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Detraeus scraped his boot along the cave wall, sneering at his poor luck. Why now? It occurred to him to go back — try to find a pool large enough to wash properly and rid himself of more of the stench — but before he could consider such an option in earnest, Araceli moved forward, engaging their next target, and dragon refuse became the least of his concerns. He watched her move, stepping up to the tunnel’s edge and weighing the interaction between her and the dragon.

It took some concentration to plan his footsteps so as not to slip on new ice, but he managed it, and drew an arrow as he moved, keeping a vigilant eye on Ara’s progress as she drew the beast’s focus. As soon as he had a clear shot, he fired.

One. Two. Three.

The beast roared, rearing back and trying to jerk towards him, but Detraeus fired again, burying an arrowhead in the aiskala’s eye socket and watching with satisfaction as it burst to nothingness. A chill wave of air rippled over the cavern floor’s surface as he moved forward towards the fallen orbs, and he glanced up briefly as he stooped toward Araceli.

‘Well done,’ lingered on the tip of his tongue. ‘Nicely handled,’ or ‘Good fight,’ would have sufficed. But nothing came out, and he felt himself flush instead, handing an orb over with stiff civility. “That was…good dragon.” He cleared his throat, and then frowned as his exact choice of wording sank in.

Stupid.

Detraeus pulled his cloak in tight as they progressed, keeping his arms tucked close and resisting the urge to lift his hood. Although warmer that way, it limited his visibility to either side of him, and he preferred not to have it up for fights. He focussed instead on the rock around them, the growing patches of frost on the ground and up the sides of the tunnel, as well as the warm push and cold pull of each new breath, crystallizing in the air before him. Araceli, if it weren’t for her shivering, would have looked at home in the environment, Detraeus thought, her skin nearly as milky pale as the ice itself. When she stopped, he stopped.

Fast asleep. Well, that made things convenient, didn’t it?

Bunching his gloved fingers into fists once, twice, and then flicking them out to stave off the stiffness of the chill air, he reached for his quiver, nocked an arrow, and raised his bow. Without a word, he exhaled, and released, burying an arrow in the beast’s side. The corresponding roar echoed through the caves, and Detraeus darted out from the tunnel. Before he could so much as draw another arrow, the beast’s magic went live, and by the time he released, attempting to fire on it again, a wall of ice met his arrowhead first.

Frost rippled out over the ground, expanding from the dragon and out like cracks from the impact point on a sheet of glass, and Detraeus watched the ground go white beneath his boots, coating the cavern floor and then even creeping up the walls. He shivered, forcing a cold breath into his suddenly chilled body and narrowing his eyes on the dragon. It felt like being dipped in glacial ice melt, as though the entire room’s temperature had dropped twenty ticks in as many seconds. He wasn’t about to let that stop him, though. He’d taken on peisio before on his own; how much more difficult could aiskalas be?

A spear of ice shards came slinging in his direction, and Detraeus rolled sidelong, tucking his bow in close to his body and only just managing not to slip on the landing, boots scraping at the top layer of frost and barely gaining traction. Giving a curt, frustrated snort, he rolled his shoulders, willing away the chilled quiver to his limbs and the inopportune throbbing down his spine — not now — and fired again as soon as he had the opportunity.

A rush of frosted wind blew his arrows off course, and Detraeus grit his teeth, but the instant before he moved to stand and relocate, he felt the ‘ground’ at his feet shift. Like live vines, the frost around his boots and bent knee crawled up, catching and locking in around him, attempting to root him down. Detraeus felt his pulse jostle, a panicked toss in his ribcage at the thought of being restrained, and he jerked, yanking to crack himself free of the ice and then bashing at it with the hilt of his dagger when it continued to grow. Above him, the aiskala roared, triumphant, and dove for its pinned prey.

Not a second too soon, Detraeus broke free, tumbling loose into the frost with a brittle snap of the ice previously holding him. On his back. Off balance. And with the claws of the aiskala dragon buried in the ground mere inches from him: where he would have been, if he hadn’t made it out. He scrambled, feeling desperately around for something to get a solid grip on and find his balance. Unfortunately, the aiskala’s claws found him first, yanking his comparatively tiny body under it like a rodent caught in the paws of a massive feline.

Detraeus felt his breath shake on the way out of his lips, ice coiling and locking down around his wrists and closing in on his throat. He grimaced, and shut his eyes.

Detraeus stirred at the touch, mind groggy and slow to respond, as though every thought involved trudging through steep snow. Warm fingers lingered on his cheek, combined with the shadow of someone close to his side, and the sound of his name through the fog. He’d thought himself dead for sure, and so acclimating himself to the reality of not dying took a long moment, his body shivering and chilled muscles working life back into themselves as the rest of his mind caught up.

Had Araceli spoken to the dragon when she fought it? Was that something all dovaa were capable of…?

He felt like he ought to know, but wasn’t certain. And why had she even fought it? It would have been so easy to turn around when she’d seen it was stronger than the last and leave it to distract itself with his corpse. She could have fled without a second thought. Saved herself. Rid the world of one more ‘soulless monster.’

As the sharp clutch of the dragon’s magic petered out, dying with its last breath and releasing its hold on his neck and wrists, Detraeus shifted his weight, jerking free of the ice, shaking his head and blinking through frosted lashes. When his attention focused again on Araceli through narrowed lids, he pushed himself up to a sit and put a fraction more distance between them, giving himself room to breathe.

‘You came back for me,’ ran stubbornly on repeat through his mind, his brow furrowed in confusion as he studied her face. Pale, rounded cheeks flushed with exertion and a small, button nose that curved upwards towards the sky. Her expression pinched and lungs working quickly enough to make small, rapid puffs of steam in the air. Hair covered in a light dusting of snow from the battle. What did she have to be concerned about? She’d fought for him. Risked herself for him. He pushed himself further away, wincing in frustration at how slow his body was to react.

“Why…?”

Detraeus eyed her, some of the perplexed tension in his posture easing out at her words. ‘Repaying her debts.’ He snorted. At least the answer made sense, even if he didn’t personally buy into the concept. He never expected anyone to repay their ‘debts’ to him, so why ‘repay’ his own? The world wasn’t fair. It wasn’t balanced. And no amount of nobility or good intentions would cure that. So he only gave when he chose to, and expected nothing in return as a rule. But if she was driven by some false sense of intrinsic balance in the universe, and that morally ‘obligated’ her to save his life to keep her conscience clear, who was he to complain?

He pushed himself up to a sit, and then stood, rolling his shoulders and scuffing his boots on the ice with a grimace to stave off the lingering chill. ‘No time to be slow,’ he lectured himself silently. There were dragons yet ahead.

He stepped in behind Araceli just in time to watch her tumble backwards, and immediately shifted his balance low, crouching and narrowing his eyes at the beast. At least, thanks to Casseth, Detraeus had more than enough practice dealing with advanced gaili magic, and he moved with trained ease across the floor, even as the rock rippled like a current beneath his feet. When the dragon dove for him, snarling, Detraeus leapt, gripping to one of the sidelong spires lining the beast’s snout as it snapped and using the grip as leverage to hoist himself up and around, ‘mounting’ it at the back of the head.

Its roar echoed around cavern. Furious. Insulted.

Detraeus yanked Casseth’s dagger from his waistline sheath and buried it at the back of the beast’s skull. Shove, twist, yank. The dragon bucked like a rodeo animal, snarling and aiming to dive for the ceiling, but faltering as Detraeus drew the dagger out and buried it again, and again, holding his body close to the dragon’s skin in as tight of a cinch as he could manage to avoid being battered against the rocks. Fortunately, it wasn’t but a few seconds later that, with a last, dying shudder, the gaili petered out to dust, and Detraeus fell, landing in a half-crouch on the weathered earth of the cavern floor.

Dusting himself off with a reluctant wince, he stooped to pick up both of the gaili soul orbs, shot a glance in Araceli’s direction, and raised an eyebrow. “Catch.” He tossed.

Detraeus frowned, attention flicking briefly to Araceli as she shivered, and he tugged at his own cloak, tightening it about his shoulders. He wore his for protection, anonymity, and shielding in the dark. But since he still felt the lingering chill of the last aiskala in his veins, under his skin — in his throat — he was grateful for the extra coverage. Aloud, though, he said only: “Do it. I can take it down so long as the wind isn’t on its side.”

As promised, no sooner had he said it, than Ara began to fight the currents. Detraeus felt the shift in the air, subtle at first, but then obvious as it petered to a near-complete still. It was eerie, in a way. Like watching a choppy sea die out to a complete, glassy calm in a matter of seconds.

The dragon, of course, noticed immediately, whipping around to roar at the pair of them, loud enough to shake the icicles dripping from cavern’s ceiling, and Detraeus darted in as it did. Not one to waste a second of Ara’s hard-fought-for calm in the storm, he immediately drew his bow taut, and released, sinking a quick succession of arrows into the beast’s throat. Thanks to still air, as well as the dragon being temporarily distracted by Araceli, they all met their mark, and the dragon disintegrated with amazingly little fanfare.

Detraeus released a slow breath, and almost smiled as he moved towards the fallen orbs. So much simpler than last time. And, he had to admit, it was — this time — wholly thanks to her help, and their combined efforts. A subtle warmth crept back up his neck at the thought, moving towards his cheeks as he lifted his half of the orbs.

Not a good time to get used to having help. But he supposed, in this instance, it was better than both of them dying.

Detraeus frowned, watching Araceli switch course with passive curiosity. Something dangerous? Or simply odd? Another trap? She didn’t look terribly concerned, and when he followed her line of sight, it only took him a moment to spot and made him surprised that he hadn’t noticed earlier. He stooped, picking up her orb before following her over to the chest and eyeing the strange glimmering bottles perplexedly.

Elixirs? Of what? He’d never been privy to seeing such things, but accepted the offered bottle anyway, trading over her orb in the process. For a moment, he opened his mouth, almost asking what they were for, but eventually he shut it, tucking the bottle away amongst his things and starting towards the next cavern instead. He could find out later, on his own, and not embarrass himself by looking informed.

After navigating the jagged, iced over and uneven flooring leading to the next tunnel, Detraeus let out a short, foggy breath. Another kiandri. How terribly challenging. He waited for Araceli’s footsteps to sound close behind him before nocking an arrow loosely and eyeing the awaiting beast.

Detraeus flushed at the feel of the magical tug on his arrow. He couldn’t possibly have asked for a better current and he knew it. Even so, he opened his mouth, briefly, to say that he was capable of hitting home regardless, so long as the wind didn’t fight him. But the words never left his mouth. He knew they’d discourage her, and he got a rush out of feeling her magic on his side. It was thrilling in a way he couldn’t pin words to.

Thus, with a muted grunt and soft warmth moving up towards his eartips, he nodded, and let his arrow fly. One, two, three. He’d need to craft more arrows after this. Each one, though, got a smooth gust of ayrala magic, guiding them home with an extra burst of power, and his flush stretched down into his neck.

“Nnh.” He cleared his throat, ignoring the irregular, unasked for heat as he stalked forward towards the fallen orbs. “Y’re good’t tha’,” was a beneath-the-breath mumble as he collected his half of the reward and tossed her hers.