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Fenrir crouched down to peer up at her and asked, “Are you okay?”

A frown tugged at the corner of Daedra’s mouth, so small he may have missed it. “You insult me, Ama.”

“Well, I don’t mean to. I want to know.”

“And you think I would give you the satisfaction of saying I am not?” Her upper lip curled and it took a second for Fenrir to catch her meaning.

“Do you think I want you to be not okay?”

Daedra’s bared fangs caught the light. “I am your prisoner, if you had not noticed.”

“Technically, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I don’t—”

“Silence!”

Fenrir’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. Against the wall, Daedra’s breathing had grown loud, chest heaving with a sound Fenrir hadn’t heard before. Wet and rattling, like a sickness except without the cough. And he saw now how the circles under her eyes he had mistaken for shadows were too dark to be anything but exhaustion, how the once rich depth of her skin was now muted by an ashen gray that washed her of color. Only her eyes remained sharp, gold split by that cat-like pupil.

He could see beads at their corners, wet, wavering light that threatened to fall—a somehow more impossible sight than her weakened breath and fading skin.

An alarm went off inside Fenrir’s head. “Daedra, are you dying?”

Sharp fanged teeth bared in a hiss while the tears at the corners of her eyes finally fell.

She didn’t sob. She barely made a sound. But Fenrir watched each tear fall, barely wet enough to reach her chin, let alone for him to accuse her of crying, which was concerning in and of itself.

“I do not understand you,” she finally said, voice no louder than her labored breath. “You make jokes in the face of agony and ask your enemy if they are okay.”

Fenrir didn’t reply. When Daedra met his eyes again, he matched her gaze, unfazed by her accusation—as if anything she said made him seem weak.

“The question still stands, though. Are you?”

Across from him, Daedra’s throat dipped. “Would anything change if I said no?”

“Of course it would, if I can help.”

“Help,” Daedra repeated, spitting the world like it burned. “You are too soft, Ama. One day it will get you hurt.”

The observation hung there waiting for Fenrir to laugh off, but something nagged at him. Something that had nothing to do with the grayness of Daedra’s skin or the shudder of her breath.

Fenrir swallowed, then asked, “What does that mean? Ama?”

Daedra’s jaw worked, response slow to come. “It’s a term of hateful respect, used for a foe you would never underestimate.”

“The Myrkur have a lot of those?”

“Only one, until you.”

Fenrir cocked his head, not expecting the answer.

“If you do not feel honored, you should,” Daedra said, sounding somewhat disgusted. “The Myrkur are a peaceful people, we do not make enemies easily.”

“Peaceful? Really? Because you make it sound like you're at war with everyone including each other.”

“We have earned our place in Hell through a thousand generations of strength, it is true, but our culture is one of mutual respect and unity. We have but one enemy, and in that we are united together in glorious opposition from now until the sands of time run thin.”

“Wow,” Fenrir laughed, “I sure would hate to fight whoever that is.”

Daedra frowned. “But you have, Ama.”