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Dacha had halted on top of a rise overlooking a valley, the captured Mongavarian hamlet far behind them.

For long moments, she stood there, gasping for breath and letting her magic fade from her veins as she remembered who and what she was, where she was, and what she had been doing. A part of her trembled with how deeply she’d sunk into her magic during the fight.

Now that she’d paused, Adry’s hands were shaking again, this time with fatigue. For the first time in her life, her magic actually felt…tired. She was far from fully drained, but she’d finally used enough magic that, now that it had retreated, it felt restful inside her instead of burning to break free.

Dacha faced her, his fighting leathers, face, and even his hair spattered with the blood and gore of battle. The blades of his swords dripped blood onto the dirt.

She might have been horrified, except she could feel that same blood and gore on herself.

As her brain registered that, her shaking grew worse, and a painful pressure built in her chest.

With a crackle, Dacha swept his magic over himself and down his swords, incinerating the mess and leaving his swords so clean that he sheathed them. He turned to her, his gaze searching her face, before he held his arms out in an offer of a hug. Not just an elven hug, but a human-style hug.

She hiccupped a sob. The shaking seemed to have spread all the way into her bones, and even her mental grasp of her magic felt trembly.

She’d barely sent a wave of her crackling magic over herself, burning away the gore of war, before her dacha pulled her into his arms, enfolding her in a tight hug.

The hiccups became gasping, heaving sobs as she pressed her face against the metal and leather covering Dacha’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him so tightly it probably hurt.

But Dacha didn’t flinch. He stood there, solid and warm, holding her as she cried out all the adrenaline and emotions of the past hours.

When she finally got a hold of herself, she sniffed her way to composure and released her tight grip on Dacha. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

And, strangely, she was. Today had been truly horrific. But something inside of her could be just as horrific, and she couldn’t flinch away from that part of herself. After all, she’d always known this was within her, and she’d longed to put that sharp-edged capacity to use defending her kingdom.

“You did well, sena. I am proud of you.” Dacha eased his own embrace and moved his hands to her shoulders in the more restrained elven hug. His gaze flicked over her face, studying her expression. “Today, you are Laesornysh.”

He said the final word with that particularly elven inflection she’d so longed to hear, granting her the warrior title Laesornysh, Death on the Wind.

“Linshi, Dacha.” She stood a little straighter and used just a hint of her magic to scorch away the remnants of her tears. “I’m truly okay. I know I just cried, but I’m not…it’s not that I…well, you know.”

Perhaps she was okay because of the tears. As long as she could still cry, she would be fine.

“I understand. The first battle is hard.” Dacha’s grip tightened slightly on her shoulders. His voice took on that rough edge again. “And…linshi, sena. That was the first time I did not go into battle alone.”

Now that lump was back in her own throat. For so many years, Dacha had been the lone Laesornysh. No other warrior could fight at his side for fear of being injured by his magic.

Once he had tied his magic to the elven heart bond that he shared with Mama, the two of them had shared his magic. Mama had been able to stand at his side in a way no one else ever had.

Yet Mama was not a warrior. She would fight rather fiercely if pushed, but she preferred not to go into battle if she could avoid it.

But thanks to Fieran and now Adry, Dacha was no longer the lone Laesornysh warrior. He was the sire of a line of warriors, and today, he’d fought with another warrior at his side as he’d never done before.

Adry reached out and gripped Dacha’s shoulders in a return elven hug. “You will not fight alone ever again, Dacha.”

Dacha’s gaze dropped from hers, his jaw working.

He didn’t get the chance to respond. At that moment, Aunt Vriska marched up to the two of them, looking just as bloody as they had a moment ago, and slapped first Dacha’s back, then Adry’s. “Well done, both of you. Go get some rest. It will be another long day tomorrow.”

Dacha released his grip on Adry’s shoulders and nodded to Aunt Vriska.

Adry, too, dropped her elven hug, turning to finally take in the rest of the battlefield around them.

Already, the Alliance army units had strung barbed wire and set up machine gun nests. Magic burst along the ground as teams of trolls, dwarves, and elves combined their magic to carve trenches into the earth.

Within a few more minutes, Adry found herself settling down in a bunker—even smaller than the one from the previous night—with the other six elite warriors, Uncle Iyrinder, and Dacha.

Two of the warriors heated up field rations over a small magically-powered burner, two settled down to sleep in their bedrolls, and the final two stood watch.