"That's just a myth," Red protests.
"Your scholars love to forget inconvenient truths." Hrolf fixes him with a hard stare. "But the mountain dwarves remember. We keep the old stories. We know where we come from, even if you don't."
Hope sparks in my chest for the first time since I found Rhianelle bleeding out.
"Test it if you do not believe me." Hrolf extends his arm. "What's the harm in trying? Unless you'd rather watch her die for the sake of ancient prejudice."
The dwarf moves before Red can argue further. From his belongings he produces a small flask. He drinks the contents in one gulp, rinses it clean with water, then slices his palm with Eyepatch's clean sword.
"You'd do this?" My voice cracks. "For an elf? For someone whose people nearly destroyed yours?"
"I'd do it for you," he says gruffly, not meeting my eyes. "You're my student. My apprentice. That makes her family."
Hrolf lets the blood run into the flask, filling it halfway before pressing a cloth to the wound. He holds the flask out to Red. "Take it. Test it. If I'm wrong, I've wasted a bit of blood. If I'm right, you save a life."
Red takes it and stares at the dark blood inside, then at Hrolf, then at me.
I meet Red's eyes. "Try it."
"Young elf," Hrolf says, his tone hardening. "This does not leave this room. Elves have killed dwarves for less. This knowledge would start wars."
Red inclines his head. "It stays between us. You have my word."
When Red leaves, I look at Hrolf. This dwarf who has every reason to hate Rhianelle's kind just bled for her without hesitation.
"If this works," I say, my voice thin with emotion, "I'll owe you my existence. My eternity. Anything you want, whenever you want it. Just ask."
"You already owe me a new hammer and two broken tongs." He returns to examining the sword Eyepatch left behind, running the cloth along its length.
"You hate her kind," I say quietly. "The elves. They almost wiped yours from existence."
He's silent for a long moment. The cloth moves rhythmically along the blade.
"Aye," he finally says. "They razed my city, burned the northern spires and laughed while they did it. My daughter died waiting for aid that never came because elven infantry blocked the roads."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He sets the sword aside, clean now. "Your wife isn't them, is she?"
"No," I whisper. "She isn't."
"Then that's enough." He meets my eyes. "Besides, hate's exhausting. I'm too old to carry it around forever. And watching you suffer is making me tired."
Hrolf returns to his space and we sit in our respective cells. My wound continues to heal around the hole Eyepatch's blade left behind. I try not to think about what happens if the blood doesn't match. Time passes slowly. I want to pace, to move, to do something with this helpless energy. But my legs won't hold me yet.
"Tell me about your wife," Hrolf says suddenly after a long while.
I freeze. "What?"
"Your elven wife. Tell me about her." He leans back against his cell wall, settling in. "Might help pass the time. I'd like to know who I'm bleeding for."
How do I describe the essence of someone like Rhianelle?
"She's kind," I say finally. "She sees the best in people, even when they can't see it themselves. Even when there's no good left to find."
"Pretty?"
"Beautiful." The word comes out without thought, carrying centuries of longing. "But it's more than that. She has this way of making you feel seen."
