"Arescaine is my apprentice," he says at last, his voice edged with something deeper. "He carries my name in craft and in honor."
He steps close to the fae healer.
"The debt you owe me, you pay it by saving his wife. All of it. Every last drop," Hrolf says quietly. "Save her."
Landon inclines his head once. "Done, Forgefather. I will do my best."
I catch Hrolf's eye briefly.
I'll be fine, I nod to the master blacksmith.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then steps through. The portal closes behind him.
"He has refused kings before." Landon looks toward the space where Hrolf stood. "For him to name you as his apprentice is not a small thing."
He looks at me differently now. "I will help your wife."
"Quickly," I tell him.
We return to his refuge at a run. The wyvern is waiting where we left her, as if she sensed the urgency. Her head lifts the moment Landon approaches. He gathers his supplies quickly, stuffing them into saddlebags.
When I step closer, Dorcha's wings flare slightly. A low warning rolls through her chest.
"She does not carry strangers," Landon says without looking at me. "I can summon another wyvern."
"No need."
The pressure builds between my shoulders. Bone shifts, muscle tears and reforms. Fabric splits as wings surge outward from my back in a sweep of dark span and pale-edged fire.
They unfurl once, vast and controlled.
"I've never seen a nightwalker do that," Landon says, something genuinely unsettled in his voice. "I didn't know your kind could fly."
"They can't," I say. "Move."
Dorcha launches.
The force of her takeoff shakes the trees. Wind slams into me as her wings beat powerful and steady. I leap after her and follow close behind. As we clear the treeline, Landon raises a hand and speaks a single sharp phrase in the old fae tongue. The barrier parts just wide enough to admit us, the magic peeling back like silk drawn aside.
We pass through.
Behind us, the ward seals again, smooth and seamless.
"The elf," Landon calls over the wind. "She's your mate?"
I don't dignify his question with an answer. I keep my eyes forward. He's quiet for a moment.
"I've seen it before," he continues, unbothered by my silence. "Finnbheara was the same. His mate took a fever three winters ago. He broke a healer's wrist for moving too slowly."
A faint pause. "I was that healer."
I glance at him.
"I survived," he says dryly. "She did too. I work well under pressure."
Dorcha banks slightly, catching a current.
"I'm saying I understand," he says simply. There is no jest or condescension in his words.
