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Merrik ducked his head, something in him shaking at hearing that very deliberate use of the word sason, the elvish word for son. The elves often used relationship words as endearments. It meant far more than if a human had said the same thing.

Because of that, elves didn’t use the relationship words lightly. Uncle Farrendel wouldn’t name Merrik as a son unless he was sure about the relationship between Merrik and Adry.

“Linshi.” Merrik couldn’t quite bring himself to call Uncle Farrendel Dacha. Perhaps someday, but not just yet. It was too…odd. But he managed to lift his arms and give Uncle Farrendel a shoulder clasp in return.

As they stepped apart, Uncle Farrendel’s gaze lifted to something on the hill before he made a nod and a small gesture. “Fieran is here.”

Merrik took another step back as he half-turned to spot Fieran as he worked his way down the hill, his own swords across his back. As he came closer, the barely suppressed grin on his face twinkled in his eyes. Would he resist teasing Merrik about all of this?

Fieran reached them, that hint of a grin still on his face. He shot a glance between Uncle Farrendel and Merrik, but in a rather surprising show of maturity, he didn’t say anything.

Dacha joined them a moment later, briefly resting a hand on Merrik’s shoulder and giving him a nod in a silent Well done, sason.

Merrik released a long breath, releasing the tension of the morning along with it.

He’d done it. Not that he’d truly doubted that Uncle Farrendel—or Aunt Essie for that matter—would approve of his and Adry’s relationship. But it was a relief having everything fully in the open.

As he glanced between all of them, Merrik’s stomach twisted, the warm happiness of a moment before vanishing. This was the point in the morning when they would usually practice their sword skills and magic. “I am not sure I am up for much of a practice today.”

Fieran’s grin widened, and he flung an arm over Merrik’s shoulders. The move was so normal—and yet so unexpected—that Merrik flinched at the physical contact. Still, he managed not to shove Fieran away.

“My dacha hasn’t even progressed me to full fights yet.” Fieran’s tone was light, his blue eyes dancing. “Something about me still regaining my strength and reconnecting with my elfness or something like that.”

Uncle Farrendel heaved a sigh, the wry twist to his mouth as close to an eyeroll as he’d give. “It has been necessary, sason.”

“So you won’t be the only one not yet up to fighting.” Fieran slapped Merrik’s back before he strode a pace away. “We can all go through our sword stances together.”

A normal practice. Just going through the sword stances. As if the crash had never happened. Surely he could manage that much.

Merrik gulped a deep breath, drew his sword, and fell into line next to his dacha with Fieran on his other side. Uncle Farrendel took up the position at the far end of the line, each of them leaving enough space between them so that they wouldn’t hit each other with their swords.

Falling into a familiar pattern, Merrik mimicked his dacha while Fieran mirrored Uncle Farrendel as the four of them went through the sword stances, holding each pose for long seconds.

Those moments of holding each stance ached in his left ankle. Holding a stance took far more strength than it appeared, and strength was something that both of his legs lacked after his long recovery.

As Merrik stumbled, Dacha lowered his sword. “That will be enough for today, sason.”

He should have been stronger than this. But it seemed his body was still betraying him. Still not strong enough to fully resume normal activities.

He wanted Adry. He wanted to retreat to their peaceful clearing where the world narrowed to just the two of them and where things like walking again seemed possible.

A blaring siren sliced through the morning air, somewhat faint due to their distance from the aeroplane hangar.

A Mongavarian air raid. Merrik’s stomach twisted. It was time for battle. Was he ready? Or would his legs fail him and he fail his squadron?

Chapter

Eighteen

Merrik sheathed his sword, hoping the movement hid the way his hands trembled.

Fieran sheathed his swords with a snap, his grin dropping into a tight line in an instant. “I knew the break in raids was too good to last. They’re getting an early start today.”

“Yes.” Uncle Farrendel sighed and shook his head.

Fieran turned to race toward the hangar, but he hesitated, his gaze darting to Merrik.

Merrik swallowed. He was still learning to walk again, much less run. There was no way he would keep up with Fieran, nor would he want to delay the captain of the squadron from getting into the sky. “Go on. I will follow as quickly as I can.”