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Chapter Text

Vernon had long since learned to move unnoticed through the city streets, slipping between the bodies of merchants and beggars, lords and cutthroats, as easily as a fish in dark waters. At sixteen, he was quick-footed and sharp-eyed, a boy who carried whispers and coins between hands that never saw his face. In the slums of Vizima, anonymity was survival.

He’d spent the morning running errands—a message for a madam at the Red Lantern, a note slipped under the door of a warehouse reeking of damp wood and mead, a silver piece exchanged for a set of directions that would send a merchant’s rival into a den of thieves. By midday, he had enough coin for bread and a small bundle of dried chamomile from the market. It wasn’t much, but the tea would help with the coughing.

When he stepped into their small room, the air was thick with the scent of damp cloth and sickness. His mother lay in the narrow bed, her skin pale as candle wax, her breathing shallow. She was not yet forty, but hardship had aged her in ways time never could. Vernon forced a smile, dropping his bundle onto the rickety table before kneeling at her bedside.

“I brought you something, Mama,” he said, pulling the chamomile from his pocket. “It’ll help your chest.”

Her eyes opened, glassy but warm, and her lips curved weakly. “You’re always bringing me things.”

“I’ll stop when you don’t need me to,” he teased gently, setting the herbs aside.

Her hand lifted, trembling, reaching toward him. Not for his face, as she often did, but for the chain around his neck. Her fingers brushed the cool silver, the pendant worn smooth from years of his touch.

“I hope it continues to protect you, my love,” she whispered. “When I no longer can. It will give you strength, guide you…” Her voice faltered, and for a moment, she seemed lost in some thought beyond his reach. Then, suddenly, her fingers clenched around the pendant, her weak body seizing with urgency. “Vernon. Promise me. Always wear it.”

“I promise.” His voice was steady, but unease coiled in his stomach.

Her fingers dug into his wrist. “It’s the only thing holding back the night.”

A chill passed over him. He had seen the fever take her in strange ways before—visions, ramblings—but something about the desperation in her tone rooted him in place. He swallowed, pushing the fear aside.

“I swear it, Mama.”

She studied his face, her expression unreadable, then exhaled a slow breath. The tension left her limbs, and she sank into the mattress. “Good boy.”

Her eyes fluttered closed, but instead of slipping into the restless sleep of the dying, she stirred again, voice a mere whisper. “Quill and paper.”

Vernon hesitated before rising, retrieving the ink-stained quill and a crumpled sheet of parchment from the small writing desk. He placed them in her hands, watching as she gathered the last of her strength to write. The quill scratched softly, slow and deliberate. Vernon did not ask what she wrote. Some things were meant to be read in the quiet after.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

When he returned that evening, the room was quiet.

His mother lay still beneath the thin blanket, her chest rising and falling in shallow, unsteady breaths. On the nightstand beside her rested a folded letter, sealed with wax, his name scrawled on the front in shaking ink.

He did not touch it.

Instead, he sat beside her, fingers lacing through hers, his grip gentle but firm.

In the stillness, he began to sing.

It was a song from his childhood, one she had sung to him in the hush of night, when the wind howled through the gaps in their walls and he had been too small to understand hunger.

His voice was low and steady, carrying the melody across the room like a whispered promise:

"When the grey rain-curtain falls,
And the darkened sky gives way,
Silver glass upon the shore,
Calling you away.

Where the waters kiss the light,
And the dawn runs swift and bright,
There beyond the breaking tide,
You will rise and take your flight.”

His voice faltered on the last note. He pressed her fingers to his lips and whispered, “Go into that sunrise, Mama.”

Chapter Text

Vernon buried his mother at dawn.

The garden behind their home was small, overgrown in places where she had been too weak to tend it, but it still held the remnants of her care—clusters of lavender, ivy creeping along the fence, a bed of pale blue flowers whose name he had long forgotten.

She had loved this place.

He dug the grave himself. The work was slow, the soil packed thick with roots, but he did not stop. He would not let strangers lay her to rest in a nameless pauper’s grave. She had deserved better in life, and he would see to it that she had better in death.

By midday, he was done. He placed her in the earth gently, wrapped in the faded quilt from her bed, and whispered a final prayer over the mound of dirt before beginning the cairn. The stones were gathered from the crumbling walls of their yard, stacked one by one until they formed a marker tall enough to withstand time.

On a slab of stone, he carved her name.

Helene Roche
Beloved Mother

He did not linger. There were no tears left to shed, no grief that had not already hollowed itself into his bones.

By the time the sun reached its peak, Vernon was packing to leave.

The days that followed passed in a haze of quiet preparation. He sold what little remained of value, taking only the barest possessions and the yet unread letter from his mother.

The nights, however, were different.

The air had been warm when his mother died, but within a day, the winds shifted. A biting chill crept in, out of place for early summer. By the third night, his breath fogged in the air, and frost laced the edges of his window. The city folk muttered about the strange weather, how the cold came without warning, how it settled in their bones like the whisper of something unnatural.

And in the taverns and markets, in the alleyways and barracks, whispers began to spread.

"The last time this cold came in summer, war followed."

"It’s an omen, I tell you. The Hunt is moving."

Vernon paid it little mind.

He was leaving.

As he pulled his black liripipe hood over his head, wrapping it tight to ward off the unnatural chill, he stepped through the doorway of his childhood home for the last time. He did not look back.

The Temerian army took him in without question.

He had connections, old clients from his days running messages in the slums—men whose work extended beyond mere coin and whispers. They had spoken well of him, assured the recruiters that Vernon Roche was sharp, clever, and willing to bleed for the kingdom. That was enough.

Training was grueling, but he thrived.

For the first time in his life, he ate until he was full—thick stews, fresh bread, meat that was not spoiled or stretched thin with gristle. His body responded quickly, gaining strength where there had once been only wiry resilience. He was not as broad as the others, but he was faster.

He learned the sword with ease, his footwork light and precise, weaving between heavier strikes with an instinct that felt almost unnatural. He was often too cocky, and it earned him bruises and gashes more times than he’d care to admit, but he reveled in the challenge. He loved the order. The structure. The simple knowledge that he was building himself into something more.

And, for the first time in his life, he had friends.

Fenn and Silas had taken to him quickly, their camaraderie forming in the way that only soldiers could—through shared exhaustion, bruises, and too many nights drinking watered-down ale in the barracks.

Fenn was stocky, with arms thick as tree trunks and a laugh that could shake the walls of the mess hall. He had a sharp wit and a sharper tongue, but was loyal to a fault.

Silas was lean and quick, older than the other recruits by a few years, with a knowing smirk that made it seem like he'd seen more of the world than he let on. He had a way of carrying himself that Vernon admired—relaxed, confident, untouchable.

It was Silas who taught him the "army way" to wear the liripipe.

"You keep that hood up all the time like you're some nobleman's bastard sneaking out of a brothel," Silas teased one evening, plucking the liripipe off Vernon's head before he could protest.

"Give it back, you ass."

"Hold your horses, lad. Let me show you something."

Vernon scowled as Silas flipped the hood inside out, then slipped the face hole over his head. The long tail of the hood now draped under his chin instead of down his back.

"There. A chaperon. Proper like." Silas smoothed the fabric with an exaggerated flourish.

Vernon raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to wear it like this?"

Silas grinned. "My father wore his like this. Half the army does. Keeps the wind off your face without looking like you're hiding from the damn tax collectors."

Vernon huffed, but as he adjusted the fabric, he had to admit—it was comfortable.

"Voila," Silas said with a smug grin.

Fenn chuckled. "And here I thought you'd never listen to reason."

Vernon rolled his eyes but smirked. For the first time in weeks, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter.

It started with a fight.

A sparring match gone too far, a cocky grin that turned into a fist in his ribs, his body slamming against the training post with a sharp crack. A sharp tug at his neck.

Then—pain.

Not the dull ache of a bruised rib, nor the sharp sting of a cut, but something deeper. It was as if lightning had struck his skull, searing through his bones and burrowing into his flesh. A piercing, electric agony shot through his head, crawling behind his eyes and setting his nerves alight.

Vernon barely registered the way his body crumpled, his knees hitting the dirt as his hands flew to his skull. His breath came in ragged gasps, fingers digging into his scalp, into his temples, gripping at something that burned beneath his skin. The chaperon was torn from his head as he clutched at his ears, his vision swimming.

The pain did not fade immediately, but it began to change. The searing fire turned into a slow, throbbing pulse, spreading through his limbs, settling deep in his bones. The feeling was wrong, unnatural, like a door inside him had been forced open, and something within him—something he had never known existed—had been set free.

“Roche?” Fenn’s voice was cautious, wary.

Silas took a step closer, his expression unreadable. “Uh. Vernon.” He lifted a hand and gestured vaguely at Vernon’s face. “Your…your..”

Vernon blinked up at him, still dazed, his fingers loosening their grip on his head.

Silas swallowed. “They’re—shit, they’re glowing. And your ears—”

Vernon’s fingers brushed his ears, and for the first time in his life, he felt the point.

Panic jolted through him, but before Silas could say another word, Vernon pushed himself upright. He was still unsteady, his body buzzing with unfamiliar energy, but he fumbled for the necklace on the ground, grabbing the broken chain in shaking hands. His fingers moved automatically, instinct driving him to clasp it back around his neck, to fix whatever had just happened to him.

Only then did Vernon realize something else felt off.

Fenn and Silas were no longer looking down at him.

No—he was looking down at them.

His stomach turned. He had always been shorter than both of them, but now, somehow, he was taller.

Not by much—an inch or two over Silas, who had once stood above him easily—but the difference was unmistakable. His limbs felt stretched, his body lighter yet stronger, like something had been altered beneath his skin, his very form shifting into something new.

His breath hitched.

“What the fuck,” Silas murmured, barely above a whisper.

Then—

The wind howled.

The barracks groaned against the sudden pressure, the wooden beams creaking like the bones of something ancient. Frost bloomed in jagged veins along the walls, spreading with unnatural speed, devouring every surface it touched.

Vernon stood frozen, breath hitching.

A sound echoed from the front gate.

Not a knock.

A pounding.

Slow. Measured. Each strike rattled the door in its frame, shaking frost loose in thin, whispering clouds.

A shadow loomed through the slats.

And then, in a voice low and cold as the wind outside—

“Roche.”

His name. Spoken like a promise.

Spoken like a claim.

The frost thickened, creeping toward the latch. Smoke curled from the edges of the door, not fire, but something colder, a breath of winter that did not belong in this world.

Vernon did not move.

He did not breathe.

The knocking came again.

And the door began to crack.

Chapter Text

The pounding stopped.
Silence settled over the barracks, thick and suffocating, broken only by the ragged sound of Vernon’s breathing. Frost curled along the edges of the door, creeping inward, mist rising from where the wood cracked beneath the unnatural cold. Every instinct in his body screamed run, fight, do something— but he was rooted to the spot.

Then, the door burst open.
A figure stepped inside, looming in the doorway. Clad in jagged armor blackened like charred bone, its skeletal helm bore the shape of a skull, hollow eyes sockets staring forward, breath misting in the freezing air. The unnatural cold deepened, and behind the figure, a second hooded figure with a large staff hovered just beyond the doorway.

Vernon’s heart pounded in his chest. His fingers twitched toward his knife, but he didn’t dare move. The armored figure tilted its head, studying him—then lifted a gauntleted hand to its helmet. With a slow, deliberate motion, the figure removed it.

Beneath the armor was a face that was eerily familiar.

The man—the elf—looked at him with an expression that was unreadable. Uncertain. Pained. Determined.

Vernon’s mouth went dry.

“Who—” The word barely left his lips before the elf raised a hand. The frost that had been creeping along the floor surged forward, wrapping around Vernon’s boots.

He staggered, instincts screaming at him to move, to fight—but the ice was too fast. It crawled up his legs, past his knees, cold biting into his flesh. His breath hitched as his body jerked, trying to resist, but the frost would not stop. It wound around his torso, locking his arms to his sides. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Fenn and Silas—where were they?

His eyes flicked to the side. They were there, but not moving. Fenn’s hand was half-raised toward his weapon, Silas’s lips parted as if he had been about to shout—but they were frozen in place, locked in unnatural stillness. Their eyes flickered with panic, but they could do nothing. Magic held them still.

“No—” Vernon gritted his teeth, muscles straining against the ice as it reached his shoulders. His chest burned with the effort. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t—

The cold took him.
His vision blurred, breath shuddering as the frost climbed up his throat, his jaw, his face—

And then there was nothing.

The portal snapped shut, sealing them inside the dimly lit chamber.

The elf stood motionless, breath slow and measured, eyes fixed on the frozen figure. Encased in ice, his body rigid, his face barely visible through the thick frost. Cold mist curled from the surface, the only sign that he still lived.

The chamber was silent, save for the crackling of blue flames in the iron braziers mounted on the stone walls. The space was crude but purposeful—a basement hollowed from dark stone, its walls lined with shelves of weapons, old armor, tools for forging and binding. The air smelled faintly of metal, soot, and cold magic.

The elf exhaled, long and slow. He removed his gloves and pressed a hand to his face, as if trying to ground himself, but his fingers only curled into a fist. His son. His own blood.

He paced, footsteps echoing in the chamber. His mind was a battlefield.

His gaze flickered back to the frozen boy before him. Helene. He could still see her in him—the shape of his jaw, the way his hair caught the light. His mother’s blood lived in him.

His chest tightened. But so did mine.

And that was the problem.

He turned sharply, stepping toward the ice. He should feel disgust. Should feel shame. This boy was a mistake, an abomination. The Aen Elle did not mix with lesser races. This should never have been.

And yet.

His fingers twitched toward the ice. His breath hitched. He was all that was left of Helene. The last piece of her that still existed. A part of him ached to reach out, to hold onto what little remained of the woman he had once—

No.

His hand clenched into a fist. He was not a father. He could not afford to be.

His jaw set, and he let out a slow breath. The ice would hold Vernon for now. He needed time. Time to decide what to do with him.

As he turned toward the forge, the cold flames flickering against the steel chains that lay across the worktable, his mind echoed with a single, unshakable truth:

He could not let him go. Not let Helene go. 

The ice cracked.

A jagged, splintering sound echoed through the dimly lit chamber as frost fractured and split apart, sending slivers of ice skittering across the cold stone floor. Vernon gasped, though the air barely reached his lungs before pain seized him.

It felt as if fire and ice had warred within him, leaving his body broken between extremes. He collapsed to the ground. A sharp, tingling agony rushed through his limbs—the biting sting of blood returning to flesh too long frozen. His bloodless fingers curled against the stone as he gritted his teeth, unable to suppress a raw, guttural groan.

Cold.

He barely noticed the elf standing over him, watching. Barely noticed anything beyond the unbearable sensation of his body forcing itself back to life.

“Who…” His throat burned, his voice hoarse and uneven. He swallowed against the rawness, forcing himself to speak. “Who… are you? Why did you take me?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, the elf crouched down, gaze sharp and calculating. Then, in a voice kind but firm, he asked:

“You may call me Vaelir. Can I have your name, lad?”

Vernon blinked. His breath still came in unsteady bursts, but confusion cut through the pain. He lifted his head, teeth bared in something between a sneer and a grimace. “You know my name, you called to me through the door?”

Vaelir exhaled slowly through his nose, frustration creeping into his otherwise steady tone.

“Yes,” he said. “Your surname. Your mother’s name, carved in stone.” A pause. “Now give me your name, son.”

Vernon felt the hair at the back of his neck rise. He pushed himself up, his legs unsteady, one arm heavily bracing against a nearby workbench. His limbs still throbbed, and he was certain his face was pale beneath the layer of frost melting from his skin. But he held himself tall, meeting this unknown enemy’s gaze with as much strength as his trembling body would allow.

“My name is Roche,” he snapped.

The temperature in the room dropped.

Vaelir didn’t move, but the air around him shifted—not physically, but in a way that made the space feel smaller, as if the walls themselves were leaning in. A sound curled at the edge of Vernon’s hearing, something faint, layered, like whispers bleeding from the stone itself.

Then Vaelir chuckled.

It wasn’t a normal laugh. It wasn’t even fully his own. It came from nowhere and everywhere at once, rippling through the air like a thing alive.

“Good enough, for tonight anyway. Now stay.”

The words slithered through the chamber, carrying a vibration that hummed in his bones, making his pulse thunder against his ribs.

Vernon stood frozen as the elf’s footsteps faded up the only exit. When the door clicked shut, the moment shattered. His knees buckled, and he crumpled back onto the freezing stone floor, landing in a shallow pool of melting ice. Cold water seeped through his clothes, clinging to his skin, but he barely felt it—his limbs were heavy, unresponsive, boneless.

He turned his head, breath shuddering, his cheek pressing against the damp stone. He took in his surroundings. The space around him was unmistakably a workshop—rows of weapons, half-finished blades hanging from racks, piles of horseshoes, chains coiled like waiting serpents. The air smelled of metal and soot, the warmth of the forge fighting the ice that had filled the space upon his arrival.

His fingers curled weakly against the floor as realization sank in. He still had no idea what Vaelir wanted from him. But one thing was certain...

Vaelir had visited his mother’s grave.

And then he had come for him.

Time lost meaning.

Vernon didn’t know if he slept, if he fell unconscious, or if he simply lay there, too drained to do anything but exist in the frigid damp. When he finally stirred and stiffly stood to his feet, he made to look around the room, gather protection and weapons - but something stopped him. A barrier, invisible yet absolute, kept his feet firmly in place. 

His breath hitched. 

His arms moved freely. He stretched them beyond where his feet could go, waving them through open air without resistance. But the moment he tried to step forward, something deep inside him resisted. Not his muscles. Not exhaustion. Something else.

A creeping unease tightened his chest. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small handful of coins he always carried. He pulled one out, turning it between his fingers before flicking it forward.

It sailed through the empty space unhindered, clattering against the far wall.

No physical barrier. No wall. So why couldn’t he move?

He inhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, willing himself to just walk. One step. One step. His legs trembled with the effort, but they didn’t disobey him—they simply refused. His body felt his own, but his will did not.

His mind raced back to the moment  the elf’s voice had seemed to wrap around the room, curling into his very bones.. Now stay.

His fists clenched. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

"Vaelir!" His voice cut through the stillness, sharp with fury. "Come down here and face me, you bastard!"

The silence stretched. Then, from above, footsteps.

The footsteps descended the stairs without hurry. Slow, deliberate, unbothered by Vernon’s fury.

Then came the chuckle.

Low, almost amused.

Vaelir emerged from the dim light above, his form cast in flickering shadows as he stepped onto the stone floor.

Then, finally, he met Roche’s gaze.

"I'm not the bastard here, son." The words rolled off his tongue sharply. He took a step towards Roche, his fists clenching at his sides. 

"Why?" Roche snapped. "Why did you take me?"

Vaelir’s expression did not shift. He began to pace  around the room, increasingly agitated as Roche’s shouting continued.

"I don’t even know you!" Roche’s voice cracked slightly, anger fraying at the edges into something dangerously close to pleading. "I’ve never seen you before in my life. I’ve done nothing to you. What have I done to deserve this?"

Without regarding anything Roche had just said, Vaelir picked up right where he had left off.

"In fact, you're not just a bastard.” he gestured towards Roche, "You're an abomination. A very disgrace to the Aen Elle."

Vernon stilled.

The words did not immediately make sense—not in the way Vaelir had intended them to. Aen Elle? He didn’t know what that meant. The insult landed, but the meaning skated just out of reach.

But the way Vaelir said it—with such certainty, such cold loathing—made the back of Vernon’s neck prickle.

He clenched his jaw. He would not cower.

"Then why keep me here?" he spat, his voice harder now, despite the tightness in his chest. "If I disgust you so much?"

And he still did not answer.

But in the next breath, he moved.

The blow landed hard, an open-handed slap that cracked against Roche’s cheekbone that sent him sprawling backward, hitting the floor with a dull thud. His ears rang, his vision blurred, but the pain barely had time to register before Vaelir was on him again.

The elf crouched over him in an instant, fist clenched in the fabric of Roche’s shirt, dragging him forward, forcing him close.

Roche struggled, but Vaelir’s grip was ironclad, keeping him in place.

For a moment, he thought another strike was coming.

But it never did.

Instead, Vaelir just… looked at him.

His piercing eyes roamed over Roche’s face, searching—for what, Roche couldn’t tell. But whatever it was, he found it.

And something cracked inside him.

In a voice strained and raw, he whispered

"How can I be disgusted by the last vestige of the only one I have loved?"

Roche’s lips parted, no words came. No anger, no demand, no plea. Just thick and suffocating silence to his unsteady confession. 

His grip on Roche’s shirt tightened, then loosened, his fingers hovering just over the fabric like he was afraid to let go and lose someone again. 

Vaelir’s words hung lonely in the air for another long moment. 

Then his hand moved, fingers grazing lightly over Roche’s temple, tracing the curve of his cheek, his jaw.

Roche wanted to recoil—to flinch away from the touch of a man who had stolen him from his life. The hand on his face felt familiar. Not in memory, but as if it was a touch he should have known all his life.

Then Vaelir’s fingers moved upward.

They ghosted over the edges of his ears, the pads of his fingers tracing their length.

Then came the sigh. Not relief, but disappointment.

Vaelir exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound tinged with frustration. His fingers twitched against Roche’s skin, as if unwilling to linger any longer on what they found.

"The impurity is…" he murmured, his voice almost distant, like he was speaking more to himself than to Roche. Then, his tone sharpened, cutting like a blade.

"What other deformities must be hiding within you?"

His hands dropped away.

And then he rose to his feet, leaving Roche where he lay.

Roche’s breath came shallow, his confusion eclipsing even his anger. His fingers twitched against his own chest, still feeling the warmth left behind by the hands that had just examined him.

Slowly, hesitantly, his own hand followed the same path—brushing over his temple, his cheek, his jaw, tracing the line down his throat before finally… finally… reaching his ears.

The pointed ends—new, foreign, unfamiliar.

He had yet to truly see them.

Had yet to understand what they made him.

His fingers pressed against them, tracing their edges with hesitant pressure.

Was he really so monstrous now?

Chapter Text

~ months later ~

The ride through the woods was a welcome escape. The road wound through a stretch of untouched woodland, the scent of damp earth and pine resin clinging to the air. Iorveth guided his steed through the underbrush, relishing the solitude the wilderness offered. Iorveth had spent too many weeks suffocated by the city, by its rigid expectations and unspoken tests of loyalty. Here, in the whispering trees and crisp air, he could breathe.

He was still adjusting to the change, to the shift in his standing among the Dearg Ruadhri. Becoming one of Eredin’s chosen was a privilege few attained, but it was not given freely. It was earned in blood, in pain, in sacrifice. The trials were behind him now, but their echoes lingered, a reminder of what he had given up to claim the armor waiting for him.

The forge sat on the outskirts of a quiet village, smoke curling from its chimney as the rhythmic clang of metal on metal echoed in the crisp air. Iorveth dismounted, tying his horse to a post before stepping inside.

Vaelir looked up from his work, wiping sweat from his brow. "You’re early."

Iorveth smirked. "Eager to see how my armor’s coming along."

They spoke casually for a while, discussing the city, the ranks, and the village.

Iorveth leaned against a workbench, smirking. "You know, Vaelir, I always wondered why they put you behind a forge instead of keeping you in the field. Finally realized you were getting too slow to keep up?"

Vaelir huffed, crossing his arms. "Or maybe they figured someone had to keep your reckless ass armed. The way you go through blades, I should start charging you extra."

Iorveth chuckled. "Still sharp with words, I see. Almost makes me miss the old days. Almost."

Vaelir shook his head with a wry smile. "The old days were nothing but mud, blood, and sleepless nights."

"And yet, here we are, reminiscing like old men." Iorveth stretched, rolling his shoulders. "How much longer until my armor is done?”

Before Vaelir could respond, a pained grunt and a sharp curse rang out from somewhere below. Iorveth’s brow arched. That was no Elvish tongue he recognized.

He glanced at Vaelir, who had gone still for the briefest moment before shaking his head. “Apprentice,” he said, tone carefully even. “Clumsy with the tongs.”

Iorveth tilted his head. “Didn’t take you for the mentoring type.”

Vaelir busied himself with a rag, wiping his hands clean. “Had to take someone on. Work piles up.”

Iorveth hummed in acknowledgment but said nothing more. He watched as Vaelir disappeared down the stairs, listening intently. A few muffled words were exchanged—too soft to make out clearly, but the cadence was different, unfamiliar.

When Vaelir returned, he carried a chestplate in his arms, setting it down with a muted thud. Iorveth stepped forward, fingers grazing the metal. The craftsmanship was remarkable—layered plates, interlocking with precision, an almost skeletal aesthetic to the design. But it was the helmet that drew his attention. A delicate feather of metal adorned its side, an unexpected flourish.

“I didn’t know you had such an eye for detail,” Iorveth mused, running a finger along the feather’s edge.

Vaelir let out a short, uneasy chuckle. “One of my better works.”

Iorveth smirked, sensing the discomfort beneath the words. “You surprise me.”

Vaelir straightened, clearing his throat. “You should try the fit. Make sure everything sits as it should.”

A diversion. Iorveth let it slide, for now.

“I’ll put it to the test and let you know how it holds up,” Iorveth said, running a gloved hand over the armor’s plated surface.

Vaelir gave a curt nod, his posture a little too rigid. “Good. Let me know if anything needs adjusting.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the stairs.

Iorveth watched him go, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze. A swift retreat. Not unexpected.

Stepping out of the forge and into the cool evening air, he inhaled deeply, letting the quiet of the village settle around him. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the weight of his cloak. He had come to check on his armor, to exchange a few words with an old comrade, and yet…

That voice downstairs.

He had fought in countless battles across the world, met elves from scattered colonies, soldiers from distant war bands, and yet he had never heard anything quite like it.

An apprentice, Vaelir had said. He wasn’t lying—Iorveth would have noticed—but there was something else there. Something unsaid.

He smirked to himself. He had no orders to return immediately. A few days here, away from the city, would do him good. Time to breathe, to hunt in the woods, to listen to the wind. And if, in the midst of all that, he happened to catch a glimpse of this mystery apprentice?

Well. He had always been a curious bastard.

With a final glance back at the forge, where warm light still spilled through the cracks of the door, Iorveth turned and made his way toward the small inn at the village’s edge.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Iorveth rose with purpose.

Dawn broke over the village in muted gold, mist curling along the treetops as he stretched the stiffness from his limbs. He had tested his armor the previous day, noting the way the plates shifted with each movement, how the balance of weight distributed across his form. It was exceptional craftsmanship—Vaelir’s work always was—but still, there was a small adjustment to be made. A strap that pulled too tightly, a joint that pinched when he twisted too far.

A minor thing. Easily fixed. It gave him an excuse to return to the forge.

The forge was already alive with heat when he arrived. The rhythmic clang of hammer on metal filled the air, the scent of scorched iron thick and familiar.

Vaelir greeted him with a nod, his expression open, unexpectedly accommodating.

"Back so soon?"

Iorveth lifted the breastplate under one arm. "Needs a slight adjustment."

"Let’s have a look, then."

It was too easy.

Iorveth expected hesitation, guardedness—but instead, Vaelir gestured toward the stairs leading down to the basement. He did not protest.

If anything, he seemed… comfortable. Almost eager.

Iorveth didn’t let his surprise show.

With a small smirk, he followed Vaelir down into the depths of the forge.

The basement was much as he remembered—cooler, dimly lit, filled with the scent of smoldering coals and oiled steel. Shadows stretched in the corners where the forge-light did not quite reach. Racks of unfinished blades hung in neat rows, armor pieces stacked on a workbench, heavy chains coiled like waiting vipers.

His gaze flicked over the space, scanning for any sign of the apprentice.

Nothing.

No extra pair of boots by the stairs. No half-finished work left abandoned. No movement in the shadows.

Iorveth's disappointment was immediate, but he did not comment on it. He wasn’t foolish enough to reveal his curiosity.

Instead, he moved casually around the room, taking in everything.

His fingers trailed over the edge of a chain-link, testing its weight, before drifting toward an unfinished sword. A fine blade, sharp even in its incomplete state.

"You always do fine work," he mused idly, lifting the blade slightly to examine it. "Hard to believe they keep you in the forge instead of the field."

Vaelir let out a quiet snort, setting Iorveth’s armor on the workbench and beginning his adjustments. "They decided I was more valuable here. Less mess that way."

Iorveth hummed, feigning interest in the blade while his eyes continued to sweep the floor. Then, he saw them.

A small scattering of coins.

They weren’t dropped carelessly—no, they were spread apart, landing as if they had been thrown.

Thrown, but not retrieved.

Curious.

As Vaelir turned to retrieve a tool, Iorveth bent down quickly, plucking up one of the coins and slipping it into his pocket 

He straightened, shifting his stance before Vaelir could take notice.

The older elf returned to his work, oblivious. Good.

Iorveth turned the blade in his grip, watching how the dim firelight danced along its surface.

The apprentice had been here.

And yet, today, he was gone.

That night, Iorveth did not return to the inn.

Instead, he lingered near the forge, positioned just within the tree line beyond the village.

He did not waste time on blind guesses—he had been trained to watch, to track, to observe. And patience was a skill he had honed well.

He watched for movement. For signs of the mysterious apprentice’s presence.

A light in the window. A figure passing through the forge’s glow.

Anything.

But the night stretched long, and the forge remained still.

Still, he would wait.

He turned the small coin between his fingers, feeling the ridged edge bite lightly against his calloused skin. It was unremarkable at first glance, a dull, well-worn thing, he held it up to the faint moonlight filtering through the trees.

The markings and the script were unfamiliar.

Iorveth furrowed his brow, tracing a thumb over the strange etchings. It was not Aen Elle coinage—nothing minted in their cities bore these markings. It wasn’t something he recognized from the trade routes either.

A foreigner’s coin.

His eyes flicked back toward the forge, toward the basement where he had found it discarded like an afterthought.

Why would an apprentice carry coin from a world that wasn’t his own?

His fingers curled around the metal, mind working through the puzzle as he returned his focus to the forge.

The forest behind the forge was quiet in the pale morning light, the crisp bite of dawn still lingering in the air. Two days Iorveth had waited, watching for signs of the elusive apprentice.

And now, he had found him.

A man, not a boy.

He stood in the clearing, bracing a log on the chopping block, adjusting his stance before swinging the axe in a clean, practiced arc. The motion was effortless—controlled strength, sharp and fluid.

Iorveth watched, eyes keen as the blade sliced clean through the wood, He worked like a man who knew his own strength and used only as much as he needed. Efficient. Precise.

There was an ease to him, a confidence in the way he moved—not something beaten into him through submission, but something learned.

And that was what unsettled Iorveth the most.

Vaelir had called him an apprentice.

But everything about him—the solid frame, the quiet grace, the way his shoulders squared even when he wasn’t looking—

That was not an apprentice. That was a soldier.

Iorveth’s gaze flicked over him, taking in broader frame, his height, the deep V-cut of his tunic, the dark dusting of chest hair, the ridiculous hat curled and draped over his head like something out of a painting from a century past. A foreigner for sure, likely a slave taken by the hunt from some world or another. That explains the unknown language Iorveth had overheard. 

But if he was a slave, why hide him?

Foreigners in servitude were not too uncommon. No one would blink twice at Vaelir, keeping one for labor. So why the deception? Why lie?

The axe swung again, sending another log splitting apart with a clean crack.

The man paused, rolling his shoulders before bracing another log.

Iorveth did not move, did not breathe.

He had seen enough.

Tomorrow, he would return to the forge.

And he would be watching.

The forge was already awake by the time Iorveth arrived, its heat spilling into the cool morning air, the rhythmic hammering of metal striking metal ringing in the distance. He approached casually, his bow slung over his shoulder.

Vaelir glanced up from where he stood at the anvil, wiping sweat from his brow. 

Iorveth smirked slightly. “Still taking orders?”

Vaelir chuckled, setting aside his hammer. “Depends. Are you going to be a pain about it?”

“Always.”

The elf shook his head but gestured for him to continue.

“I need a new quiver,” Iorveth said, resting a hand on the strap of his bow. “The old one’s wearing thin.”

Vaelir raised an eyebrow. “You want me to forge you one out of steel?”

Iorveth rolled his eyes. “Leather, you bastard. Unless you’ve forgotten how to work with it.”

Vaelir snorted. “I haven’t.”

“Good. Then I want it reinforced, lined with something to protect the fletching. And if you still have that red dye you used years back, I want it stained with that.”

That made Vaelir pause. His expression didn’t shift, but Iorveth saw the hesitation—brief, almost imperceptible.

“The red?” Vaelir mused, glancing toward the racks of supplies along the wall. “I might still have some. The whole thing or just the trim?”

“The trim,” Iorveth said easily. “But it needs to be deep, none of that faded nonsense. A bold color.”

Vaelir hummed in thought. “Then I’ll need fresher pigment.”

That was the moment Iorveth had been waiting for.

He kept his expression perfectly neutral, and dipped his head, “Good. Let me know when it’s ready.”.

Vaelir nodded, already reaching for a strip of leather. “Shouldn’t take long.”

Iorveth turned on his heel, adjusting the strap of his bow as he moved toward the door.
No lingering. No questions. No mention of the apprentice.

Just as he stepped out into the morning light, he threw a casual parting shot over his shoulder. “Try not to botch it.”

Vaelir let out a low chuckle. “Try not to get yourself killed before I finish it.”

Iorveth smirked but didn’t look back.

He had what he came for. Now, he would wait.

Chapter Text

Steel bit into his wrists. 

Roche sat stiff-backed on the wooden bench in the forge, jaw tight as Vaelir knelt at his feet, securing the wrist shackles with practiced efficiency. The iron pressed against his skin, familiar and heavy, the dull weight of control made tangible. He didn’t resist. Resistance had never gotten him anywhere.

“Stay on the path,” Vaelir instructed, tightening the last lock with a final click . His voice was even, impassive. “Don’t wander too far.”

Vernon exhaled through his nose, dragging his gaze up to meet his captor’s. “Afraid I’ll run?” he muttered, voice rough with quiet defiance.

Vaelir’s expression did not change, but something flickered behind his eyes. “You won’t.”

And that was that.

The cold iron sat heavy on his wrists.

Vernon flexed his fingers as he walked, testing the range of movement, the weight of the chains. They weren’t too restrictive—Vaelir had seen to that. If he was expected to gather berries, he needed full use of his hands.

Still, the metal pressed against his skin like a brand, a constant reminder of his place.

He adjusted the chaperon on his head, letting the fabric settle properly over his shoulders before stepping off the path, deeper into the trees.

The forest stretched wide before him, vast and endless in a way that made his ribs tighten. It was different from the ones he knew—too still, too quiet. Even with the occasional rustle of leaves, the distant calls of unseen creatures, something about it felt other.

Like everything else in this damned world.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and focused on the task ahead. Get the berries. Bring them back. Don’t cause trouble.

His boots crunched softly over fallen leaves as he picked his way through the undergrowth. He followed the markers he had been told to look for—the jagged stones, the crooked birch tree, the place where the roots swelled from the earth like gnarled fingers. The bushes Vaelir had described would be just beyond—

There.

Clusters of dark berries nestled between waxy leaves, their deep red color almost black in the dim morning light.

Vernon knelt, setting his hat down beside him, and reached out to pluck the first handful.

For once, he let himself breathe.

The rhythm came naturally, unbidden.

A slow, low hum, rising and falling in time with the motions of his hands.

He wasn’t even thinking about it, not really. It was just there, slipping past his lips, blending with the hush of the trees.

He had done this before. So many times before. When he was younger, when his mother used to sing while they worked, when the world had been simpler—before all of this.

The melody had no words, just a tune. A song meant to fill the silence, to anchor the mind in something steady.

The wind shifted, carrying the sound through the leaves, over the grass.

He did not hear the footsteps.

Did not feel the gaze that had settled upon him.

Did not know that he was no longer alone.

The voice shattered the stillness.

Vernon froze, breath catching in his throat, a berry crushed between his fingers. That wasn’t Vaelir’s voice.

Someone else.

His pulse slammed into his ribs. He whirled around so fast his hat overturned, berries spilling into the grass. The movement yanked his wrists together, the metal shackles clanging audibly against each other. He barely noticed.

There was an elf standing in the trees.

Not Vaelir. Not anyone he had ever seen before.

For a moment, his mind refused to make sense of it. He had spent months with nothing but Vaelir’s voice, Vaelir’s commands, Vaelir’s presence weighing on him like an iron brand. And now—this.

Someone else.

A lifeline.

His voice tore free, frantic, breathless, raw.

“Please—you have to help me—my father—he—” The words fell over themselves, too fast, desperate. “He took me—trapped me—I can’t—”

He took a step forward, wrists rattling, hands outstretched—pleading, grasping for something, someone to listen—

The elf didn’t move.

Vernon faltered, the weight of his own panic crashing into him all at once. Why wasn’t he reacting? His voice cracked as he tried again, urgency tightening around his throat like a vice.

“I don’t belong here! You have to—”

And then he saw it—the flicker of confusion in the elf’s sharp green eyes.

Realization hit like a slap.

He wasn’t even speaking the right godsdamned language.

A strangled noise caught in his throat. Of course. He had spent months with Vaelir drilling Elder Speech into his skull, but when it mattered—when he needed it most—his mind reached for the language that no one here would understand.

Vernon forced himself to breathe. Think. His hands curled into fists at his sides, frustration burning behind his ribs as he tried to wrangle something—anything—from his memory.

His tongue felt thick, clumsy around the words, but he forced them out anyway.

" Father is enemy. Trapped. "

A beat of silence.

Then the elf moved.

Slow, deliberate, like one might approach a wounded animal. His hands lifted—palms open, unthreatening.

A universal gesture.

No harm.

And then, carefully, he spoke in simple words.

“ You are safe. You are with me. ”

The words cut through the fog of panic, grounding Vernon like a sudden rush of cold water.

For the first time in months—someone else had spoken to him.

And for the first time in months—he dared to hope.

Iorveth kneels, slow and deliberate, watching Vernon closely as if he might vanish into the mist. He doesn’t reach out immediately, doesn’t startle him further. But his sharp hunter’s eyes sweep over him—
The tired, sunken exhaustion clinging to his face.
The bruises in various states of healing.
The way he flinches at nothing, as if bracing for something unseen.

And then—his wrists.

The shackles.

Iorveth’s jaw tightens as he reaches forward, his fingers brushing against cool iron, his thumb tracing the worn skin beneath. The bruises are old, but some marks are fresh, rubbed raw from movement. A slow, simmering anger builds in his chest—silent, unnoticed, unfamiliar.

Vernon stares at him. Not pulling away. Not resisting. If anything—
He seems to be soaking it in.

The warmth of a touch that isn’t cruel.

A breath shudders from Vernon’s chest, almost imperceptible, but Iorveth feels it in the way his fingers twitch beneath his own. How long had it been since someone had touched him with care ?

Iorveth’s gaze lifts—searching Vernon’s face again. His features are rugged, striking in a way Iorveth has never seen before. There’s a roughness to him, an edge of something wild and real —unlike the clean, sharp beauty of the Aen Elle.
The chest hair, the sun-kissed skin, the strange yet undeniably graceful way he moves.

Why would anyone want to break something so strange and beautiful?

Iorveth exhales, grounding himself, and quietly repeats:

“… Father is enemy ?”

Vernon swallows, steadying. This time, his voice is clearer.

“Vaelir.”

Silence.

Iorveth stills. His fingers tighten around Vernon’s wrist for a fraction of a second before he releases it. Vaelir. The cold, efficient warrior. The blacksmith. The Red Rider. He never spoke of a son. Never spoke of a woman , of a life beyond the Hunt.

This changes everything.

His voice is measured when he speaks again. “ Where is your home? ”

Vernon’s breath is soft, but his answer is sharp as a knife.

“… In a portal. ”

Something in Iorveth’s chest twists. Not sympathy—not yet. But understanding.

He shifts, reaching into his pocket. The coin, cool and familiar against his fingers. He withdraws it, turning it between his fingers before holding it out for Vernon to see.

A simple test.

Vernon’s eyes widen—lighting up with something almost hopeful .

“ YES ! TEMERIA!!”

His voice shakes—not with fear this time, but with something else. Recognition. Connection. Proof that he is not alone.

Iorveth watches the way Vernon’s fingers tighten around the coin, how he holds it as if it’s proof that he still exists beyond this place. Temeria. The name means nothing to him, but the reaction does.

He does not belong here.

Iorveth exhales, rubbing a thumb along his jaw, then meets Vernon’s eyes again.

“How can I see you again?”

Vernon’s brows furrow for a moment, as if parsing the words carefully. He shifts his stance, wrists rattling faintly as he struggles to put the answer into something Iorveth will understand.

He gestures at himself, then presses a hand to his temple. “ Sometimes… magic bound. ” His fingers curl, as if tightening around something unseen. Trapped. Then, just as easily, he relaxes his hand and lifts his chin slightly. “ Sometimes free. ”

His expression flickers—something almost like humor, but sharp-edged, weary. He taps his temple again, then his chest. “ Vaelir Mad then Vaelir happy .”

Iorveth exhales sharply through his nose. He thinks he understands.

Sometimes Vaelir’s magic keeps him confined. Sometimes, it doesn’t. It fluctuates. A trap with shifting walls. No clear pattern, no guarantees.

It’s not enough. It’s too uncertain.

Iorveth presses his lips together, considering his next words carefully. “When free… where?”

Vernon frowns, thinking, then glances back toward the forge—the direction he came from. He shakes his head, then gestures loosely at the forest around them. “ Here .”

Iorveth sighs, the language barrier making it difficult, but at least that much is clear. Vernon comes into the woods when he can. That means there will be another chance.

And Iorveth will make sure of it.

His mind is already turning, pieces falling into place.

If Vernon is shackled under Vaelir’s watch, then he needs to get Vaelir away from the forge. Only then will he have time—real time—to speak with Vernon without risk.

And there is only one thing that would call Vaelir away from his exile.

If Iorveth could have Vaelir recalled, summoned for a meeting or a mission, it would force him to leave Vernon behind. And when that happened—

Iorveth would be waiting.

His sharp green eyes flick back to Vernon, still standing before him, looking at him like he is something fragile—like he might vanish at any second.

Iorveth exhales, reaching for one last assurance. “ I will find you again. ”

A beat of silence.

Then Vernon nods, slow and certain.

Iorveth studies him for a moment longer, then tilts his head slightly. " What is your name?"

The question hangs in the air between them. Vernon stiffens. His throat bobs with a hard swallow. 

A flicker of hesitation.

Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

Refusal.

Iorveth’s brows knit slightly. " You won’t tell me? "

Another shake. Firmer.

And then, without thinking, Vernon reaches for his neck.

His fingers brush against the cool stone at his throat, the broken relic that once held power, now just a remnant of something long lost. The pendant gleams faintly in the forest’s dim light—a gemstone, pale blue, the color of Vaelir’s eyes. His mother had given it to him, had told him to always keep it. Even now, after everything, he had not let it go.

He shouldn’t.

But—

Vernon exhales sharply and pulls the cord over his head.

The loss of its weight unsettles him for a moment, but he clenches his fist around it before doubt can settle in. And then, stepping forward, he reaches out, pressing the necklace into Iorveth’s palm.

" For you. "

Iorveth blinks. His fingers curl around the pendant instinctively, feeling the smooth weight of it against his skin. He studies it for a long moment before his gaze lifts back to Vernon’s.

Vernon doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t have the words to explain it, not properly. Not in Elder Speech, not in Common. But this—this is proof. Proof that he is real, that he exists, that he is here.

That he will be here.

Iorveth stares at him, something unreadable flickering behind his sharp green eyes. And then, slowly, his free hand moves to his own wrist.

A simple strip of worn leather, a brace wrapped around his wrist, tied with knots—practical, nondescript, something that had been with him longer than he could remember.

Without a word, Iorveth undoes it.

He takes Vernon’s wrist, warm beneath his touch, and with deliberate care, fastens the leather strap around it. His fingers move deftly, securing the knots, making sure it will hold.

" Yours now. "

His voice is quiet, but firm.

Vernon swallows. The leather is rough, worn soft from use, but it feels solid against his skin. He turns his wrist slightly, feeling the way it moves with him.

A promise.

Iorveth’s fingers linger just a moment longer before he pulls away.

He does not look back as he vanishes into the trees.

But his mind is already plotting, time to put some favors owed to call.

And now—he carries proof.

A name left unspoken. But something given in its place.

Vaelir received an urgent recall to the capital the following week, an important meeting, reasons of state. Before departing, Vaelir stands over Vernon, voice low, controlled. “I will be back by tomorrow evening.”
His fingers curl beneath Vernon’s chin, tilting his face up—forceful, but not violent. Studying him. Ensuring he understands.
“Don’t be foolish while I’m gone.”

Roche doesn’t speak, but his jaw tightens beneath Vaelir’s grip.

Vaelir exhales sharply and releases him.

He pushes Roche back onto the ground, binding a collar to the floor along with the usual shackles. The final cruelty—a magic-sewn restriction—curls inside him, pressing into his ribs. Heat surges through his body, fever rising fast.

Then, without another word, Vaelir turns and leaves. 

In Tir ná Lia , amidst the towering glass spires and the echoing halls of the Hunt’s command, Iorveth watches from a distance as Vaelir dismounts.

Perfect.

It is a confirmation—a signal. Vaelir is away from the forge. Vernon is alone.

Iorveth wastes no time.

Iorveth rides harder than he ever has before. His stallion’s hooves pound against the earth, the wind tearing past him, but his mind is sharper than the rush of speed.

He was supposed to be in the forest.
That was the plan. That was the only guarantee Vernon could give him.

And yet—

As Iorveth reaches the treeline, his stomach twists. The clearing where Vernon should be standing, waiting—

Empty.

Iorveth slows his horse only long enough to swing off the saddle, boots striking the earth as he moves toward the forge. His heart hammers against his ribs. If he is not in the forest, he is not free, and if he is not free, vaelir was angry. 

Iorveth moves like a ghost through the forge’s threshold. His instincts, sharp as a blade, scream that something is wrong. The heat from the dying embers clings to the air, but there is no sound—no hammering, no muttered curses, no shifting movement from below.

His first thought is the basement.

He moves swiftly, methodically. The stairwell is empty, the forge tools resting undisturbed. The chains—ones he had glimpsed before—hang from their places, waiting.

No sign of Vernon.

Then, a sound—

Faint. A shallow, labored breath.

The moment Iorveth steps onto the second floor, he hears it clearer now—a quiet, pained moan, a breath stolen from trembling lungs.

His stomach twists.

Vernon lay on the floor, a thin blanket beneath him, his chest rising in shallow, uneven gasps.

The sweat on his skin catches the dim light, his body burning with fever.

Shackles bind both wrists and ankles, and—a collar. Thick iron, a chain bolted to the floor.

Iorveth exhales sharply through his nose. Vaelir did this.

His gaze rakes over him—the bruises along his arms, the trembling fingers, the unnatural flush to his skin. The signs of something deeper at work.

Magic.

Iorveth does not speak immediately. Instead, he kneels.

He reaches out, fingers ghosting over Vernon’s wrist, feeling the heat rolling off him. Then, carefully, he touches the shackles, feeling for runes, for enchantments.

Vernon stirs beneath his hands, his eyes fluttering open—dazed, fevered.

" You found me ."

His voice is weak, but there’s something there— relief, disbelief.

And Iorveth—who had spent years hunting men in the shadows, who had hardened himself to the sight of suffering—

Iorveth tightened his jaw.

This is not the way.

The Red Riders did not leave men caught between life and death. They hunted. They killed. They conquered. But this—this was madness.

Iorveth moved swiftly, searching through the forge’s scattered tools with sharp, efficient hands. Vernon’s fevered breaths rasped in the silence behind him, uneven and labored, each one a struggle. He needed to move him.

Needed to free him.

His fingers curled around a heavy wrench, its grip worn smooth from years of use. Good enough.

Turning back, he found Vernon’s half-lidded eyes tracking his movements, sluggish but aware. The fever painted his skin in unnatural shades—too pale beneath the sheen of sweat, dark circles stark beneath silvered eyes.

Iorveth knelt beside him once more, bracing himself against the cold iron that held Vernon in place. The collar. Thick, heavy, bolted into the floor on either side of his throat. A prison that did not allow for escape, only obedience.

A slow tremor ran through Vernon’s body as Iorveth set to work.

The first bolt groaned as the wrench forced it loose, metal grinding against metal. The second proved more stubborn, but Iorveth pressed his weight into it, muscle straining—

" No ."

A breathless, cracked whisper.

Iorveth hesitated, glancing down.

Vernon’s fingers twitched weakly, his wrists barely lifting from where they lay shackled against his sides. His gaze, hazy with fever, met Iorveth’s with something close to urgency.

"No. Worse… if I get loose ."

The words came stilted, fractured—half in Common, half in Elder Speech, tumbling together in a desperate attempt to be understood.

Iorveth exhaled sharply through his nose. He understood just fine.

" Enough ," he murmured, returning to the bolt. " You’re free ."

The wrench turned with a final, satisfying snap.

The collar loosened.

Iorveth discarded the collar and reached for Vernon immediately, shifting his arms beneath him, lifting his shoulders up into his lap, cradling his head. The moment he moved him, Vernon let out a faint, broken sound—not quite pain, not quite relief.

Iorveth adjusted him carefully, trying to find an angle that might help ease the tension in his chest, might grant him even a fraction of relief—but the wheezing remained the same, the strain of each breath unchanged.

 His gaze flicked downward, tracing the hollow of Vernon’s throat to the exposed skin of his chest, the deep-cut tunic revealing the sharp rise and fall of his ribs. He pressed his palm flat against it, feeling the fevered warmth beneath his fingertips.

There.

A vibration beneath his fingertips.

Low and insidious, pressing on his ribs. Magic.

Iorveth’s stomach twisted.

Vaelir had done this.

His fingers curled slightly, feeling the weight of it, the unnatural pressure that sat heavy on Vernon’s chest, making every breath a battle. Slow unending suffocation. It was meant to keep him weak. Keep him contained even in Vaelir’s absence.

He was burning.

Fever clung to him like a second skin, his breath shallow and labored, silvered eyes unfocused beneath damp lashes. Sweat darkened his hair at the temples, sticking stray strands to his forehead. Up close, Iorveth could see the exhaustion carved deep into his face—the sharp hollows beneath his eyes, the way his lips parted slightly with each struggling breath.

He swallowed down the flicker of rage that curled in his chest.

" You will breathe ," he murmured, his voice steady, certain—as if sheer will alone could undo what had been done.

Vernon’s head lolled slightly against him, his fevered breath ghosting against Iorveth’s wrist.

Iorveth had found him.

Now, he would fix this.

Iorveth had no healing magic. The weak were left to die—that was the way of things. No one wasted effort on the dying, and none wasted time saving those who could not save themselves.

But this one was different.

He was not weak. He had endured. He had fought.

And Iorveth had no intention of leaving him to suffer under Vaelir’s hand.

He knew one thing: cold defeats heat.

If his frost was strong enough, and Vaelir’s spell weak enough, it would overcome the insidious spell..

He exhaled sharply, focusing, summoning the frost. It curled over his fingertips, spectral blue misting over Vernon’s skin. A ghostly chill against the fevered heat.

Nothing.

Iorveth’s jaw tightened. Of course. 

The frost remained outside, and the fire still raged within.

There was only one way.

Iorveth exhaled through his nose, barely believing what he was about to do.

This was madness.

And yet, it was the only rational course of action.

He had to get the frost inside.

Iorveth shifted moving to cup his jaw, to gently coax it open.

Then, he bent over him.

He exhaled, slow and deliberate, parting his lips just above Vernon’s own. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that their breath mingled.

Then, he breathed in the frost.

The spectral chill seeped from his lungs into Vernon’s, curling past his lips in a ghostly wisp.

His breath stilled.

A pause.

Then, beneath his hand, Vernon’s chest expanded.

A slow, deep inhale—unrestricted.

The burning heat faded, the fever breaking beneath the frost. The unnatural weight pressing on his lungs relented.

Iorveth did not move.

Not yet.

His lips barely ghosted over Vernon’s, the faintest brush of warmth meeting cold. His fingers splayed over his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of breath—steady, even. Normal.

The tension in his own body refused to ease.

He had done what needed to be done. That was all.

Iorveth worked quickly, undoing the last of Vernon’s restraints, the heavy shackles falling away with a dull clang against the wooden floor. His gaze flickered briefly to Vernon’s wrist—the leather strap he had given him was still there, looped several times around his forearm like an archer’s guard. The sight of it did something strange to his chest, but he pushed the thought aside.

The moment he was free, Vernon moved.

Or, rather— tried to.

He barely made it a few feet before collapsing onto his elbows, muscles trembling with the effort. Iorveth reached for him instinctively, trying to steady him, but Vernon jerked away, still crawling forward with stubborn, sluggish determination.

Iorveth frowned. “ What are you doing? ” His voice was sharper than he intended, concern bleeding into frustration.

Vernon’s breath hitched as he dragged himself another few inches, sweat slicking his skin, but he didn’t answer. Not immediately. His silvered eyes flickered toward the other room, wild with fever, locked onto something Iorveth couldn’t see.

Then, hoarse, breathless, he rasped, “ There .”

Iorveth followed his gaze.

A simple vase sat atop a nearby table, filled with orange gerbera daisies, their petals bright even in the dim light of the forge.

Iorveth looked back at Vernon, skepticism clear in the furrow of his brow. “ You are dying, and you want flowers ?”

Vernon swallowed hard, trying and failing to push himself up. He barely made it an inch before his arms buckled, his strength utterly spent. He let out a frustrated breath, rolling onto his back with a quiet, pained groan.

His fingers twitched. “ Just—get them .”

Iorveth exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but he rose without further argument. If the fool wanted a flower in his last moments, then fine.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, plucked one of the daisies from the vase, and returned, kneeling beside Vernon once more.

Vernon’s hand barely lifted from the floor, palm open, waiting. Iorveth placed the flower in his grasp, but instead of holding it, Vernon brought it straight to his mouth.

Iorveth watched, brow furrowing, as Vernon bit into the petals, teeth closing over them, lips pressing tight as he mumbled something beneath his breath.

The words were too soft to catch.

Or perhaps they were never meant for Iorveth to understand.

Iorveth went rigid as realization struck, his sharp green eyes narrowing, watching closely now.

A spell.

Vernon swallowed.

And within moments— it worked .

Color rushed back to his skin, the pallor fading. The trembling in his limbs stilled. His breath evened out. The weight pressing on his chest seemed to lift, and when he pushed himself upright, back braced against the wall, there was no longer the same desperate struggle in his movements.

Iorveth’s jaw clenched.

Vernon caught his look, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and huffed a short, exhausted breath. “ What ?” His voice was still hoarse, but stronger.

Iorveth didn’t answer right away. He just watched .

Then, slowly, carefully, he said, “ That was magic .”

Vernon frowned, shaking his head slightly, as if shaking off the accusation. “ It’s just something my mother taught me. ”

Iorveth’s expression remained unreadable. But his mind was turning.

Vernon exhaled, rolling his shoulders, testing the newfound strength coursing through his limbs, then pushed himself to his feet.

Iorveth tensed slightly at the sudden movement, his eyes sharp as they tracked him, but Vernon only stepped forward, extending his hand.

A handshake.

“ Thanks ,” Vernon said simply, his voice still rough but steady now. “ For… all of that .”

Iorveth hesitated.

It was clear in the way his gaze flickered between Vernon’s face and his outstretched hand, in the brief tightening of his jaw. He was not a man accustomed to gestures like this, to gratitude. 

But after a moment, he grasped Vernon’s hand.

It was brief, a little awkward—his grip firm, Vernon’s warm—but neither of them acknowledged it. When they pulled apart, the silence between them was not uncomfortable. Just… settling.

Then Vernon’s eyes caught something.

The pendant around Iorveth’s neck.

The gemstone gleamed faintly in the dim light, icy grey-white, cool against the warmth of Iorveth’s skin.

His mother’s gift.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask for it back.

Instead, he reached for it gently, fingertips ghosting over the smooth surface of the stone, tracing its familiar shape. His expression was unreadable— soft , almost reverent, as if offering silent gratitude not just for the man who had saved him, but for the relic that had led him to this moment.

Iorveth did not stop him.

Did not move away.

Iorveth’s sharp green eyes didn’t waver.

“ Why ?” he asked simply.

Vernon blinked. “ What ?”

Iorveth tilted his head slightly, studying him. “ Why are you here? Why does Vaelir keep you as a prisoner? ”

Vernon exhaled, his hand twitching briefly as if tempted to reach for the pendant again, as if grounding himself with something familiar. Instead, he rubbed a thumb over the leather strap still wound around his arm.

He considered his words carefully. His Elder Speech was too limited for a proper explanation, so he kept it simple.

He met Iorveth’s gaze. “Temeria.”

Iorveth’s brow furrowed.

“Continent,” Vernon clarified, tapping his own chest. “ I come from the Continent.”

Iorveth nodded slowly, waiting.

Vernon swallowed, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Never knew father, ” he said at last, his voice steady but holding something else beneath it. He shook his head. “Mother raised me. Alone .”

Something flickered across Iorveth’s expression, but he didn’t interrupt.

Vernon inhaled deeply, then let it out in a slow breath. “ She died .” His mouth pressed into a firm line. “ Then… my father came .”

The words felt unnatural in his mouth. My father. The title didn’t fit. It never had.

“ Took me. ” His jaw clenched. “ He —” A sharp exhale. “ Loved and hated me in same breath .”

Iorveth’s gaze darkened.

Vernon forced himself to hold it. “ He says I am his blood .” His fingers curled against his palms. “ But not enough .”

The words felt raw, scraped up from somewhere deep.

Iorveth said nothing at first. But Vernon could feel the way his eyes studied him, the way they searched for something, something Vernon wasn’t sure he wanted found.

Finally, Iorveth exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away just briefly—thoughtful, calculating.

Vernon swallowed.

He wasn’t done yet. And he had a feeling Iorveth wasn’t either.

The moment settled between them, heavy and unspoken. 

Vernon let his hand drop, stepping back. 

There were no words for what had passed. None were needed.