"culminate, dominate, aggravate"

She watched as he scratched at it, rubbed it, attempted to rip from his skin in vain - to remove the impossible mark, the wraith-trick, the soul-brand set to snare. He might have done something more drastic if Formora hadn't grabbed his wrist and held it steady. The brand began to fade before her very eyes. Ikharos drew his fingernails over it with enough force to draw blood.

"Enough!" Formora snapped. The gedwëy ignasia disappeared. She twisted his hand over to inspect his palm, but it wasn't there either. No sign of it remained. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Ikharos said frantically. He pulled free and stormed to his feet, breathing quickly. "I didn't do anything."

"You bonded..." Formora started to say, awed, until she saw his stormy expression. "Calm yourself."

He plucked up Múspel and filled his offhand with glowing violet - the same limb that had carried the mark. With a flourish he drew it along the flamberge's sinuous edge, instilling the coiling blade with an otherworldly power. For a breathless moment she saw sword's predecessor, armed for grim war, but she shook her head to rid herself of the vision.

(Too whole, too intact to ever be Peredhón, left to expire in the shadow of the Blasted Mountain.)

Ikharos rolled his shoulders. She saw his muscles tense; she watched his eyes flare with wordless magic. "Ikharos," she said, cutting in front of him. "They've left."

He refocused on her. "Can you track them?"

Could she? Formora glance around the glade. The smell of ash and fire weighed heavily in the air, overlaid with the cloying scents of pine needles and decaying leaves. They'd only departed recently.

"What did it... what did it do to me?" Ikharos growled. His gaze dropped to his hand. The mark briefly flickered to life on his skin, only to dissipate once more in the blink of an eye, winking at them without any semblance of regularity. It swayed like tongues of flame, drained to grey and worked into unwilling flesh. Though the shape of it resembled her own, the nature of it was distinct.

"It has claimed you," Formora said softly - wary of his simmering temper. Ikharos shot a look at her.

"It... dares?" His teeth clenched and hands shook. "I'll kill it. I'll fucking kill it."

Formora's breath stalled in her chest, shocked. For a moment she did not know what to think, so fierce was his vitriol, only for Elisabeth's whispered warnings to resurface. Her first instinct was to match him fury for fury, to turn to the simple solution of violence for the sake of pride, only for grim resolution to replace it.

(To kill was the easy option. Easy - and wrong.)

"There's nothing," she said- no, she lied. "They've covered their trail."

Ikharos stared at her. "You're defending it," he said. The anger flushed his cheeks. "You're defending that thing. Were those Ahamkara on Vroengard not enough for you?"

"Ikharos-"

"Don't. Don't you fucking dare. Don't give me hope one moment, then kill me the next." He lowered his sword. Ikharos glared at her accusingly, wounded. "You'd choose a dragon over a city full of people?"

"Full of humans," Formora corrected. The words came unbidden, without conscious thought. She regretted them the moment they flew from her lips.

His shoulders slumped. "There I was, thinking you cared," Ikharos murmured. "But you don't. You're just serving yourself."

"Myself? I serve at the expense of myself."

"Is that what you call self-preservation?"

"Was it self-preservation that drove me to save you from the Scorn?"

"Destris is dead. The fucking Scorn killed him. I had to beg you to find him in the first place." Ikharos exhaled fitfully. "You convinced me to give them Agnisia. You did that."

"You never told me what you intended to do with the dragon." The affront, the rage built to a pyre, roiling for action. A warrior's instinct - one she so desperately tried to smother. It was too much - too much feeling, too sudden. "You are my purpose here. You and him both."

Ikharos narrowed his eyes. "'Him'?"

"Yes, your dragon." Even the diaphanous veil of manifested memory couldn't hide it from her. The horns were longer, the snout, neck and torso narrower, the muscles less defined. A sleeker beast than her own had ever been. "It is male."

"And you can tell it just like that?"

"I know dragons. I understand them." Formora steadied her voice, schooled her expression. "What I cannot comprehend is you."

"They tried to kill you too."

"I won't forgive them. But neither shall I-" Something caught her eye. It had been naught but a streak of white amidst the browns of the surrounding foliage, quick to disappear. Formora instinctively pulled Vaeta free.

Ikharos frowned at her. "What are you..." His words trailed off. With a jerk he straightened up, more a marionette set to an unseen puppeteer's rhythm, and his eyes a-glowed with shining gold. He sighed, exhaling through clenched teeth. "Oh fuck me."

In the very next moment the witch was upon them, cackling madly. Formora ducked back; ivory shell flashed before her eyes, swathed in a shawl of crackling blue. Agnisia struck for Ikharos, scoring his clothes and flesh with her claws. He caught her with the back of a violet hand, and shattered the visor that covered her face. His counterattack was cut short when a second Agnisia reared up behind him.

"Brisingr." Formora's hand shot out, directly the spell over his shoulder. The lance of heated air split the witch's illusion apart, cracking it like ethereal glass - revealing the flaming bright glyph at its heart. With a twitch of her finger and an assertion of will, Formora coiled the burning air around the glyph much like a serpent, tightening until its shape snapped and burned out. Shards of Agnisia flew in every direction until the moment the hex waned, dissipating into nothing more than a fine mist. It carried the scent of vanilla and mint, along with a thousand other indecipherable things.

She turned to the other, under the assumption that Ikharos would require aid, only to find him playing with his witch. It hissed and bit at empty air, slashing frantically with its elongated claws, yet he remained just out of reach - first here, then there, ceasing to be in one place and manifesting in another. The shimmering reflection of Agnisia spewed incomprehensible expletives in a language that pained Formora to hear.

"You are mine," Ikharos snarled in a voice deeper and darker than any she'd heard of him. "You are a trophy, a souvenir, a living reminder of a dead queen's failed gambit. You claim to be a hunter, a predator, but all you are is sustenance. A roadside snack to tide me by."

Agnisia's arm shot out. Ikharos teleported away - still close, close enough to kiss her or drive a knife between her ribs. "I'll make you bleed for this," he swore. "I'll make you hurt."

The witch lunged, her talons aimed for his throat - only for Ikharos' flesh to turn to thick violet smoke. It wrapped around her, burning and choking and coiling. Formora watched in muted horror as Agnisia's armour, her skin, her tattered robes began to churn and boil. Her flesh rippled with lightning; the mist recoiled, then tightened its hold. It grew concentrated blades - fangs, she thought - and plunged them through the witch's broken body, piercing the ghostly rune at its heart. Agnisia melted into dust. Ikharos consolidated in her place, his wounds closing of their own volition. He looked at her with wary concern. "Are you hurt?"

Formora shook her head.

"Good. That's good."

"This was a mistake." Formora turned her attention to the surrounding forest. "We never should have come."

"It was your decision. Your-"

A dull roar echoed above. A shadow, so large it eclipsed the entire glade, fell over them. The trees shook as a sudden gust of wind streamed from above. It tugged at her sleeves, her sword; it threatened to pluck her up and carry her away, and would have if not for the quick spell she muttered, pinning her boots to the ground. Formora raised her eyes to the belly of a dirk-shape craft. The same from Vroengard's sky.

It was the Scorn.

"Ketch," Ikharos shouted. She almost didn't hear him. "FUCK!"

For a moment Formora feared it had come for them. She remembered the fire it spat, the devastation it wrought; she watched the weapons on its flank rotate... and settle for somewhere beyond. With a groaning lurch and the whip of much displaced air it sliced forwards, seawards, away from them.

Towards Teirm.

"Oh fuck," Ikharos grunted. His jaw tightened. Flames spilled from his shoulders, forming wings that fell from his back like a great cloak. "Fucking bastards. DAMN IT ALL!"

"Ikharos-" Formora warned - and in vain. Before she had even finished his name he disappeared. Teleported. Towards another reckless end. Formora closed her eyes; the anger and frustration threatened to boil over. For a long moment she considered leaving. The fool desired this surefire death? Let him have it.

If only the fool hadn't hatched the egg. If only, if only, if only!

She began running before she could second guess herself, before the fear could take control. The trail Ikharos left in his wake was readily apparent: the suffocating stench of smoke and streak of ash, cut off at those points where he ceased to be a physical entity. All notions of hiding his true nature were forgone. Formora followed it until the forest gave out and the Ketch loomed overhead-

-and she watched in terrified awe as it bridged a lance of devastating heat between itself and the city below. Teirm's ancient lighthouse blew apart. The thunderous sound of it rolled across the field to her, shaking her very bones, followed closely by the thousandfold screams. Smaller bulb-shaped craft detached from beneath the Ketch and eagerly dove towards the city. Those she remembered. Transports, filling the roles of troop convoys and battle-hardened dragons of war both.

Formora's gaze dropped to the winged figure cresting over the city's walls - gliding towards the madness. Ikharos! she called, expanding her mind wider than she considered safe. IKHAROS!

If he heard her, he gave no answer. Ikharos dropped beyond her sight. With a muttered curse in every language she knew Formora gave frantic chase. Those humans barred outside the walls fled at the sight of the Ketch with no care for their destination. Though some followed the roads, many simply raced for the forest. Formora was forced to leap around a throng of whimpering refugees and dodge a stampeding horse utterly beyond its rider's control, though soon found herself at the base of Teirm's walls. With nary a pause she scaled up the near-flat surface, finding what scarce handholds she could and vaulting between them. It took the use of magic to propel her up the last segment and over the ramparts.

She looked up at the Ketch, but its armaments did not swivel to destroy her. Their attention was drawn to the city's core - where they struck seemingly at random and in no apparent hurry. It was then she saw why - dark, slim figures plummeted down through the sky, dropping out of the craft's cleft stomach, to the city below. Formora watched as a flailing Scorn creature fell and struck the roof of a nearby building with such force every bone in its body snapped, and its limp form slid off the edge to the streets below. Humans cried out and ran from it; the Scorn stood up, already recovering from its fatal fall, and soon gave chase.

Formora leapt from the wall and softened her landing with a spell. She raised her blade and the crowd, always wary at the sight of naked steel, parted before her. The pursuing Scorn all but ran itself through on Vaeta's length. Formora savagely twisted the sabre free of the monster's ribcage and sliced across its hips, leaping out of reach of its claws. It collapsed onto its four hands, snapping at the air as it went, and crawled towards her. Formora ran a hand down Vaeta's length, giving the blade jagged Stasis teeth, and chopped down on the Scorn's skull as it approached. The crystal caught within its flesh and froze it solid inside and out; with a jerk she pulled her sabre free. The Scorn shattered - and was no more.

"Eitha!" she shouted to those humans foolish enough to linger, to watch. "Hlaupa!" (Leave. Run.)

Another Scorn, smaller, revealed itself with a howl perched on a balcony above. Its teeth were already wet with red. Formora ran forth, bounded up the wall and beheaded it as she passed, catching on the edge of the building's rough shingles as her momentum gave out. With a flick of her finger she captured its remains in a Duskfield, destroying it with a single malign thought.

She pulled herself up. Similar scenes were unfolding across the city as far as she could see. Scorn rained down in their dozens, throwing themselves to break against the cobblestones and shingles, only to rise and set upon the populace with vicious glee. Nearby, a church of man suddenly erupted with crackling blue, flinging shattered stonework in every direction. The heat flared across her side. Formora suffered it in stride, searching desperately for a sign, for anything-

Fire against the horizon, fluttering against the sea.

Formora ran. She darted across each roof, climbing higher and higher the closer she was to Teirm's fortified heart, until a lance of Ketch lightning lashed across the earth and she was forced to descend upon the streets to avoid the gouging beam. The current of humans, so desperate to escape the cage the city had become, worked against her. She almost fell as they barged into her, fought to stay standing, and soon realized that which they were running from. A rotting hand caught her hair and wrenched her hair back. Formora heard screams, but all she could see was the Scorn's teeth. She lashed out at it, drove her fingers through its jellied eyes and froze whatever remnants of a brain still lurked in its distended skull. It let go and staggered away - and Formora allowed the current to take her.

She glanced back, but most of those behind her were the dead. Nearly too late she turned ahead and leapt over a fallen body - still alive, she realized later, which was all that the distraction the Scorn needed. Ghouls fell on the human in place of her and she pushed through the stragglers to slip through an alley. Other Scorn, drawn by the gathered thoughts of so many living people, passed by without throwing even a single glance her way.

At the other end of the alley she heard the battle cry of soldiers and the clang of steel on steel. Formora approached only so far as to see a throng of king's men having upturned a set of wagons and bracing pikes against what first appeared to be their own people, followed shortly by the Scorn. The barriers lasted only so long as there were living people on the far side for the Scorn to kill - which was mere moments. The living dead crawled over the wagons and threw themselves at the footsmen. Many were caught on spearpoints; Formora watched as one actively pulled itself along the weapon to reach the wielder. Another turned to Dark Ether and passed through the soldiers' ranks, solidifying once in range to tear a man's throat out. One of the wagons was outright lifted by a bloated lumbering mutant - an abomination of frightening proportions. It tossed the wagon behind it and raised a hand to allow concentrated whips of lightning to rip out of its sizzling palm.

Formora closed her eyes to the slaughter and breathed in deeply. Her heart hammered so fast she feared it would fire straight out of her chest. The stench of smoke and pus was overpowering, but the sounds were worse. The volume alone was crippling, and she winced with every shot the Ketch fired. Soon, though, she found her footing - and stepped out into the open. Formora tossed a growing Duskfield at the foot of the giant Scorn. It turned around with an indignant moan, only to freeze in place. The others - those ghouls still free to move - snarled and converged on her. Formora met the mist-walker first, slowing its charge until it was forced to assume a physical body. She took Vaeta to its head, carved its chest open and filled its sundered form with growing crystal. The rest she corralled in place, mindful that the duskfield wouldn't hold forever, until she had each living corpse lined up.

"Boetk istalrí," Formora whispered. A river of fire erupted from her gedwëy ignasia, bathing the Scorn in heat until their flesh melted from their bones. Even the abomination burned; the growing field of Stasis made no effort to extinguish the flames. She supported the spell until each of the monsters were vanquished. Formora gasped for breath in the aftermath. A flurry of movement drew her attention, finding the surviving soldiers in the midst of fleeing down the street - only to fall prey to another pack of Scorn. The beasts lunged from the shadows, hacking with rusted weapons until each human lay dead.

Then they turned to her.

Formora cursed and ran. She heard them give chase - yipping and howling, their bare feet slapping against the road. She jumped for one of the wagons set out and used it to spring herself through a half-shuttered window. Formora tumbled across the wooden floor and quickly resumed her flight. Crawls scrabbled at the window behind her. She descended a flight of stairs, shoved open a door on the other side and staggered out-

Someone hit her, twisted her around. Formora caught their arm to steady herself and looked upon a frightened boy, almost a man.

"Let go!" someone else shouted. An older man, forcing himself between them. Formora turned to look at him, jolting with surprise. Her grip weakened. The boy wriggled free and the two fled without another word, disappearing into the crowd. She had to remember the Scorn before she managed to shake her reverie. She shut the door to the house behind her, froze the lock solid and pressed herself against the side of the road to avoid running into another careless human. A fire had been set out at the end of the street, golden and fierce, and she knew in her heart that those were far from natural flames. He was close by.

Almost as if ordained a clap of thunder rebounded along the walls, echoing from the shipyards. Formora exhaled deeply and set off in search of the cause. She found it near the remains of the Briar's Heart. The inn was a ruin, smashed open by the ragged remains of a fishing boat still dripping seawater. There were bodies in the rubble, and across the street, but all too few of those were still alive. Somewhere, she heard a dog barking. Somewhere, someone was weeping. Somewhere, a Scorn was muttering the words fatherfatherfatherfather.

Another fishing boat, entirely aflame, smashed along the seaboard. Out of the splintering wreck Ikharos emerged, winged and resplendent in his Light. He braced, then launched through the air, only to be flung back. A gargantuan Scorn lumbered after him. Unlike most of its kind it still retained some degree of decency - tattered, stained garb hung across its body, running in tattered threads under each limb. Crude heavy plate had been nailed to its arms, its chest and knees. A pale blue cloak hung from its shoulders, some unfamiliar glyph neatly embroidered in the cloth painted over with human blood in the shape of the Scorn's own insignia. Torn metal sheets had been wrought around its neck, providing it an imitation of an ornate frill. Its helmet, like most of its kind, was a blank shell locked around its head. Only its slavering jaws remained free. The crest atop its helm was tall, built in the fashion of an ascending tower, and crucified upon it was the corpse of a metal man.

The Scorn twirled a long chain connected to a burning barred cauldron in one hand and boasted a kind of crossbow with the other. "Ffffllllayyyy..." it groaned. Its voice chilled her. "Fffllayy lllliiife."

Ikharos picked himself off the road. He caught sight of her and paused - his expression hardening - then turned to the Scorn with Múspel in hand. "Psesiskar," he snarled, though he made no move to attack. Neither did the Scorn. It simply looked at him. Formora realised it was smiling

"Psessssisssskar," it said, tasting the word. It dribbled from its mouth warped and broken. "Yyyyyessss. Piirlaaks ffllaaaaaayyy. Ffflayy... for... Shelbth." The creature continued, though its speech grew incomprehensible.

"Where are they?" Ikharos demanded. "Why aren't they here themself?"

The Scorn laughed - a mocking, sickly sound. The call was taken up by other Scorn emerging all along the street, from windows and roofs and piles of rubble. Formora, wary of the dead eyes watching her every move, slowly approached. Ikharos, she said, projecting her mind towards him. Run with me.

"Rrrrrun?" the massive Scorn echoed. Formora stalled as it turned to scrutinise her. It sounded... confused. "Rrrrruuuunnn."

"No." Ikharos turned a cool, unperturbed look on her. "Not this time. Go."

(She doubted they would let her.)

Formora scowled. "This city is lost."

"I can buy them time."

"Ikharos-"

"Nnnnno," the Scorn interjected. "No rrrruuun. Shelbth... nnn... nnnneeeed... neeeed liiiife. Give liiife. Flaaaaay life."

"Where is Shelbth?" Ikharos called out.

"Hhhhere." The Scorn's words turned to a hacking cough. When it recovered it pointed with the hand holding the chain to itself. "Piirlaaks... ssserve. Piirlaaks... here. Piirlaaks kill."

"And Xhafi? Zendolyn-Far?"

"Nn-nnn-nama! No!" the Scorn, Piirlaaks, growled. It lashed at its own stomach with its secondary arms, digging bloodied furrows in its decrepit flesh. "Flay! Flay ffffor Shelbth!"

"I won't ask again," Ikharos snapped. "Where is Shelbth?"

"Here! HEREHEREHEREHEREHERE!" Piirlacks cocked its head. It raised its crossbow. "Fffflay... angel..."

"And that's our cue." Ikharos turned, his fire extinguished, and before Formora could protest he wrapped his arms around her. The world shifted into... somewhere else. The courtyard of Teirm's citadel. Ikharos released her and stepped away. "Go, elf. Before they find you again."

"You must come with me." She looked around, relieved to find the place devoid of Scorn, though they must have passed through very recently. Two men lay dead by the broken gate. "I cannot leave without you."

"I'm not the Rider you're looking for. We have different priorities, you and I."

"Preserving humanity?"

Ikharos gave her a sharp look. "Precisely. Which I know you don't give a damn about."

"Do not presume to know me." Formora scowled. "Your survival shall save abundantly more lives."

"They're coming, 'Mora. The Scorn. For me. Leave now and you might live; either way, I'm not going anywhere. The longer I fight, the better chance these people have to make it out."

"You waste yourself on them," she said bitterly. "You could be so much more."

His eyes narrowed. "So long as I do as your beloved dragons say, right?"

"Don't-"

A tremor shook the citadel. Ikharos turned his back and marched away - for the fortress itself. "Go. This is your chance."

"No."

"Your loss."

Another quake. It sounded remarkably like trees cracking beneath a storm's gale. And that... that she remembered. The Scorn that lunged for her came from below, rising from the ground via a puddle of inky black. Formora neatly stepped back and bisected the creature from crown to groin. She left it wriggling in the dirt; others, dozens of them, were converging at once on Ikharos. He rose into the air on ashen wings and burned them, bathing them in endless heat until their exoskeletons were reduced to dust and embers.

Piirlaaks followed soon after. The Scorn clawed its way out of the ground and changed to a cloud of ether, climbing up. Ikharos darted from it but the ether was vast; it caught him in its choking hold until he, too, turned to violet essence to escape. Formora pointed with Vaeta and unleashed a cone of Stasis - and Piirlaaks fell, its hide crystallising. Formora felt it with her newfound power, the will to defy her, and she found freezing it to be an altogether impossible feat.

Ikharos became a man once more and drove Múspel across the Scorn's back. It yelled and struck him, flinging him against, through, one of the stone walls.

Formora ran forth. Piirlaaks noticed her approach too late; she drew Vaeta along the back of its legs and cut them out from beneath it. It fell with a crash and tried to catch her. She ducked beneath its clawing grasp, followed its arm and vaulted onto its pauldron. Formora formed a Stasis lance, fought the Scorn's bucking, and drove it down between its shoulder blades - skewering its upper spine. The lance dodged deep. It tried in vain to swat her away with its flail. Her influence, her will, found an anchoring point within the creature. Formora expanded it, following its circulatory and nervous systems and annihilating them with controlled bursts of Stasis fractures. She reduced Piirlaaks to a lump of decayed flesh neatly disconnected from its infested brain.

"Keep him there!" Ikharos returned, limping. One of his arms hung uselessly by his side, but the other, exposed down to the oak, clutched a long halberd that looked to be formed from obsidian and stone. Helixes swirled along its haft. He stopped before Piirlaaks' head and raised it up. He held it there. "Where the fuck is Shelbth?!"

Piirlaaks simply laughed.

A shadow fell over them. She looked up quickly and her blood turned to ice. "Ketch," she said. "Ikharos-"

"Jierda!" he shouted. (Break.)

An almighty crack resounded. A deep, ugly crack spread along the Ketch's starboard side, splitting its hull open like an oyster. The spell, however, did not finish. To her horror Ikharos collapsed on the spot - all but certainly dead. She moved to reach him, to help him, but in the instant her attention was drawn away Piirlaaks recovered to a degree that it could raise itself up and throw itself at her. Formora filled its snarling face with shards, even as its jagged claws wrapped around her.

The Ketch fired. The citadel broke, crumbled; Formora threw herself free of the Scorn's cutting grip and gasped, "skölir," mere moments before everything spun and smashed apart and descended into darkness.

She waited. Waited until her air almost ran out. She carved a notch to the world above, saw the madness that had replaced it, and waited some more. Until the dead stirred and shuffled away, until the blade in the sky cut towards the next feast, until the city grew quiet at last.

Formora, bloodied and bruised and covered in filth, crawled out onto the grave of Teirm and stared, unblinkingly, up at the stars. Her stomach turned at the stink. She was exhausted. The rubble had broken through her wards at some point and crushed her leg. It had taken all her self-control to hold the scream in. Mending it had taken a significant amount of her remaining energy. To preserve what remained, Formora had dropped the illusionary glamours presenting her as human. Even through the pain it was a relief to feel the world as herself, to move with her own limbs and see with her own true eyes.

She did wait to enjoy it. Formora stood up and threw out her mind in every direction, searching the ruins for life. Much of the city had been levelled. Fires raged well out of control. By the nearby docks she glimpsed totems cobbled together from the city's own materials… and denizens

On and on she probed, growing more worried, more desperate for every minute that passed. The silence was soon broken by flocks of carrion birds soaring overhead. There were hawks, seagulls, osprey, but of them all the crows were greatest in number. Many called down to her in alarm - a survivor, perhaps a competitor. One took to circling above. Formora wrenched her gaze to the ruin around her and resumed her search. It croaked again; she refused to listen. It swooped, gliding only just overhead.

"Away!" Formora snapped. If it thought to drive her away it would be sorely disappointed. "Away."

It ignored her. The crow dove and landed. It cocked its head, then lowered its beak as if to bite something. Formora hurried over and shooed it, and the crow hopped away with an indignant squawk. There Formora saw it at last: a wooden hand splayed to the sky. She peeled the shattered brickwork back and found it still attached to the arm. And that arm - a shoulder. His arm, his shoulder with his body buried beneath. With a sinking feeling she realized she couldn't sense a single thought therein. Formora began the arduous task of digging him out.

"You fool," she muttered. "You fool..."

The crow hummed. Formora liked to imagine it was agreeing with her. Piece by piece she uncovered him, until her fingers were raw and she could lift no more. The crow made another sound. Without so much as looking at it Formora ushered it away. "Back," she said. "Gánga burtu."

Much to her dismay it did no such thing. Sighing, Formora grabbed onto Ikharos' arm and dragged him free, laying him out on the broken brickwork. His garb was ruined. A blotch of black blossomed from the lower part of his shirt. An ugly mark coloured his forehead and a thigh had been split open. A part of his chest had collapsed. He resembled nothing more than a carcass-to-be, another battlefield casualty.

He wasn't breathing.

Formora fell to her knees beside him. For a while she'd hoped the lack of mental activity was a result of his secretive defenses. But the truth...

Ikharos was dead. Either drained of life by the reckless spell or suffocated beneath the stonework or bled dry, he was gone. And there was naught she could do about it. A final Rider lost to meaningless pride. Formora's features twisted with rage; a painful, mournful cry was wrenched from her throat. All those years, all her sacrifices - all lost. She cradled her face in her hands, screamed into her palms. The worst of it was the knowledge that it could never happen again. The egg had been the last of her legacy, that thing Formora would never again be able to name. The child would never know a partner.

Unless-

His Skuldu. His Ghost, small and colourful. Memories of Agnisia's resurrection returned to her; Formora's breath hitched and she looked around in the vain hope it would appear - but it did not. No, that had been his concern too. To find his soldiers, in the unspoken hope his creature was with them. After all, why else would he have deprived himself a hand?

Perhaps that was all it needed. Though clumsy with exhaustion she tugged Ikharos' knife free, studied its keen edge, and lowered it down to his neck. As Formora recalled Agnisia had been little more than a skull when Skuldu raised her up. She pressed the blade against his skin... and paused as she felt warmth. No heartbeat, yet beneath her fingers there was the undeniable presence of bodily heat. It wasn't cooling. Nay, it was growing hotter. A hue of golden light coalesced around Ikharos' remains, suffusing with his flesh. The warmth filled the very air she breathed: a hearth's homey embrace. The gold grew brighter and brighter, reaching such heights it pained her to look upon it - then faded abruptly. Ikharos' body twitched. His mouth, his eyes opened, he gasped in air with the fervour of a drowning man and sat up-

"Gahk!"

-and skewered his neck on the knife. Ikharos' hands shot towards his throat. Formora dropped the blade, took a hold of the wound and hurriedly cast, "Heill!"

His neck closed, though Formora's touch lingered. She felt... the pulse of life, the tug and pull of breath. Life, renewed. An impossibility that broke the most basic tenets of existence. Ikharos' eyes fluttered open. His brow furrowed. "Did you stab me," he groaned, "with my own blade?"

Formora exhaled. Her hands shook, retracting from him. "How?"

"Sunsinger," Ikharos coughed - as if that cryptic response explained anything. "What the hell were you- Nevermind that. Where are they?"

"Who?"

"The Scorn. They coming?"

Formora briefly checked their surroundings. Only scavengers drawn by the scent of so much blood crawled or fluttered in the night. The crow continued to watch them with keen interest. There was a glint of intelligence in its black eyes. "Gone," she told him, tearing her gaze from the bird. "They'll have marched on."

Ikharos sat up, grimacing, but at the sight of the broken city he froze. She watched a myriad of emotions cross his face: disbelief, anger, grief, regret, before settling on something bitter. "Traveler above..."

"You did all you could," she said tersely.

Ikharos glared at her. "Is that it?"

Formora bristled, though the exhaustion sapped her of the energy to offer a scathing retort. "We fought. We lost. What else am I to say?"

"People died."

"As they are wont to."

Ikharos' jaw tightened. "You're something else, you know that?"

"I fought for them the same as you. Aim your anger elsewhere."

"You fought just to save us. No one else."

"Yes. I did. What difference does it make?"

"We're no worthier than any of them. Our survival isn't paramount."

"The outcome would not have changed with our deaths."

"Fuck you. Fuck you."

"Does it please you to revile me?" Formora raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Do you think it absolves you of your perceived failure?"

Ikharos trembled with rage until, at last, he noticed the crow. He grew very still.

"It has been there for some time," she supplied. "I know not why it lingers-"

"Master," the crow said.

Formora rounded on it. The crow's head was bowed.

"Which one are you?" Ikharos inquired, struggling to control himself.

"C66-H3, designate Badb Catha." It had a smooth voice, a man's voice. She could not place the accent or inflections, though it sounded human to her ears.

"How many others are left?"

"C66-H2, designate Karšift. All other units are unresponsive and assumed destroyed." Ikharos held out his arm. The crow hopped onto it and shifted up onto his shoulder. "This unit was tasked with locating your person by assigned handler, designate Inquirator Indilic."

"Indilic lives?"

"Yes sir."

Ikharos deflated as if a great burden had lifted from him. "What about Xiān? Tell me she's alive."

"Unit Xiān is operable."

"Where are they?"

"Unknown." The crow paused. "In event that Warlock Ikharos is located, this unit is to present concealed message. Psycho-ident locks have been applied. To access this message, Warlock Ikharos must-"

"Yes yes, I know the drill," Ikharos said impatiently. He stood up. "Beam me the particulars."

The crow bobbed its head. Not long after Ikharos' eyes caught alight, burning with a glassy yellow glow. He breathed in deep. "I see."

"Do you have further instructions, master?"

"Stay close. I'll have need of you ahead."

"Understood." The crow settled to roost. Ikharos looked down at Formora. There was little cheer in his expression. She thought, in that moment, that he was surely going to leave her there. She was certain of it. He'd do it for the same reason he would not retaliate against her, no matter how much he despised her - because he was a creature of strict moral reasoning.

(Once she would have considered the same of herself.)

Formora scowled. "Go," she whispered, furious. "What are you waiting for?"

Ikharos studied a moment longer. "To see if you had an excuse at the ready."

"Oh? How does my silence strike the esteemed Ikharos, Beholden to None?"

"Wouldn't call this silence," he muttered, and sighed explosively. Ikharos hunkered down beside her and looped an arm around her back. "C'mon."

Formora begrudgingly accepted his aid. With some difficulty they climbed free of the citadel's ruins and into the city proper. The air was thick with the stench of blood, of ash, of Dark Ether. Somewhere in the far distance an unworldly howl broke the night's tenuous peace.

"Straggler's will have felt my return," Ikharos said quietly. "Which direction did the horde march?"

"I did not see," Formora replied, wincing against pain.

"How the hell did we make it through..."

"You didn't."

"No. Well, my body did. They didn't desecrate me?"

"You died. The spell you wove killed you." Formora tried to recall the last moments of the ill-fated fight. "The Ketch fired upon us. I remember little after that. With my magic I secured myself amongst the rubble, but I must have lost consciousness soon after."

"So we stopped thinking." Ikharos hummed thoughtfully. "Makes sense. We effectively stopped existing as far as they're concerned. You hit your head?"

"Yes."

"Concussion?" He looked her over.

"No more," Formora replied. It had been her first priority. "Can you do that again? Bring yourself back from death's grip?"

"Not now. Not for a couple of days. I'm running low on Light. Knew I needed to hold onto that super..."

"I suppose that will be to our advantage. The Scorn will have trouble keeping track of us."

"That's the plan."

Conversation soon died between them. The sights they passed were equal parts humbling and sickening. Many of the city's denizens had perished in the attack; they saw no survivors. Some of the dead had been neatly stacked at the street corners and in the flattened remains of buildings, while others lay scattered across the roads, having been set upon by the most feral of the Scorn packs. No care had been taken to distinguish male victims from female, elderly from young. Animals too had fallen to the slaughter. There was little sense to it.

The worst of it were the totems, built to incorporate the resources of the conquered settlement by the Scorn victors. Human remains were framed in crudely soldered steel frames or impaled on jagged wooden debris. On one Formora saw a collection of plucked eyes placed delicately atop a scorched altar in various sequences, and another was a set of bloodied bones splintered and forced into an impression of a monster's horned skull. Six fathomless eyes, formed from overlapping ribs, stared down at them.

"What-" Formora began to ask.

"The Disciples," Ikharos explained. His voice was hard. "The Scorns' new gods. This is the only way they know how to pray."

The grisly skull leered at them. Each of its many pointed teeth were formed from gnawed fingerbones.

"Piirlaak must have survived," Formora darkly reported. "It had the means to escape the citadel's collapse."

"Solvent, aye."

"Solvent?"

"Another Darkness element like Stasis. It's what Zendolyn-Far uses to get around. She's the one who tried to kill you on Vroengard."

"I remember," Formora said in a clipped voice. "She's teaching them?"

"So far as the Scorn can be taught. They've probably been injected with the know-how. Damned things are pliable like that."

"But the name Piirlaaks spoke of..."

"Shelbth." Formora felt a shiver run through Ikharos. "I've only encountered Zendolyn in the flesh. I've no idea what the other two are like."

"What is she? Zendolyn-Far?"

He glanced at her. "What species?"

Formora nodded.

"Hell if I know. She's fast and she's strong and her tail's a pain in the ass to deal with. Tongue too. Claws- She's just a fucking pain all over."

"You fought?"

"She tried to take my Ghost," Ikharos murmured. "So I took her arm."

They carried on in silence. The gatehouse was collapsed but the city walls had broken during the attack, leaving gaps to pick through. Ikharos helped her over the slopes of unsteady rubble and into the seared, crater-ridden wasteland beyond. The fields had been beaten into muck by several hundred pairs of feet, human and Scorn both. They hurried to the treeline, painfully aware that the Ketch could resurface at any moment. Only when they were safely blanketed beneath the verdant canopy did Formora allow herself to relax.

"Still need to make distance," Ikharos said. "Can't stick around."

"I cannot go any further." Formora staggered away. Her limbs were leaden. "Please."

"... Fine. We can take a breather." Ikharos steadied her and brought her beneath the shadow of an ancient spruce. His fingers briefly tightened on her shoulders. "You're hurt?"

"It's of no concern."

"Where?"

Reluctantly Formora indicated to her bruised ankle, to her hip, her ribs and her neck, and finally to her ears. "Too loud," she muttered. "The Ketch was too loud."

"I can imagine." Ikharos reached for her. Formora caught his wrists and looked at him severely. "I'm mending the damage," he explained curtly. "We need your senses."

She released him. "Very well. Be quick." Formora suppressed a wince as he placed his palms on ether side of her head, over her ears. His skin was rough. The noise of it scratching against her own was deafening, compounded by the steady pulse of blood. The golden warmth returned, softening the sting of damaged eardrums, leaving her with a heady, dazed feeling and instilling her with a sense of... fearlessness. Of certainty and focus. Formora was only half-aware of the other fleeting, tactful touches by which Ikharos banished the rest of her aches and pains. He finished with her fingers, mending the skin and leaving them whole.

"There," he said. The anger had sapped from him, leaving him a forlorn husk of a man. Ikharos hardly looked at her. Was it stubbornness? Or remorse for what he'd said? "How about now?"

"I do not know how much farther I can go," Formora said, "and I will not deprive you of your strength to replenish my own. But... I thank you."

Ikharos huffed. "We can't afford to stay. We won't last another confrontation."

"... So be it." Formora closed her eyes, savouring the momentary respite. Reluctantly she allowed him to pull her up and resume their trek.

It was morning when they stopped by a gurgling stream, the pair of them crushed by exhaustion. They pulled their outer layers free and washed them thoroughly, until the stink of death had faded away. After that they drank deeply upstream. With a pang Formora remembered they'd left their packs at the Briar's Heart before the attack, along with some of her swords. There were other blades closer by, buried in secret, but those in Teirm would be pinned beneath many tonnes of stone and ash. The loss of the rest of their clothes and supplies was no minor loss either.

"I'll take watch," Ikharos grunted.

Formora was too tired to argue - or even to set protective wards arounds the loose proximity of their makeshift camp. It was all she could do to find a comfortable hollow amidst twisting tree roots and fall into blissful sleep.

She awoke to the sounds of birds chirping, leaves rustling, and the slow, measured breaths of someone nearby. Daylight, bleeding orange with the sun's descent, flickered through the branches above. Formora sat up and found Ikharos a stone's throw away, sitting with his legs crossed and his back to her, inspecting something. Silently, she picked herself up and stepped over. He was studying his flesh-and-blood hand - and the ghostly mark embedded within. Oaken fingers traced along the diaphanous edge of it, indenting the skin to change its shape.

"How does it feel?" Formora inquired.

Ikharos flinched and quickly swivelled his head. "Fuck-ing hell..."

She raised an eyebrow. "Did I frighten you?"

"Too damn quiet sometimes," he huffed. "It feels wrong. Off."

Formora pulled her bracer and glove free to expose her own mark. "It should look like this."

"I'm aware." Ikharos glanced at it. "More fool me for thinking a dragon couldn't reach us through deepsight."

"Deepsight." Formora repeated the word, tasted it. "Is that what you call it? To dredge up the world's memory?"

"Imprints of emotion, yeah. Conscious beings bleed psychic energy wherever they go. It's the Dark's way of making sure we never forget who hurt us. In the interest of competition and all that."

"But that's not how you use it."

"No. It's a handy tool and that's it." Ikharos nudged the gedwëy ignasia. "But this is a pain."

"What does it feel like?"

"Fire. It feels like fire. Like I'm perpetually cauterising a severed limb. So - not great."

A pang of sympathetic phantom pain caused her to wince. "The bond isn't complete," Formora deduced. "The connection hasn't properly formed. Only the necessary biological changes have manifested."

"So this is what... scaffolding?" Ikharos scowled. "Hardly an equal partnership."

"Why does it bother you so?"

"Why? Because I never asked to be chained to a fucking dragon. Do you know what they're like?"

"Do you?" Formora challenged. That old anger returned.

Ikharos turned to her. "Intimately," he said sharply. "I'm not going to argue about this. Time's of the essence."

"What do you propose?"

"That depends on whether you want to stick around." Ikharos sighed. "We passed them. My people. They're north of us, on the other side of the Spine. My crow-" he paused to click his tongue. The crow fluttered down from the trees and landed on his knee. "My crow tells me they're somewhere south of a bay?"

"Fundor Bay," Formora surmised. "I know the area. They will have the Spine to their west and Du Weldenvarden to the east."

"Du Weldenvarden?"

"The great forest where my kin reside."

"Right, okay. Any chance of a warm welcome, safe sanctuary?"

Formora's expression hardened. "No. My people are wary of strangers at the best of times."

"What if you were with us?" Ikharos asked curiously.

"That would only further incite them to violence."

"I see. No love lost there?"

"None."

"Mhm." Ikharos sighed and climbed to his feet. "So are you? With us I mean."

"I have other obligations," Formora said coldly. "Ones you see fit to abandon."

Ikharos looked at her sullenly. "She'll kill you."

"I dealt with her illusion ably enough."

"Her Reflection. You did. Props to you there. But she's more than a couple of Reflections."

"Will you not help me slay her? Avenge the city?"

"Of course I'll avenge it. I'll make sure the Scorn pay for every drop of human blood."

"She's responsible-"

"They all are." Ikharos trailed off. "She's an ambush predator. Agnisia. Teirm was her smokescreen; we would've caught her in the open otherwise. How that fight would've ended is a different story, but I digress. She wants to lay low and she's willing to kill for it. I'm not in a mood for round two. Not until I can ensure bystanders won't get hurt."

"But you expect your war with the Scorn to go that much more cleanly?"

"My war's with the Disciples. The Scorn are nothing more than extensions of their will. And no, I don't expect it to go clean, but I can try. I can hope." He craned his head back and stared up at the sky. "But first I gotta clear our lines. Indilic thinks there's a listening post around. Until that's gone we can't afford anything else."

She frowned. "A listening post?"

"A station built to eavesdrop on hostile comms. Usual fare for our business." He breathed in deeply. "You know, I figured out something while you were napping."

Formora crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "What would that be?"

"That thing you used to track Agnisia, the... what did you call it? Scrying. You could have used it on the Cabal, on Indilic, on my Ghost or my ship. You could have done it at any time in the past... what, month, two months? And none of this would have ever happened." Ikharos looked at her expectantly. His face was calm, his gaze was steady, but the twitch of fingers aching to tighten into fists betrayed the scope of his fury.

She raised her chin. The urge to let a hand drop to her sword was strong - almost too strong to fight. "Yes," Formora said haughtily. It was the wrong tone to take, so far from diplomatic, but diplomacy did not come easily to her. "I could have."

Ikharos snorted mirthlessly. "I don't even have to ask why, do I?"

"You should. Do you know what you are anymore? All that came before - that life is over. Whether you consented or not, you are, and will be, changed. This gives me no joy to tell you."

"I know. I believe you feel that way. I shouldn't, but I do. It's the only reason we're still talking."

"Then you must come to terms with it."

Ikharos shook his head. "I don't deal with dragons. I kill them."

Formora gazed at him coldly. "When the day comes that you change your mind, you will thank me for having the strength to do what you could not."

"I doubt it." Ikharos grimaced. "So what now?"

What now. What now that Teirm was gone, that the dragon had slipped out of their grasp once more, that they had scarcely come through with their lives. What now that their paths were diverging ahead, hurtling away towards dismal ends.

"There is a passage through the Spine," Formora said, suddenly exhausted. She was tired of arguing with him. "A little ways south of us."

"That's the route Agnisia took."

"It's the only route anyone can take, unless you intend to retrace our steps, in which case you will still have to brave the Spine where it grows thickest. The road I propose follows the Toark river to the other side of the range. If you haven't changed your mind by then, you may turn north from there."

"So we're stuck with each other a little while longer."

"Indeed."

He studied her a moment longer. "In that case I'm ready when you are."

They moved on, talking only when necessary. All the tentative warmth that used to stand between them had dissipated. Neither of them could stand to look at each other without growing upset. He blamed her, at least in part, for Teirm's fall. Formora didn't bother to refute it; it struck her as little more than childish outburst. The Scorn had led the massacre on Agnisia's goading.

Yet, she concluded she had released Agnisia. And she had led him, however unwittingly, to the witch in hopes of turning his mind from his war to her own. Formora refused to apologise for it. She recognized the vice of ego for what it was, but given how little of herself she had managed to salvage from her years as little better than a slave, she was unwilling to diminish herself for someone else's comfort. Especially a Rider so keen on leaving his dragon behind.

Soon the silence became deafening. They stopped only to unearth her swords buried beyond the city's limit and carried on from there, eventually joining with the road. Where there should have been other travelers about they found naught but wild beasts and signs of others fled. It was not until they arrived upon the Toark river that they saw another soul. Formora's hearing pricked with the distant sounds of splashing, of someone shouting.

"Trouble," she said, drawing Vaeta. "Brigands mayhaps."

Wordlessly Ikharos darted ahead. Redemption was clearly first on his mind. Retribution against an unjust world. Formora soon outpaced him; the speech ahead gradually cleared into the tongue of the Urgralgra. The rough words, so vaguely familiar, broke upon her ears in messy translation. Still, the tone was unmistakable - threatening, impatient, a promise of violence.

She and Ikharos tore out of the treeline and arrived to find a harried-looking human woman cornered against the fjord by seven-and-ten horned warriors. Ikharos balked at the sight of them, "What the fuck," and each face present turned to them in alarm. There was a black-furred cat by the woman's legs, as large as a lynx with cunning green eyes. The woman herself was short for a human and maned with unkempt brown air only just past her shoulders. She hefted a weapon - a double-bladed dwarven hûthvír.

"Hold," Formora shouted in the Urgals' twisted speech. The words came awkwardly at first, before her old lessons eventually caught up. "What glory is to be found in accosting a lone wanderer? Hold I say!"

"Elf!" one of the creatures growled. It raised a crude sword in her direction. "You are far from your forest."

"Who leads you?"

"I." One of the larger Urgals rolled its shoulders. It clutched a pair of handaxes. "I serve the shadow."

"What are they saying?" Ikharos whispered.

Formora ignored him. "There are no shadows here," she said, perplexed. "Leave the human be."

"But they were just telling me about their new master," the human said, shining a toothy grin. She'd spoken in the Urgal language too.

"The shadow that covers all," the Urgal leader continued. His lips pulled back over yellowed, pointed teeth. Foamy spittle drooled down his chin. There was something deeply, terribly wrong with him. With all of them. Each of the Urgals were... touched in some capacity. Their clothing was torn and stained; their skin bore many fresh scars. There was nothing of the rough nobility she recalled in any one of them.

"The elf would make a prize," another Urgal huffed. It took a step forward. "Like the other."

Formora's eyes narrowed. "The other?"

The leader smiled. "Take her. Kill the man. His bones are long; it will please the shaman."

"They look like they want to kill us," Ikharos remarked.

Formora nodded grimly. "That is the prevailing attitude."

"Never anything else, is it?" Ikharos pulled Múspel free with a flourish and strolled down the riverbank. "C'mon then, let's have it."

The closest three Urgals charged across the river, ignoring both the woman and the cat, and stampeded up towards them with warcries spilling from their throats. The first to reach Ikharos aimed for his neck. He ducked beneath its sword, pulled Múspel up and split the Urgal's skull open. The second and third were slain not a moment later and in quick succession; Ikharos ran the following Urgal through with enough force to lift it from the ground and absently threw his knife in the direction of the next, planting the blade with unerring accuracy in its heart. In the immediate aftermath there was naught a sound to be heard - until Ikharos shoved the Urgal off his sword and motioned for the knife to fly back to his hand. Both Urgals crumpled without so much as a whimper.

The other Urgals froze. Their leader glanced at his subordinates, then raised his axes and released a guttural roar. "Kill the-"

"Kverst theirra vindr," Formora muttered. (Cut their air.)

Weapons dropped as hands shot towards constricted throats. The remaining Urgals staggered about or fell to their knees, swiftly growing purple-faced.

"Too slow," Ikharos said. "You'll leave them to suffer?"

Formora pursed her lips. "Jierda theirra hálsar."

Fourteen neck bones snapped instantaneously. The Urgals fell, some across the bands and some splashed into the river's. A couple were tugged away by the current. The woman - and the cat - watched her and Ikharos with some alarm. Formora sheathed Vaeta and stepped forth, bringing two fingers to her lips in a traditional greeting. "Night's blessings," she said. "Pass in peace."

The cat - the werecat - relaxed, its hunched spine lowering down. It looked upon her with an inquisitive glint in its yellow-green eyes. You know our words, elf?

"I do."

It, or rather he, looked past her. What have you there?

"A companion."

Its scent is strange for a human.

"I know."

"Who are you talking to?" Ikharos questioned with confusion.

The werecat hissed. Myself of course.

"That's..." Ikharos breathed in quickly, bristling. "Fucking dragons-"

Formora put a hand on his arm. "There's no dragon here," she admonished. "Behave."

He tensely nodded towards the werecat. "Then what the fuck do you call that?"

Solembum, preferably, the werecat drily remarked.

"Our thanks for your aid," the woman said. She smiled warily.

Ikharos glanced at her. "Are you being kept against your will?"

The woman frowned. "By... by whom?"

"That." Ikharos pointed at the werecat. The woman laughed.

"Oh no," she said. "Of course not!"

But her words did not disarm him of his paranoia. Formora found herself quickly annoyed by it. "You came from Teirm?" she asked.

The woman hesitated. Yes, Solembum told them. His words slipped with a grim tone into her mind. Is this true of you as well?

"It is," Formora confirmed.

What brings an elf into the empire?

Before she could answer, the woman cut her off. "If there's a story in there," she said, "then it would be better told around a fire and out of these sodden boots. Ick."

Solembum flicked his tail and scampered over to the far bank. I want to hear it.

"Well, it's not our business to ask. Not unless our new friends want to share." The woman looked at her. "That's an invitation by the way."

Formora debated it with herself. In the end she nodded. "We would be glad to join you."

"Wait-" Ikharos muttered. She ignored him.

"Great!" The woman beamed. "My name's Angela."

"Laerdhón," Formora replied. A half-truth always settled better than an outright lie. It had been some time since she'd volunteered her family name, though she doubted any outside Du Weldenvarden would grasp its importance.

Angela jutted a thumb over her shoulder. "We'll settle up the road. There'll be cover from the wind."

"We'll be right with you," Ikharos said, raising his voice. Angela and Solembum walked ahead; when they were out of range he turned to her, clearly upset. "What are you doing?"

"Finding better company," Formora coldly retorted.

Ikharos clenched his jaw. "She's seen you for what you are."

"She travels with a werecat. They're no friend of the king."

"What the hell is a werecat?"

Formora narrowed her eyes. "You don't know?"

"Oh, I've an idea. It's not a simple cat, is it?"

"No. They can take the forms of humans too, if they're in the mood for it."

"A shapeshifter."

"Just so."

"So it's draconic."

Formora raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you know what you speak of?"

"Pretty damn positive." Ikharos huffed. "Either it's masking itself or it isn't pure. Don't like either of those options."

She stared at him incredulously. "You are a fool," Formora said harshly. "And I'll not listen to a moment more of your senseless drivel." She left him there by the river's edge and did not once look back.

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for da editz!

Finally touching on the Inheritance Cycle story now. A disclaimer: the next chapter will have some weird shit (body things). IC's magic is like that, and Risen (the older kind particularly) are just not normal. Oh, and these two assholes being even bigger assholes because they're both so broken and rough that any contact results in friction.