The creak of the great doors was thunder to Oldren's ears. He turned fast, his sharpened axe halfway raised out of old habit, that was before he saw the shape in the threshold. A shape that made his heart stall.

Onyx.

For a gut wrenching second, he thought he had gone mental—that he was seeing things—just the blurred imaginings of too much ale and not enough sleep.

Until she collapsed the moment the doors opened, her body folding in on itself like a snapped branch.

"Gods," he muttered, rushing forward before Jade could even react.

He knelt beside her—mud, blood, ash clinging to every inch of her skin. She smelled like damp earth and magik. Her eyes were half-lidded; however that fiery glow of molten gold had returned to her irises.

Must be drunk and dreaming.

The dwarf placed a leathery hand on her cheek before flinching back. It was like touching raw coal. Too hot beneath skin that was far too cold.

Yet somehow she felt—real.

"Onyx," he said sharply, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. "Lass, how did ya...?" his voice trailed off before finishing the question.

It didn't matter, there was no answer. Just a raspy sound escaping her cracked and dry lips, like breath fighting to stay in her lungs.

"Get water," Oldren barked over his shoulder. "And ye a blanket. Now!"

He didn't need to look to know Jade was already gone. Boy moved like a forceful gust of wind when he needed to, and right now, they needed to.

He shifted, easing her head onto his knee, brushing the matted hair from her forehead. She was pale, her ivory skin somehow lighter—like it had lost that lovely hue that made her appear so innocent. But now she looked as though she wouldn't even make it through the night.

Jade returned fast. Silently, which was out of character for the young Elven boy, but the panic in his footsteps gave him away. He slid to his knees, uncorking the waterskin and pressing it gently to Onyx's lips. She tried to drink—choked—then swallowed hard, just enough to keep it down.

"She made it," Jade whispered, like he couldn't quite believe it.

Oldren only nodded, though his eyes stayed fixed on her face. He understood that inner turmoil, questioning whether this was real or not. And feeling guilty for it.

He looked down at Onyx's ghostly face, the poor lass limp in his arms but alive. Breathing.

"She came home," he said quietly. "And damn me, but ye think she brought the storm with 'er."