Ice flushed through Chyrie's veins as she looked from the broken guard to her abyssal savior.
Xiran stooped down, examining Kenall's body and checking for a pulse before he gripped the back of his leather armor and dragged him from the mine. In one smooth motion he discarded his remains on top of the second guard– a man whose name she never heard.
Chyrie's gut rolled with tension, a mixture of fear and gratitude warring for dominance in the pit of her stomach.
"I thought you went to Courmasse?"
"I did," he said without turning. Instead, Xiran rummaged through the guard's packs and pulled out any food or supplies he deemed suitable and set them aside. "Courmasse is heavily guarded."
Chyrie opened her mouth to protest his ransacking – supplies meant for her – but Xiran scooped up the clothes and brought them into the cave. He was methodical, neatly folding the top fabric, and growing frustrated with the flowing pants that wouldn't lay flat. Setting the fresh selection onto her bedroll, he left for the food.
She couldn't keep her mouth closed, words nothing more than ghosts on her tongue.
"H-how?"
"Anryth's men," he answered, his oceanic side-eye hinting at the small smirk on his lips. "They're stationed near each gate. No one in, no one out."
"He's taken the whole city hostage," she murmured to herself. "You couldn't get in then?"
Xiran shook his head. "No, not without endangering lives."
Chyrie glanced toward the two bodies piled beneath the cliff face. "You seem to regard life highly."
"I do," he answered, eyes narrowing. "But in my country, your life becomes forfeit when you take another."
"How does that prevent further death?"
Xiran sighed, pivoting to face her. "It becomes forfeit but that doesn't mean you are a deadman. Only that you may call for a Rite and claim something of equal value."
"What is a life worth?" Chyrie growled.
"That depends," he answered softly, returning to a package of bread, some sealed beef, and bottled wine. "I've seen men take advantage of women and lose their favorite appendage."
Chyrie's cheeks heated at the implication.
Xiran carried the supplies into the mine and lined them up against the caves naturally shelving, careful to avoid any exposed magma channels. He swept the surface off with the sleeve of his jacket and continued to organize them.
"So, people must weigh the future against the present? The consequences of their actions?"
He nodded. "It worked for us."
"And where are your people now?"
Xiran's body went rigged. He froze with a canister of peas in his hand, jaw working itself as he prepared his answer.
"Dead."
Chyrie's mouth dried out instantly.
She couldn't grapple whether she'd overstepped or risked upsetting him, watching carefully as he resumed looting the guards.
Xiran offered nothing else, snapping his fingers away from his chest. A horned head appeared from the rock face beneath them, the sunlight revealing flowing whiskers, and a lengthy body coiling upward.
Chyrie stared in awe as Xiran's dragon came into view, dagger-esque claws gripping onto the ledge with brutal force.
She held her breath as the beast tipped its head to the side and scorched the bodies in one sweeping exhale.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she said at last, feeling her shoulders sag as their remains fluttered away. Relief flooded through her. "May Setryr guide them home..."
The scales on his cheeks caught light, gold accentuating those vivid irises and mirroring the sea after a storm. Xiran's attention hooking into her, drawn to her left hand.
Her blade had shattered upon impact, one of the shards gashing her wrist.
Chyrie held up her hand, inspecting the blood smearing over her skin. A superficial wound with plenty of room for infection.
So numb, she could barely feel the warmth as she traced her fingers through the red. Her mind slowed down as the reality of their crime set in.
Anryth would find out his men had been slain eventually, it was only a matter of time. He might be headed for the eastern port but an avalanche of events would eventually plateau.
Sworn through the bond, he couldn't kill her without the forged weapons, but if he knew of her stash then perhaps—
Alcohol stung through her panic, dissolving her overactive imagination. Xiran knelt before her with an amber bottle in hand, liberally coating her gash until it sizzled.
Chyrie gritted her teeth. "What is that?"
"Whiskey," he replied, chuckling. "That's all I have."
"No, I mean—why are you helping me?"
Xiran took a strip of worn cotton and wrapped her arm tightly, careful to tuck the end underneath the beginning. He then tugged a brass clip from his hair and threaded it over the fabric. His black hair – pinned to the soft curve of his neck behind him – swept forward as dark bangs draped over his face.
Chyrie stared at him, his closeness allowing her to observe the ring of runes inked into his own forearm, winding up to his elbow. Names. She bit into her lip, controlling not only the urge to ask but to trace them.
The letters came to points she didn't recognize, an entirely different language. "Why protect me?"
"No one should be caged," he whispered, checking the make-shift bandage one last time before he rose to his feet. Xiran gestured to the cavern to the left of Niukka's forge– an old mining shaft with abandoned carts and tools. "and drakes wouldn't bond the weak."
As if she'd forgotten, Chyrie's gaze snapped to the pair of golden eyes lurking in the shadows.
Dailes' bitterness was palpable.
"You did not let me kill the boney man," he said, clearly disappointed.
"He alerted Noxa to your predicament."
The dragon behind Xiran chuffed.
Noxa was a formidable wyrm, drifting into the air before poking her nose into the cave. Chyrie couldn't see wings, not as Dailes' had. Only those sharp, gleaming talons paired with matching horns and teeth.
"Killing him might mean my own death," she replied to Dailes, frowning. "I have to finish these blades."
"How many have you finished?"
"He does not know," Chyrie warned him. "There are two quenched swords, both sharpened and ready."
Xiran hummed his approval, glancing at the forge.
"Anryth believes he gave me an impossible task, so I let him. I've only shown him failings in an attempt to protect myself should he change his mind or threaten to take one."
"The oath binds him as well, does it not?"
Chyrie paused, scratching her injured wrist. It flared in response, burning.
"It does," she said, wrapping her arms tight around her exposed waist. "But to what extent, I don't know."
A silence stretched between them, emphasizing the thoughts plaguing her mind. Dailes maneuvered the mine with false grace, slinking up beside her and knocking his head into her knee gently.
She took a deep, deep breath and cast away those negative demons.
"There must be some way to weaken him," Xiran considered aloud.
"Not without smothering him with silverbane," Chyrie snorted, rolling her eyes.
"Silverbane?"
"They say the bond of life magic and silver laced within the flowers of a banewood tree distort elven magic, but from what I understand it is only myth."
The Sikshan forest only bore a few banewood trees and the flowering season was potentially a month away. No matter how many prayers Chyrie cast into the woods beyond them, it wouldn't bloom.
"What does it look like?"
Her brows furrowed. "The banewood tree is fairly ambiguous but the flowers... the flowers are often cream colored with silver petal tips."
The last time she'd seen one was pinned to her mothers braid.
"Do they grow nearby?"
"Once, a long time ago they did," she answered. "Now they are rare and often sold medicinally to those with mortal ailments."
Xiran's face contorted, but she couldn't read his confusion. He slid his brown trench coat up his arms and shared a look with Noxa.
Chyrie found herself peeking down at Dailes, now wedged between her legs like a loyal guard dog. He tipped his knowing gold eyes back to her.
"I've never had to speak aloud, have I?"
Dailes' chuffed, amused.
"No," he replied. "You haven't."
"What are mortal ailments?" Xiran asked.
Blinking into her surroundings, Chyrie sighed. "Young Fae who've not yet settled are still mortal, as are several other races within Courmasse. Sickness, warped pregnancy, and other conditions all still plague them."
His head tilted. "You are mortal?"
Heat thrummed through her body in a molten wave, pooling in her core and echoing over her cheeks. Not even Anryth had ever mentioned it.
"I've not settled, no."
She whispered her plight like a secret, fidgeting against both the bandages wrapped in her palm and the new one around her wrist. He could kill her with such knowledge.
Anyone could.
Xiran considered something for a long moment, pacing back and forth. He tracked the setting sun with a measured glare, exhaling sharply under his breath.
"We must find a way to weaken him. Tomorrow I'll search for the tree, if you believe it might help."
So matter-of-fact, the order registered pleasantly compared to the vile commands Anryth was giving her.
"Why are you helping me?" Chyrie pushed again, eyes narrowing on his shadowed frame. "What is your payoff?"
"The Sinmar," he answered softly. "I must track it through Courmasse and if freeing you might free the city, the only thing I ask is that my hunt go unimpeded."
She held onto his words from their first encounter, remembering how he'd described the wicked creatures who stole others' appearance and reaped their power. His urgency became a clue, alongside his calm demeanor.
Piecing together what she could, Chyrie kept her theory to herself, pressing her lips tight.
His people were dead, just as her own risked imprisonment or worse.
"Then sleep here tonight," she told him, nodding toward the gate. "The forge heats the mine well and you'll be safe."
A phantom smile graced Xiran's lips, gone before it took shape. He nodded and pulled a small mat from his rucksack. Slowly, set his things alongside the wall opposite her and fell back, his arms crossed.
A captain keeping watch.
"I'll leave at first light."
Chyrie fought the urge to argue, to tell him the rush was unnecessary, but the nagging in her stomach told her Xiran's urgency wasn't for her. It was for him. For the Sinmar and his potential revenge.
Distracting herself, she painted a portrait in her mind of the loyal captain who watched over sunset and darkness.
For the first time in moons, Chyrie fell asleep with ease.