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Aylia, one of the elf flygirls, leaned closer and stage-whispered, “It has become everyone’s emotional support sourdough.”

That would explain why Fieran hadn’t reined in the chaos yet. After losing Pretty Face, the squadron would have needed something to lift their spirits.

But sourdough? That wasn’t at all what Merrik would have guessed.

Lt. Rothilion strolled around the others, his long golden-blond hair flowing down his back and around the points of his elven ears. “It is good to have you back, Lt. Loiatir.”

“Linshi.” Merrik released a long breath, letting the moment settle deep within his chest. It was good to be back. And good that someone hadn’t given in to the sourdough chaos.

“Speaking of donuts…” Pip’s brother Mak, his broad shoulders towering over the flyboys in front of him, gestured over his shoulder toward the tables. “The donuts are getting cold and the soda is getting warm.”

“Merrik first, of course.” Stickyfingers grinned and slapped Merrik on the back.

Before he could protest, Merrik found himself swept forward by the flyboys. Almost before he knew it, he had a soda in one hand and a donut in the other. Between the backslaps and greetings, he was pummeled by questions on all sides.

And to think that he’d once harbored a few moments of resentment that Fieran always took the spotlight in the squadron. Now that Merrik had the full force of the squadron’s attention on him, he’d much rather Fieran take it instead.

But Fieran was hanging back in the shadows by the wall, arms crossed, a hint of a grin on his face, as if he knew exactly what Merrik was thinking but he wasn’t going to intrude on Merrik’s moment.

Fieran’s girlfriend Pip, a good foot shorter than him, had found a spot next to him. Her wavy-curly dark brown hair was loose around her shoulders for once, though she still wore her green mechanics’ overalls. As if sensing his gaze, her smile widened, and she gave a little wave.

Merrik nodded back since both of his hands were full.

“So do you have a wooden leg now?” Stickyfingers peered down at Merrik’s boots, as if he was trying to figure out which foot was now made of wood.

Lije lightly smacked Sticky’s upper arm. “I don’t think you’re supposed to ask questions like that.”

“Why not?” Stickyfingers shrugged and gestured to Merrik. “Yeah, if you’re a stranger, you shouldn’t be rude. But Merrik is a friend. Of course we’re all curious.”

“Yes, but it’s Merrik.” Lije waved to Merrik as well. “He doesn’t want to be a spectacle.”

And he was also standing right there while they discussed him. Yet somehow, their debate had him smiling. “It is all right. Yes, I have a wooden leg. I can move it with my magic.”

There was a collective ooh from the human flyboys and flygirls. The elves were, of course, less impressed as that was fairly standard practice for elven amputees. After the wars against the trolls, there had been quite a few elves who had lost limbs. Those early prosthetics had been fully wooden instead of the mix of wood and mechanics that Merrik had.

Merrik passed his soda and half-eaten donut to Lije before he rolled up his trouser leg to reveal his cuff and the top of his wooden prosthetic where it wasn’t covered by his boot.

With the flyboys and flygirls watching in rapt attention, Merrik found himself taking off his boot to demonstrate moving the foot and the wooden toes, all to the oohs and aahs of his squadron mates. Even some of the elves complimented the prosthetic, mentioning how far the Foundation had come in their work in the past decades. Many of them had a relative or a friend’s relative who had lost a limb in past wars.

By the time Merrik finally put his boot back on and rolled down his pant leg, his legs were throbbing and his chest was tightening at being the center of attention for so long. He wasn’t sure where his soda and donut had ended up.

Then Fieran was at his side, grinning as he swept a glance around the cluster of flyboys. “Lije, Stickyfingers, it looks like we’re getting low on donuts.”

“Uh-oh.” Lije rushed off with Stickyfingers, several others on his heels.

As if that was the signal, the various groups of elves and humans began breaking off. The elves drifted away toward the door to soak up the quiet of the evening breeze drifting inside. Many of the humans and a handful of elves appeared to be organizing some kind of party game.

Fieran tilted his head to indicate the side of the room, even as he lowered his voice. “I set your chair over there.”

“Linshi.” Merrik managed a smile before he took the moment Fieran had given him to retreat. He made his way across the hangar bay and sank into his wheelchair with a sigh. Fieran had positioned it in the shadow underneath the wing of one of the aeroplanes remaining in this hangar, giving Merrik some semblance of privacy.

With everyone busy frying more donuts or organizing games, he had a few minutes to remove the prosthetic without everyone staring at him. Demonstrating his ability to move his wooden toes was one thing. But he still felt far too vulnerable to fully remove the prosthetic in front of the whole squadron.

When Merrik looked up from placing his prosthetic in the bag hanging from the back of the wheelchair, he found Tiny standing before him, two large chunks of ice in his hands, laced with his white troll magic.

Tiny held out the ice. “You look like you could use this.”

“Yes.” Merrik held still as Tiny wrapped one piece of ice around his ankle and the other around his stump. The cold of the ice provided blessed relief from the aching and swelling, and Merrik sagged against the back of the wheelchair. “Linshi.”