The wind tore past them in heavy, uneven currents as Bithorn's massive wings cut through the sky, each beat sending a dull vibration through the Deathforged clinging to his back, the dragon's scales still warm from exertion and fire. Far behind them, barely visible through the thinning haze of red clouds, flashes of violent light bloomed and vanished in erratic bursts, followed by low, thunderous booms that rolled across the sky like distant storms. Falco and Calik were still fighting somewhere back there, far enough away that the details were lost, but close enough that the sound of it made everyone tense whenever another shockwave rippled through the air.
No one said anything at first.
They were too tired for words, too battered for celebration, and too aware of how close they had come to dying to bother pretending otherwise. Seris sat near Bithorn's neck, hands tight on the reins, her posture rigid with focus even though exhaustion pulled at her shoulders. Dried blood streaked down the side of her face from a gash at her hairline, dark and crusted now, matting strands of her hair to her skin. She had wiped it away at some point, but not thoroughly, and the faint metallic smell still lingered whenever the wind shifted.
Ako lay curled closer to the center of Bithorn's back, her movements stiff and guarded, one hand braced against the dragon's scales as if letting go might send her tumbling. A deep, ugly cut ran along her back beneath torn fabric, still fresh enough that the pain hadn't dulled into anything manageable yet. Atlas sat a short distance from her, shoulders hunched slightly forward, his cloak pulled tighter than usual as though it might somehow hold him together. Blood seeped steadily from the gash along his side, darkening the fabric in a slow, creeping bloom that he pretended not to notice.
Garruk sat cross-legged near the rear of Bithorn's back, broad hands resting loosely on his knees, his expression unreadable as his gaze drifted between the others and the empty sky ahead. Lorian, sprawled out on his back with his arms folded behind his head, was the first to finally break the silence.
"Yes," he sighed dramatically, stretching as much as the dragon's uneven surface allowed, "yes, that's it, that's the feeling, oh my gods I missed this. The sun, the warmth, not everything being red and miserable and actively trying to kill us. I could cry."
The light had changed the moment they crossed the veil.
The oppressive crimson haze of the Demon Territories faded behind them like a bad dream, replaced by soft gold and orange as the sun crept higher into the sky. The air grew warmer, cleaner, carrying the faint scent of distant forests instead of ash and stone. Even the wind felt different, less sharp, less hostile, as though the world itself had relaxed its grip on them.
"I'm still kinda cold," Ako muttered, shifting slightly and immediately regretting it as pain flared along her back.
Before she could say anything else, Garruk reached up and tugged his massive animal-skin vest over his head in one smooth motion, the thick fur rustling loudly in the wind. Without ceremony, he leaned forward and draped it over Ako's shoulders, the heavy garment settling around her like a weighted blanket.
She froze for a moment, clearly not expecting it.
Then she lifted the edge of the vest and peeked up at him, her ears twitching slightly as she met his gaze. Garruk smiled at her, small and gentle, the kind of smile that carried no expectations and no weight behind it.
"Thanks, big guy," she said quietly, heat creeping into her cheeks despite herself, "I didn't ask you to do that."
He shrugged, looking faintly embarrassed now that he'd been acknowledged, and glanced away toward the horizon.
"You were cold," he said simply.
Ako pulled the vest tighter around herself and didn't argue.
Up near Bithorn's neck, Seris adjusted her grip on the reins just as the dragon drifted slightly too close to one of the griffins flying alongside them. Alice yanked on her own reins and steered sharply away, her griffin letting out an irritated screech.
"Hey," Alice snapped, voice carrying easily over the wind, "tell your damn pet to watch it, Criminal."
Seris turned her head slowly, offering a tight smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Sure thing," she replied sweetly.
The moment Alice looked away, Seris's smile vanished.
"Bitch," she muttered under her breath, leaning forward to pat Bithorn's neck reassuringly. "Ignore her, buddy. People like that usually think loud confidence counts as competence."
Bithorn rumbled softly, a low sound deep in his chest, and adjusted his flight just enough to keep a safe distance.
Atlas shifted, the movement sending a sharp stab of pain through his side. He hissed quietly through his teeth and pressed a hand against the wound, fingers coming away slick and red.
"Shit," he thought, staring down at it briefly before forcing his hand back beneath his cloak.
Flaminius drifted closer on his griffin, his posture relaxed despite the chaos they had just escaped. He glanced down at Atlas, eyes sharp and assessing.
"Atlas, right?" he called out.
Atlas looked up, tired eyes meeting the commander's without any attempt to hide his irritation.
"Yeah."
Flaminius chuckled. "So what the hell happened down there? Is it true you killed Prince Falik?"
Atlas frowned. "Prince Falik?"
"The chieftain's son," Flaminius clarified, tone casual in a way that made Atlas want to punch something.
Atlas exhaled slowly. "Yeah. I guess we did."
Flaminius studied Atlas for a long moment, his sharp eyes tracking the blood soaking through the fabric at his side before returning to his face, as if measuring how much arrogance the man could afford to bleed out before it killed him.
"Prince Falik," Flaminius said again, slower this time, letting the name settle between them. "Second son of Chieftain Fael. Strategist. Diplomat. And apparently dead."
Atlas exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening. "You keep saying it like I'm supposed to feel worse the more times you repeat it."
"I keep saying it," Flaminius replied evenly, "because that information was in the briefing you were given before you crossed into demon territory."
Atlas shifted, wincing as pain flared through his ribs. "Yeah? Well, someone lost it."
Flaminius arched a brow. "Someone."
"The hybrid," Atlas said flatly. "Apparently, the idiot can't read Elven. Not exactly shocking he misplaced it in the waters."
Flaminius's tone sharpened. "That excuse might hold weight if you weren't the one leading this group."
Atlas scoffed. "Leading? That's generous."
"You accepted command," Flaminius pressed. "You accepted responsibility. Which means when vital intelligence goes unread, lost, or ignored, the fault does not belong to the hybrid, or the injured, or the gods themselves. It belongs to you."
Atlas's eyes flicked up, irritation burning through the exhaustion. "Don't tell me how command works. I didn't ask for this job."
"No," Flaminius said, his voice firm but controlled. "Yet, that is still an excuse."
Atlas opened his mouth, heat rising fast.
"I don't give a—"
The words collapsed into a violent cough. Blood sprayed into his palm, dark and thick. His knees buckled as pain ripped through his side.
"Dammit…" Atlas muttered, swaying.
Flaminius was already moving, reaching out just as Atlas crumpled fully, his body hitting Bithorn's back with a dull, helpless thud.