21

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Black metal—ateralum—is the strongest of any metal found in any land. So strong that not even the black powder can fully heal wounds caused by it. For Daxeel's career as an extractor, it's a preferred metal of his. Because even if the wounds of his targets are healed, those ugly scars keep forever.

He has a favourite scar to leave on his targets.

A smile.

Ear to mouth, mouth to ear. If one wears this scar, they have been in Daxeel's chair.

He considers it something of a signature. Something that wouldn't be possible without ateralum—and neither would this.

Hilt in his leathered fist, he throws his weight up the cliffside and rams the black metal knife into the tiny crevice between the rocks. Strong metal, it never fails him. It supports his weight all the way up the cliff.

Rune and Samick keep pace on either side of him.

Wherever Caius is, Daxeel doesn't know, and he hopes not to.

With every light fae contender out for his blood and his brother's, their chances of success are better if they stay apart in the passages.

Samick and Rune will have Daxeel's back, and so will any other dark warrior they come across, but it'll be quiet up there when they reach the caves. He doesn't expect many.

One of the advantages that the iilra orchestrated with his evate bond: Nari, the ultimate anchor. Without the bond to hold onto, when he stepped through the portal, his landing would have been random. But with her, his tight mental grip on her heartache, her fear, he focused only on the visual of the caves.

It got him close enough. Right at the bottom of the cliff.

He only has to climb.

Rune and Samick used Daxeel as their anchor: the moment before stepping into the portal, they both snatched onto his wrists. And they landed with him.

All thanks to his vicious one.

Now, using their ateralum blades to climb the face of the cliff, all the way to the far reaches of the cave entrances, they move in silence.

Daxeel keeps all thoughts of Nari wiped clean from his mind. He lets the scent of blood fill his senses, the war cries from down on the shore flood his ears, and the familiar hollowness of death in the air embracing him. His instincts narrow in on the essence of battle, and it's all he needs to fight off the plague of Nari who forever occupies his mind.

It's only in violence that he forgets her for a moment.

He needs to be focused.

Nari's time will come.

So he keeps his focus on the mouth of the cave as he reaches the ledge and hoists himself up.

Samick and Rune are mere seconds behind him. As they climb up to the dark opening of the cave, a sudden rumble shudders the cliff, and an angry red ignites the darkness around them.

Before the roar of a dragon can tear through the shore, Daxeel grabs the arms of his friends and hauls them up onto the ledge.

They land in a tangle of limbs just as a fiery blaze chars the cliffside. Fire breath of a dragon, loud enough to almost completely silence the fleeting cries of whatever fae was just burnt to a crisp.

But the three of them are unscathed. Wasn't their cave. Not their dragon. So one by one, they flip onto their feet and rise against the pure blackness within the cave.

Samick takes point. He slips inside first.

Rune falls into position behind Daxeel.

A shield to protect the asset. His bloodline.

They creep into the dark.

All darkness feels like home.

Where the Licht moonlight lashed and licked down his body like an unwelcome advance, the darkness is a cold whirl around him where he belongs. The darkness of the cave, deeper and thicker than any beyond it, is home.

And the three of them move in it like they are part of it, as though they are one. Their bootsteps are silent, their breaths inaudible, and their leathers hushed in the crushing quiet of the cave.

An advantage they have—and always have had in the Sacraments passed—is their own evolution.

Separate to the light fae, their sight is permanently adjusted to pure blackness, their hearing sharp enough to pick up on the burrowing rodent metres deep in the rocky walls; their sense of smell delicate enough to peel back layers in the air from the salt in the waters far behind them and the moss on the rocks to the blood of fallen contenders and even the essence of Nari's kiss on Daxeel's lips. He didn't wash it away.

But any dark warrior would be a fool to underestimate the litalves in battle. Their brute strength or muted senses can't match a dokkalf's—but they have an advantage.

Nature.

Something in it responds to them, a vine handy at the right moment, a weak branch that should snap beneath their weight but doesn't, or even the willingness of beasts to overlook them. Small, almost unnoticeable favours that nature lends the light ones.

So they keep quiet and sharp as they move through the cave. The passage is long and uninterrupted for a while before Samick stops.

Behind him, Daxeel and Rune pause.

Ahead, the passage continues. But on either side of Samick, two more passageways split apart in other directions.

It was expected—dragon caves are natural labyrinths. Connecting tunnels, all from different entrances. Any turn can bring them face to face with enemy warriors or wayward adolescent dragons who stray too far from their nests.

But Samick doesn't stop to decide which tunnel he's to take.

He stops because they are not alone.

Daxeel hears the soft bootsteps, the gentle sound of leather flattening almost silently on the rough ground of the tunnel on their right.

It takes some seconds before Samick lifts his hand and curls it into a fist. Then he raises only two fingers.

Two approaching contenders.

Tap, tap, rub.

The sound comes from the other tunnel. Gloved fingertips drumming against a leathered palm.

Tap, tap, rub.

With that subtle code, the two contenders coming up the passage announce themselves as dark fae.

And in answer, Samick repeats it back to them.

Tap, tap, rub.

So quiet that litalves wouldn't hear it, and if they did, they wouldn't understand it to be a code at all, but mere soft sounds, unintentional.

The bootfalls inch closer out of the darkness. The trio wait for them.

Two dark males step out of the passage, the flickering looks of recognition pass quickly. There are no moments of relief at friends still alive, no embraces or words shared in the dark.

Still, Daxeel gives a nod to the golden-eyed one whose ivory skin almost gleams in the darkness when it should be a part of it. A hybrid, a brother.

In answer, Alasdare winks, then moves to take his stance on Daxeel's left side. The other—Prit, a particularly nasty male they aren't so familiar with—takes the right.

Shielded by four warriors, Daxeel is the middle point of a star of bloodthirsty and brutal fighters.

They trek ahead.

Slowly, the tunnel starts to thin. The walls, the ground, the ceiling—it all narrows until the five dark males pull into single file.

Leading the way, Samick lets his icy instincts guide him, and they must be close as he draws his ateralum sword.

On dragon hunts, an entire unit is dispatched to slaughter just one of the untameable beasts for its leathers. It's a worthy risk that brings superior leathers to the dokkalves.

Even with the fierce warriors flanking him, Daxeel is no fool. If a dragon attacks, all five of them will be charred remains.

The trick is not to be seen.

That's the plan too, and with Samick's instincts, they take no wrong turns or false steps.