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“Agreed.” Fenrir would find Orpheus, and save him, and in the process also prevent their misguided enemy from unleashing The Incident: The Sequel upon the land, all while figuring out how to return Daedra to Hell so she could save the Myrkur.

Nothing a hero couldn’t achieve. Fenrir wasn’t worried. He couldn’t be worried. To worry meant he doubted, and doubt left little room for what he did best:

Hope.

“Fenrir?”

Fenrir spun around to find Mercer in the shadow of the barracks, wiping a towel down his face, hair wet and dripping and freshly washed.

Fenrir gave him a fond smile. “So, you finally took me up on that offer to bunk in the barracks?”

“And you got yourself a new arm.” He circled behind Fenrir, face pinched while he studied Bastion’s work, eyebrows knitting and un-knitting before he finally leaned back and clicked his tongue. “I’ve seen archanics and I’ve seen amalgams, but that’s something entirely else.”

Fenrir’s smile turned to a grin when he lifted his arm and made a fist and the whole courtyard erupted into a cheer. Mercer rolled his eyes and glowered.

“Aww, don’t be jealous, Mercer. I’m sure Bastion will make you one too, if you give him your arm.”

“Just disappointed I can’t put you to work no more,” Mercer sniffed, then his expression flickered, a break of composure that was entirely unlike him. “Got something’ for you, actually. You finally headed after your man?”

It wasn’t a real question so much as an: It’s about time, already.

A budding warmth blossomed in Fenrir’s chest. “Yeah, I finally am.”

“Good.” Mercer met his eyes and nodded. “Wait here.”

He wasn’t gone long. The stable hand was still tacking out Daedra’s horse by the time he returned, carrying a canvas bundle Fenrir instantly recognized.

“Take these, would ya?” Mercer held them out until Fenrir took the bundle of engraving tools.

“Mercer, these are yours…”

“And I can get another set. Armor’s missing something, if I’m honest. Needs a bit of artistic flare. I’d do it myself if you were stickin’ around for a few days, but you know what you like. Make it look good.” Mercer tapped Fenrir’s pauldron and the smooth seams of the gold-titanium alloy. “Don’t tell Bastion I said anything. Still got some work left with him on the tower and by the time you get back he’ll have moved onto his next pet project and won’t notice.”

Pulling Mercer into a hug was as easy as breathing. “Thank you, Mercer. For everything,” he said into his damp hair. Against him, Mercer patted his left arm gently before pulling away.

“Don’t stop using this one, now. Never know when I’ll need you to come back and that one” —Mercer jerked a thumb at Fenrir’s new arm— “will probably shatter my damn anvil.”

Fenrir rolled his shoulder just to feel the sleeping power coiled there, then grinned. “Understood.”

Their goodbyes were short. Succinct. Mercer didn’t linger in the same way he didn’t waste words, but what he didn’t spare was emotion, and when Mercer pulled him into a second hug, Fenrir knew he truly would be missed. By the time he’d disappeared back into the barracks, Fenrir’s unease had been replaced by something far more motivating: pride.

He mounted Nightmare after helping Daedra onto her mare, the crowd of soldiers forming a line to either side of them, a path carved through the courtyard to the looming southern gates and the forest beyond. Salutes came easy, a few cheers following them, but it wasn’t until Nightmare’s hooves hit the gravel that a shout carried on the wind.

It was Daedra who drew up short to look back. “Hmm, perhaps we will need one more horse…”

Across the courtyard, a person closed the distance, sword strapped to their back, steel armor glinting in the early dawn, pale blonde hair curling loose from its thick bun.

Wait—that couldn’t possibly be—

“Mum?” Fenrir gawked when Vera jogged to a stop, head held high and wearing her armor like it’d been made just for her, rather than requisitioned from the army’s supplies.

Vera’s pale eyes met his with a hint of challenge. “Daedra. Fenrir.”

Fenrir’s mouth opened, then closed, then sputtered, “Mum, are you—”

“That’s a respectable set of armor, well-tailored, finely made. Your blacksmiths truly are of the highest skill.”

Vera’s attention slipped to Daedra, ignoring Fenrir’s stilted question as if it’d never been asked. “Thank you, Daedra. I suppose you’ll be our guide?”