "We've lost much of our belongings on the trek."

"Summer market's long gone, but there could be folk who'd be happy to sell. What do ye need?"

"A new set of clothes, preferably. Rations for the road, bandages, salves - anything of the like."

"Seamstress just down the road, dock-side," Bruha told her, "an' there be a pedlar staying right here, but 'e's out on business."

"Do you know when he will return?"

"This evening. He always stays the night."

"Thank you."

"Do you want a tub drawn?"

A bath. The thought was tempting indeed, but Formora forced it from her mind. "Not now," she said. "Perhaps another time. Thank you, Bruha."

Bruha smiled hesitantly. "Sleep well, miss." She gently closed the door after her.

Formora heard a knock at the door. Hours had passed in the meantime; she'd spent them consolidating her thoughts to formulate a plan forward. Above all else only one thing mattered: finding the dragonling and reuniting it with Ikharos, all in the hopes they would take to each other. She tried to ignore the pervading fear that it would end in misery, that Agnisia or Skuldu or Ikharos himself would lash out and cut the dragon's delicate life short. It made her heart race and her breath stall in her lungs.

No. No, she wouldn't let it come to pass.

Another knock. Knuckles rapping against wood. She expanded her mind but found nothing on the other side. That was, for now, as much confirmation as any errant thought.

"What is it?" Formora challenged.

For a moment there was no reply. "Are you changing?" Ikharos asked eventually.

"I am not. You can come in."

The door swung open. Ikharos trudged inside and shut it behind him; he had a pile of clothes under one arm. He glanced about the room guardedly. "Cozy."

"It will do."

"One bed?"

"I thought it safer that-"

"Keep it. I'll take the floor." Ikharos stepped close and laid the pile out across the bed. "Waitress said you were asking after new attire. Thought I'd save us some time." He held up a long-sleeved tunic. "Took a rough guess at your size. If it doesn't fit I'll run down again."

"You... bought this?" Formora said incredulously.

Ikharos nodded. "Yeah."

"With what money?"

"Hm? Oh, this." He held out a pouch of clinking coins.

Formora gave him a dubious look. "You didn't steal it, did you?"

"No. Bartered upwards."

"How much..." Formora took the pouch and peeked inside. There were silvers and coppers in abundance. "How?"

"Economics, innit?" Ikharos set the tunic aside and unfolded a gaudy purple shirt. "What's wrong?"

"You have nothing on you. What do you have to barter?"

"This and that." He caught her look. "I am, on occasion, referred to as 'resourceful'. Here, see if this works." Ikharos plucked a dark grey jerkin. Formora took it and held it up. Even to her eye it was close to a perfect fit.

"How much did this cost?" Formora questioned.

"The whole lot? Three... thrones?"

"Crowns."

"That's the one. Three crowns' worth of nickels and shillings or whatever you call it. Think they were having a summer sale."

"It's almost wintertime."

"Belated summer sale then."

Formora snatched another article of clothing - a dark jacket with a white collar. "Put this on."

"Got it for you."

"Do as I say."

Ikharos glowered. "Fine." He stepped away and began working at the knots holding the coat of mail in place. Formora put the jacket aside and sidestepped around him, catching the knots and undoing them in quick order. "Thanks," he muttered, then shrugged the coat away. It fell in a clinking heap. Ikharos took up the jacket, pulled it on and held out his arms.

"Suits you fine," Formora remarked. "And it covers your neck."

The irritation faded from his face. "Right."

Formora stepped back. "What did he want?"

"Who?"

"The sergeant."

"Ah." Ikharos breathed in deeply. "His name's Ordock. He had a couple of questions. Cover story answered most of them."

"And the rest?"

"They were innocent enough. He wanted to know who we are, why we're here, and why we're dressed for war, how long we intend to say."

"And?"

"Bandit trouble. Fugitive. Won't stay long. Barrett and Syvonus."

"Good." She sat on the edge of the bed. "And the pedlar?"

"Pedlar?"

"There's a merchant here. Bruha told me we might purchase additional supplies off of him. He's due back this eve."

Ikharos frowned. "Evening's come and gone. I haven't seen anyone else. Couple of families, sure, and dock workers but... did she tell you his name?"

"I hadn't thought to ask for it. I'll investigate come morn." Formora began picking through the pile of clothes, sorting and folding them into two different groups. "Men's clothes only?"

"I considered a dress, but... wasn't sure if you'd abide it." Ikharos stood next to her. The jacket was in his hands. "Which is mine?"

"That one." Formora pointed to one of the groups. "I appreciate the thought, but there are expectations of women in human society."

"I don't care about expectations."

"So I've gathered."

"Is that going to be a problem?"

"Some day, certainly." Formora straightened. "But not today. Thank you for this. Truly."

Ikharos shifted uncomfortably. "Just a necessity."

"You took the initiative."

"I hate chainmail. Had to get something else."

"If you say so." Formora looked at him. "But I will need to change now."

"I'll be downstairs." Ikharos bowed his head, snatched up the jacket and left the room.

When midnight struck she left the room. Formora found him outside the front door, gazing out across the ocean. The skies were clear and the stars twinkled brightly, but his expression was stormy - tense.

"Do you miss them?" Formora whispered, curious. The cold wrapped around her, banishing the worst of the town's noxious fumes.

Ikharos half-jumped, head snapping around to stare at her. "Fucking... hell," he growled.

"Apologies."

He leaned back against the wall. "What was your question?"

"Do you miss them? Your soldiers?"

"That's a loaded question."

"Is it?"

Ikharos didn't immediately reply. Formora settled next to him and waited patiently. "They're obstinate morons, the lot of 'em," he said at last. "But I'm responsible for their lives. Puts me in a bind."

"... I see."

"No, that's not fair; there's few so well-educated or intelligent a people as theirs."

"Are you fond of them?"

"No. Not all. Certainly not most."

"But some?"

"Aye. There are some I'm close with." Ikharos glanced at her. "What about your friend, the other elf?"

"Enduriel? He was never a friend of mine."

"But you worked with him."

"To survive." Formora tilted her head curiously. "Is that not what you're doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your soldiers. They aren't your people."

"How do you figure that? Because I look different?"

"Yes."

Ikharos grunted. "You'd be right."

"So they aren't?"

"No. They've been loaned to me. And I don't like giving back broken goods."

"Who gave them away?"

"Their Empress. Now, if there's anyone I'm fond of, it's her. And the same must be true on her end, if she's entrusted me with so many lives. What a mess..." Ikharos trailed off.

"Are you confident they survived?" Formora cautiously asked.

"No." The response cut sharply through the brisk night air. She could see his breath fogging up. "We were fools to stick around so long. Elisabeth warned me about that. She said if we invited attention to ourselves we'd regret it. And lo, here we are."

"Here we are." Formora exhaled. "This... is not what I envisioned."

"I'm not your first choice, I know. You've made that very clear."

"I meant no offence."

"Yes you did. Don't you dare take it back."

Formora smiled despite herself. "One might think you thrive on dissent."

"Who doesn't love a good argument?" Ikharos paused. "What was so wrong with Enduriel?"

Her good humour abated. "He was a brute," Formora murmured. "A reckless, rude, tactless thug. More human than elf."

"That sounds dangerously close to an insult."

"It is." Formora shot him a dry look. "You know what I speak of."

"Oh, sure, but not all of us share the same prejudices," Ikharos retorted. "Careful now."

She closed her eyes. "For better or worse I mean what I say. He was graceless. All that was left to him was malice and envy. But he was the only choice I had."

"After you fled Alagaësia."

"Yes-" Formora looked at him, her brow furrowed.

"After you betrayed the king," Ikharos casually continued. He met her gaze evenly. Her heart ground to a standstill. The cold needled into her lungs to freeze her air in place. Ikharos's eyes were a-glow with the softest flicker of yellow-orange. There was something inside them, worked into his irises. "I'm no novice," he said softly. "I can put two and two together. Surely you knew I'd figure it out."

"... Eventually," Formora coolly replied. Her smile, her cheer - all of it was gone. Evaporated on the spot. "You said you saw me-"

"A memory."

"Whose?"

"Folk long dead. Folk you killed. There was a headland on the southwest of the island. You and a couple others fell upon a hamlet, put everyone to the blade or the torch. I saw a black dragon - the king's, I presume. Do you recall?"

"I recall." Formora's hand fell to Vaeta's hilt - not to draw, no, but for the sheer comfort of its familiarity, though that became a double-edged sword. She remembered with startling clarity how the blade had felt slickened with blood, how its weight shifted as she buried it in flesh. "It was not by choice."

"No?"

"You can't understand the scope of control he held over us."

"I saw you enter a hut," Ikharos continued. "Saw you with two others. A human. Another elf."

"Galbatorix," she whispered. "Glaerun."

(Pair of fools. Pair of monsters. Only Galbatorix survived to make the world weep.)

"I have to assume Galbatorix was the human. He killed Glaerun?"

Yes, she tried to say. Yes. But a long-buried oath prevented her.

"He ordered you to keep quiet about it," Ikharos remarked. Formora couldn't mask her surprise. He noticed - of course he noticed, he was too clever and aware, too sharp a study. "I heard it. So there were others. People he didn't want to learn about the murder. Who? How many?"

"Eleven, twelve including I," Formora said. This she could admit. "The Forsworn."

"Elaborate."

"Thirteen Riders together followed him. Followed Galbatorix. Glaerun was the first to die."

"You were one of them?"

Formora nodded stiffly.

"Why?"

"Some saw glory. Others sought vengeance. A few had little choice in the matter. I was the latter"

"There's always a choice."

"So sayeth the ignorant. When one holds hostage your name, you are but a vessel for their will. Nameya eru du galbast vanyali." (Names are the strongest magic.)

Ikharos's expression grew stony. "Explain."

Formora bristled. "Here?"

"... Another time, then. Sleep on it." Ikharos turned back to the sea. "Good night, Formora."

She pushed away from the wall and left without another word.

Formora woke up well before dawn. Voices were shouting below - frantic and confused. Ikharos looked at her from his makeshift bedroll by the door. Neither of them said a thing. She expanded the borders of her mind, reaching out to those below. What she found were notions of fear, concern, and

"-one fetch a physician!"

The soldier from the day before. Ordock. Through him Formora spied flashes of blood, torn cloth, discoloured flesh, a face tense with agony. It took her but moments to gather herself, donning a loose black shirt and riding trousers with Vaeta hanging by her hip. Ikharos dressed in a similar fashion, though he equipped only his curved knife. Together they slipped out into the hall and hurried down the stairs. Much of the inn's furniture had been shoved out of the way; one of the tables was laid out to support a mauled figure, well beyond recognition. The scent of human blood hung heavy in the air, carrying undertones of... rot.

A small crowd had gathered, but with a bark from Ordock most fled out the door. The innkeeper and his family scurried around the injured man, carrying pitchers of water and bloodied cloths.

"Out of the way," Ikharos snapped. Bruha and her mother flinched, automatically stepping away.

"Boy-" Ordock started to say

"There's no physician, sir," the innkeeper interrupted, panicked. He noticed Ikharos and hesitated. "Sirs."

Ordock tore his gaze away from Ikharos. "Who treats your sick?"

"Margaret, but she's-"

"Find her, bring her here."

"Yes sir." The innkeeper hurried outside. Ordock stepped close, hardly even looking at Formora.

"What do you think yer doing?" he growled.

"Trying to save this man's life," Ikharos retorted. "Make room."

"You're a learned man?"

"Sure." Ikharos waved Formora over. "What's the damage like?"

Formora looked the stranger's injuries over. They were... severe. "A mauling."

"Extreme laceration across the torso, right arm, left calf, and collarbone." Ikharos peered closer. "Trying to snag the jugular or windpipe. Talons everywhere else, teeth here."

"A wild animal?"

Ikharos paused. "Can you smell that?"

Formora nodded slowly. Yes, she said, projecting the thought his way. I can.

Dark ether, Ikharos grimly clarified. "Wounds need to be cleaned and closed fast. Clear alcohol - is there any here?"

"Sir?" the innkeeper's wife blinked. "I... I'll check-"

"No, no time." Ikharos gestured towards the bar. "Wine and water."

"He's lost too much blood," Formora observed. We can't do anything. If we reveal what we are capable of...

I'm well aware. Ikharos took a pitcher of water from Bruha and began dribbling it over the most worrisome injuries. "Flesh is already inflamed. He's in shock."

"What did this?" Ordock demanded.

"Something sick."

The injured man began to twitch.

"Shit. He's convulsing." Ikharos grabbed his arms and held them steady. "Serjeant, his legs."

Ordock caught them.

"Synvonus-"

Formora took Ikharos's place. He grabbed a bottle of wine from the innkeeper's wife and popped off the cork. "It's better to clean with water," Formora pointed out.

"Whatever attacked him was filthy," Ikharos explained. "If we don't treat it now he'll die of blood poisoning in a couple days' time." He glanced Ordock's way. "Who is he?"

"The pedlar," Bruha said in a small voice.

"Alor. A travelling merchant," Ordock clarified. He grimaced. "He'd only paid his tariffs three days ago. Was due to return south within the next fortnight."

"Little chance of that now."

The pedlar shook violently, spine shooting up. Formora heard the crack of bones. Someone - Bruha or another of the girls - gave a frightened cry.

Too late, Ikharos reported with alarm. Ether's in his system.

How dangerous is it?

Normal Ether entering the bloodstream will kill a mortal man within minutes. Dark Ether-

The pedlar hacked red. His eyes lolled sightlessly back into his head. His body was moving - muscles tightening, tearing, blood blooming beneath his skin like budding flowers. He fought her hold with strength well beyond his means.

"Get back! Let go of him!" Ikharos shouted. Formora leapt away. Ordock was slower; he sprawled on his rear as the pedlar kicked him away. The table groaned, unable to withstand so much punishment. A huge boil rapidly formed along the pedlar's neck, near the bite, and it glowed. A sickly blue essence pulsed beneath the taut skin, growing and growing-

Ikharos moved, caught Formora's shoulders and pulled her behind him just as it popped. She heard a sickening splatter, followed by a thump - and then... silence.

"Gods," Ordock gasped.

One of the girls screamed and ran up the stairs. The door opened and the innkeeper entered, followed by an elderly woman, but the sight that greeted them stopped them in their tracks.

"Are you okay?" Ikharos murmured.

"Yes." Formora looked past him. There was nothing left of the pedlar above the shoulders. She could see the gleam of ribs lathered in wet ash. A thick, pungent steam rose from the body. She raised her sleeve to her nose to ward it away. One of the table's legs suddenly gave way and it listed to the side. The body fell in a heap on the floor.

Ordock stormed to his feet. He stared - then turned and trudged out the door. She caught enough of his thoughts to know what he meant to do. "We have to go," Formora said quietly. Ikharos glanced at her. "Now."

He nodded and released her.

"Prepare the horses. I'll fetch our belongings." Formora made for the stairs. No one tried to stop her. Once in their room she flurried about it, gathering everything into a bag and cradling the rest in her arms. She raced back down through the tavern and out the door, ignoring the perturbed stares of those inside. Beyond the inn's threshhold she was met with some confused looks by sleepy-eyed passersby - the entirety of Narda was in the midst of waking up. Formora had almost reached the stables when the hue-and-cry was raised.

But when she entered the stables, Ikharos wasn't present. The stablehand stood waiting, holding the reins to their horses, and he yawned, wiping the slumber from his eyes with the back of his hand. He perked up at the sight of her. "Miss!"

"Where is he?" Formora hotly demanded, already impatient.

"Your-"

"Yes."

"He told me to get your animals ready."

"Did you see where he went?"

The boy shook his head. "No? Should I-"

"Go inside," Formora ordered, "and lock your doors."

"Miss?"

"Do it." She thrust her mind forward, ensuring he did as she said. The boy was none the wiser. Formora took the horses from him and quietly ordered them to stay still as she filled the saddlebags. The stablehand hesitated and left her be, slipping back inside the adjoining house. When she finished, and there was still no more sign of Ikharos, Formora muttered a swear and expanded the borders of her consciousness. She swept over human after human, each of them unwitting towards the power she held over them, until-

The gate. A pair of Imperial soldiers were arguing with someone - someone she couldn't sense.

"Medh edtha," Formora whispered. The horses' ears pricked. She mounted one and led them both outside. The streets were filling with people, confused and tired and looking at her, staring, wondering-

This was the very thing she'd hoped to avoid.

Formora cut through the press towards the southern gatehouse. She spied him there, glaring at one of the soldiers. Five local militiaman stood a couple of yards away, watching the exchange transfixed. Many of them were pale-faced, trying to hide their fears behind a veneer of false bravado.

"I'm not to speak of it," the soldier huffed. His compatriot glanced at Formora warily, fingering the hilt of his sword. "The captain ordered it."

"Fine, keep your silence. You!" Ikharos pointed to one of the militiaman. "Where'd you find the merchant?"

"S-sir..." The man looked between nervously. "We 'eard him screamin'. Was near the old crossroads, he was. By the ford."

"In what manner did you find him?"

"Sir?"

"What did you see?"

"'E was on the ground, sir, I... His wagon was broke and his animal - slaughtered it was. Must've been a bear. A great big brown one from the Spine."

"Did you see him leave?"

"Aukmar did this mornin'. Said he was going to Deni's farm - his wife makes shell beads. Alor sells them in the cities."

"Was there anyone with him?"

"There..." the militaman's eyes widened. "Oh, ye sweet gods."

"Speak up!"

"His young 'un, the boy! We didnae see him there, sir!"

"Fuck. Fuck!" Ikharos began pacing. "A boy? How old?"

"Ten, eleven summers?"

"Fuck sake." Ikharos turned to Formora. "We're going. Now."

"The fuck you aren't," the outspoken Imperial snapped. His companion put a hand on his shoulder in warning, but he was undeterred. "Captain's ordered that folk're to stay here. Until our patrol comes back, this'll be where yer staying. His word is the king's."

"Fuck your king," Ikharos growled. He towered over the pair of them, his shoulders hunched and hands balled into fists by his side. "How's that?"

None said a thing. The first soldier drew his weapon - that was answer enough. The second soldier tugged him back, whispering, "No. Not here. Throl, no."

Throl had eyes only for Ikharos. "Care to repeat yourself?"

Ikharos narrowed his eyes. Then - so quickly only Formora could follow - he pulled his knife free, batted the arming sword aside and pressed it against Throl's throat. "Fuck. Your. King."

Throl froze. As did the other soldier. None of the militiamen made a move to help.

"Syvonus," Ikharos said.

Formora drove the horses past them. The armed men beyond quickly made way. Ikharos shoved Throl back and hurried after her, climbing atop the other horse as quickly as he could. Together they rode fast into the night.

"A day!" she shouted. Her hair whipped in the wind, lashing across the back of her neck. "Not even that!"

"You agreed!" Ikharos fired back. They galloped down an old road as fast as they dared. Formora didn't want to lose a horse to a ditch or pothole, but now they had little choice in the matter.

"To leave! Quietly! This is everything I wanted to avoid!"

"Oh, come off it!" In his anger Ikharos had lost his reservations regarding horseriding. Gone were the halting, uncertain motions, forgotten was the look of unease - now all that was left in its wake was sheer drive. "The Scorn are here!"

"Vëoth," Formora said, and the horses slowed to a brisk jaunt. She shot Ikharos a furious look. "I no more want to engage the ghouls than you, but-"

"That's not it."

"That's not what?"

"They're here now," Ikharos said coldly. "You know what draws them? Hm?"

"... Thoughts," Formora recalled.

"Higher beings. Psychic energy is an unquantifiable facet of the universe, but the Scorn love it. They are psychic beings. And when they detect the thoughts of something that isn't Scorn, they kill it."

"If they've arrived here-"

"Then it's because there's nothing left on Vroengard to catch their attention. You told me before that there were millions of people here. Millions. That's enough to draw them in."

"Their skyship-"

"Oh, that's not what I'm worrying about. Scorn don't need to breathe, nor do they tire. They'll cross oceans to find their prey." Ikharos scowled. "Exposure, predation, pressure - none of it kills them. They can recover from any injury, and they'll track living beings for weeks on end. There could be a migrant horde on top of us any day now."

"I'm aware of the threat they pose," Formora snapped. "Narda's walls won't hold them."

"Walls? They'll be coming in from the sea! They'll hit the docks first and work their way up."

"Then why haven't they?"

Ikharos paused. "Cities to the south, denser press of minds. Must've thrown them off. Most of them are little more than base animals."

"Most?"

"You don't want to know."

"But I do!" Formora retorted. "I want to know risk they pose that we might avoid it."

"Avoid?" Ikharos gave her a strange look. "I'm not avoiding them. I'm going to call them towards me."

"No."

"One thing they love more than thinking beings is Light. Any Scorn in the area for miles around won't be able to resist."

"Ikharos-"

"And you'll take the opportunity to find the lad and bring him back to safety."

"No. No! Letta!" The horses stopped. Formora turned to him. "We are leaving. The Scorn would have killed us on Vroengard. They almost did time and again. I won't allow for another chance."

"That's not your choice to make."

"I have the power to make it so." They glared at each other.

"You do that," Ikharos snarled, "and I'll put you in the ground."

"We have our own lives to think of."

"Never. Never. If I don't do this more people will die."

"People will die," Formora argued. "There's nothing you can do about it. Humans-"

"Deserve their chance to live. I'm tired of losing. Thought you understood that." Ikharos urged his horse to move but it remained in place, held by her instructions. With a grunt of frustration he dismounted and pulled his bracers free of the saddlebags. "I'm going to do this regardless. You can either help or you can fuck off."

"You are a fool," Formora bitterly called after him. He marched away, leaving his back to her. The urge to lay him low with a spell was tempting. So, so very tempting. "A half-witted buffoon!"

"Quiet."

"You'd throw all my years of isolation, all my sacrifice away on the basis of pride and ego! Decades I've waited for that egg to hatch, decades I've planned for someone-"

"Quiet!" Ikharos stopped by the end of the road. He stared at something beyond the treeline. She could hear the trickle of water. And... the sudden wet sound of flesh tearing. Formora directed the horses forward, muffling the sounds of their hooves hitting the ground with a whispered spell. She likewise muffled their scent, though she wondered if it would amount to anything.

There, at the edge of a shallow stream, listed a wooden wagon. Its contents laid scattered across the banks, while half-submerged in the waters was a dead mule. A pair of pale gangly creatures crawled over it, tearing its flesh apart with needling teeth and jagged mandibles. White sightless eyes burned bright in the darkness of the small hours, filled with nothing but bottomless hunger. Scorn. Two of them. Even familiar as she now was, the horror of their putrid carcasses never ceased to upset her. Her father had told her, once, that every living thing was beautiful in its own way.

But not the Scorn. Never them. They were horrors, utterly, and every facet of them was wrong, twisted, warped by fell magics well beyond her comprehension.

The two feasting on the mule were lightly adorned. One of them had a totem of crude steel nailed to the back of its skull and a loose pus-yellow tunic wrapped around its torso, while the other was completely bare but for a loincloth. The latter was thinner, longer-limbed, and appeared to be in the process of developing the same bloated boils that had killed the pedlar.

"The boy's not here," Ikharos observed.

"He will not have survived," Formora said.

"If there's a chance-"

"There isn't."

"I'm working on the assumption there is one, so tough." Ikharos lifted his knife, took aim and threw it. It soared far - and struck the bloated Scorn by the base of its skull. It erupted on the spot and the ensuing explosion destroyed both packmate and the mule both. Ikharos opened his hand. Filthy but whole the knife flew back to him. "If there's others nearby they'll have felt the deaths. Best be quick."

"We need to leave," Formora repeated. "Irregardless of the Scorn, you've made a scene with the Empire. They'll not forget that. They'll not forget us."

"What does that matter?" Ikharos twirled around and held his arms out. "Because from what I've seen it's just more mortals. If it bothers you so much, go somewhere else."

"He'll find me."

"Who? Galbatorix?"

"Yes, him!" Formora dismounted and prodded Ikharos's chest with an accusing finger. "You know nothing of what I suffered, what I persevered through."

"Haven't mentioned it 'til now," he huffed. Oh how she despised him.

"Because I hadn't thought I would need to! I asked - asked you to avoid making a scene, asked you to keep from drawing attention!" Formora glowered. "I've gone to lengths to keep you alive, against your own efforts. But you and your ego and your temper and your stubbornness."

"Because I won't play along? That's it, isn't it? The same as those people on Vroengard - they didn't do as you asked so you killed them. Burned them."

"That's... not the same." She tightened her jaw.

"Bull. Shit."

"He had my name! My truest name in the ancient language. There was nothing I could do!"

"Well, would you look at that, now's the fucking time!" Ikharos stepped away and made for the ford. "There's a boy out here in the woods, lost and scared and quite possibly injured. His father's just been killed by Scorn. If you turn your back on that I'll never forgive you."

"I'm not looking for your forgiveness," Formora said irritably.

"Just my cooperation, right?" Ikharos shot her a seething look. "I'm not your Dragon Rider. I'm not your mage. I'm a Guardian and that's it. My prerogative, my entire reason for being here is to protect good people from the Scorn, so that's what I'm going to do. If you're not going to chip in, go now. Go."

"You know I can't."

"Then maybe consider doing something helpful. Or is that too much to ask for one of the Forsworn?"

Formora raged. "You did not-"

"I did. What are you going to do? Kill me? Put me under a spell?" Ikharos swivelled around. "I fucking dare you."

"You..."

"Me." He turned on his heel and ran his offhand through the air. In the same manner as she'd witnessed on Vroengard, before Moraeta's Spire, the colours of the living world shifted, turned grey - and gave rise to phantasmal shapes. A wagon trundled down the opposite bank, but the mule stopped. The driver, the pedlar, whipped it hard but the beast remained in place, whinnying fearfully. Beside him sat a child - a human child, his features muddled by the vision.

"Wait here," the pedlar said and dismounted. His son handed him a lit torch. "What's the matter?" he murmured. "What's-"

Something large darted in from seaward. It threw him aside in its charge and slammed into the mule, tearing the animal free of its harnesses and forcing it to the ground in but the blink of an eye. It was a Scorn, but larger than most. Piecemeal armour covered its body. It drove the mule onto its flank with its claws and slashed at it with a jagged blade, yipping like a madman. A hoof caught its jaw and the sheer force of the blow twisted its head about with such force its neck audibly broke, but the bones rewrought and the flesh knitted back together. It lowered its head, closed its mangled jaws around the mule's throat and tore out its windpipe.

Then it turned on the pedlar. And it was not alone. "Destris!" the merchant cried. He stumbled back, waving the torch. The smaller Scorn instinctively retreated from the open flames, circling about the man like prowling wolves. They were a rabid sort, most of them without weapons or apparel at all. "Destris!"

One of them, noteworthy only for the mass of knotted scar tissue grown over its weeping eyesockets, lunged and caught the pedlar's arm with its claws. The effect was immediate - he all but ran from them. And the Scorn gave chase.

"Here." Ikharos crossed the ford. The boy had climbed into the back of the wagon, Formora saw, under a canvas held down by ropes. The lead Scorn turned and stalked over. It gargled words in its own alien speech, a cross between wet gurgles and sibilant hissing. One of its mandibles hung limp but the other clicked against its yellowed teeth. It reached for the canvas, ripped through it with its claws and tore away a handful of produce and petty goods. The child emerged on the other side and ran, back down into the wood, while the Scorn upended the wagon's cargo across the river bank.

The illusion faded. Formora's heart was in her throat. Her mouth was dry. She'd almost forgotten to breathe.

"That chance enough?" Ikharos dryly shot over his shoulder. He stopped by the wagon. "Chieftain let her pack have their fun, but she's moved on. With Narda so close... she may have picked out other prey."

"... She?" Formora echoed incredulously.

"Yeah, she. Looks like a former Winter Captain." Ikharos exhaled hard. "Know folk who wouldn't like to hear that."

Formora hesitantly crossed over to him. "They were hunting."

"Yeah."

"People."

"That's what Scorn do." Ikharos knelt down. "Tracks here. Hard to make out."

Formora looked at the ground. "I can see them."

"Good, because you'll be following them."

"Ikharos-"

"Please." Ikharos looked at her. The anger was still there, but there was desperation too. "Formora, please. He's a boy."

"A boy you don't know."

"When has that ever mattered?"

She grimaced. "... So be it."

"Thank you."

"But on one condition."

"What?"

"That you live. That you promise me you will live."

An expression of impatience crossed Ikharos's face. "I promise."

"In the ancient language."

"Damn you."

"Swear it," Formora pressed.

"I don't have the words."

"Eka weohnata néiat deyja thornessa myrkí. Repeat it."

Ikharos took a deep breath. "Eka weohnata néiat deyja... thornessa myrkí."

"Good." Formora called one of the horses over in the ancient language. "We'll reconvene at dawn."

"Noon."

"Ikharos..."

"Noon," Ikharos argued. "I'll need time to deal with them. If I'm to fight them alone and come out of it alive, it won't be quick."

"But you will come out of it alive."

"Provided there's no surprises along the way. Scorn I can handle."

"I'll take your word for it." Formora looked out to the forest. "There's a cove not far down the coast. We'll find each other there."

"No. By the sea? No, could run into more Scorn."

"Then where?"

"Crossroads nearby. One of those soldiers said something about them?"

Formora shook her head. "It's too close."

"I'll drag the Scorn away."

"It's not the Scorn I worry about."

"Look, we don't have the luxury to worry about that right now." Ikharos sheathed his knife. "I have to go. So do you. Crossroads, noon. Yeah?"

"As you wish."

He winced. "Yeah," he said lowly. "Sure. Good luck."

Formora didn't deign to respond. She mounted up and set off down the road. The stench of blood and rot followed her the whole way.

AN: Special thanks to Nomad Blue for the editz