This isn't just a healer. He's a warrior. A commander who's killed more elves than I can count.
The fae looks up as we approach. His eyes widen slightly when he sees Hrolf.
"This is a surprise." He straightens slowly.
"Landon," Hrolf greets him.
Landon's gaze travels over our group, lingering on the elven knights with obvious wariness. "What curious company you keep, old friend. Two elves and a vampire. You've assembled quite the party."
Garrett stiffens. Aelfric's hand stays on his sword hilt, knuckles white.
Landon ignores the tension and continues tending to his wyvern, running his hands over her scales.
"We need your help," Hrolf says urgently, no cushioning around it. "I'm calling in our debt."
Landon's hand stills on the wyvern's flank. "I wondered when you'd come to collect."
"There's someone in Aelfheim who needs your skills," Hrolf continues. "Someone the elven Hlaryan healers can't save."
"You came all the way here for an elf?" Landon asks mildly, though his eyes sharpen with interest.
Hrolf doesn't react to the bait. He gestures toward me. "This is Arescaine. She is his wife. The healers have done what they can, but it isn't enough. She lost too much blood."
A breath passes. "She's dying."
The words seem to settle heavily in the clearing.
I notice the bandages on the fae's body are new, recently tended.
"What happened to you?" Hrolf asks, noting the injuries.
The wyvern shifts beside them, her chest expanding with a slow, rumbling breath.
"Things are complicated for me right now." Landon's expression darkens. "The Hunt is hunting me. My entire legion has been banished, declared traitors. We're all in hiding."
Aelfric and Garrett exchange glances. Neither sheathes their weapons but the tension eases slightly. An enemy of Eirik might be useful.
"Enough talk," I interrupt. My patience has worn through. "Can you save her or not?"
Landon looks at me for a long moment. Those strange silver-ringed eyes narrow, studying me intensely.
His mouth curves slightly. "Let's find out."
Landon reaches for a dark cloak lying among the discarded pieces of his armor. He swings it around his shoulders, fastening it at the throat. The heavy fabric falls to conceal the fresh bandages.
The wyvern rises at some unspoken command, shaking herself like a massive dog.
"Not you, Dorcha. Stay."
The wyvern huffs in protest. A low sound works its way up from her chest, somewhere between a whine and a rumble. Her tail lashes once against the grass. Landon ignores it with the ease of long practice.
Without another word, he turns and strides toward the treeline, expecting us to follow.
"Where are we going?" Garrett asks.
"To gather what I need," Landon replies. "There's an herb that might help. Follow me."
The fae leads us away from his refuge. We walk for a long while through increasingly dense forest until we reach a cave entrance. Moss climbs the walls in thick curtains. There are no guards or wards at the entrance.
