The hawk tilts its head, drops the letter into my hand, then dissolves into smoke that smells faintly of cedar and snow.
Inside the cabin, Kursk is oiling the carved staff he’s taken to carrying everywhere, even when we walk into town. He looks up as I enter, sees the letter, and stills. His whole body stiffens.
I hand it to him. “From Rand.”
His tusks click against each other as he breaks the seal. Inside isn’t just a letter, but something heavier that clinks against the table when he empties it.
An amulet.
It’s crude compared to human jewelry—thick iron chain, a pendant hammered into shape like a jagged tooth, runes etched deep into its surface. It hums faintly, and the hair on my arms rises just being near it.
Kursk’s hands shake as he lifts it. His breath goes ragged, not like when he’s angry, but like something inside him is breaking open.
“What is it?” I ask.
His voice cracks. “A bridge. It lets me speak… to them.”
And then, Kursk weeps.
Not silent tears, not hidden ones, but full, unashamed sobs that tear through him like they’ve been waiting years to escape. His shoulders shake; his tusks glint wet. He clutches the amulet to his chest, curling forward as though it might vanish.
I don’t speak. I just wrap myself around him, my cheek pressed to his back, arms locked tight around his middle. I feel the tremors in him, the weight of everything he’s carried finally breaking. I whisper nonsense—“I’m here, I’ve got you, it’s alright”—but I know he’s not really hearing me. He’s hearing them. His ancestors. His blood.
When he finally lifts his head, eyes red-rimmed, the letter is still on the table. I pick it up.
Rand’s handwriting is blocky, deliberate.
Kursk Longstrider. You are not forgotten. You have fought with honor beyond our reach. This amulet carries the voicesof those who came before, so you will never walk alone in the World Beyond. Carry them with you. Carry us.
Kursk presses the words into memory, lips trembling, and then he kisses me—desperate, grateful, raw.
That night, the northern lights roll across the sky, ribbons of green and purple twisting like the Veil but not cruel, not dark. Beautiful. Alive.
We spread blankets on the clearing outside the cabin, the ground cold but the air crackling with magic. Kursk wears the amulet; it glows faint against his chest, reflecting in his tears and his tusks.
When he touches me, it isn’t hurried. It isn’t frantic. It’s reverent, like each kiss is a vow, each brush of skin a prayer. My fingers trace the runes carved into his arms, the scars that make up his history. His hands hold me like I am not breakable, but sacred.
We move slow, unhurried, as though we have all the time in the world. Above us, the lights shimmer, spilling across his skin in waves of color. I swear I hear faint voices carried on the wind—his ancestors, blessing, witnessing.
“I promise,” he whispers against my lips. “I promise.”
I don’t need to ask what. I promise too, in every breath, every kiss, every press of my body against his.
When it’s over, we lie tangled in the blankets, skin damp with sweat, hair plastered to foreheads, our chests rising in sync. The amulet rests between us, warm and steady, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
I rest my hand over it. “They’ll never take you from me,” I whisper.
He smiles, weary, eyes shining with both sorrow and joy. “Not while you hold me.”
The sky above burns with color, shadows long gone from the treeline.
The lights fadefrom the sky by dawn, leaving only a wash of pale blue and the ache of my body pressed against his. I should be exhausted, but there’s something inside me humming still—like the magic never left, only changed shape.
Kursk lies on his back,arm thrown over his face, the amulet glinting faintly against his chest. The rise and fall of his breathing is steady, but I know when he’s not really sleeping.
“You’re thinking too loud,”I murmur, propping myself up on one elbow.
His tusks partin something that’s almost a smile. He lowers his arm, turns his head to me. There’s a softness there, the kind he only shows when the world’s too quiet for masks.
