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“Here, watch this.” Fenrir shook the left glove out and then flipped it into the air, punching his hand into the void and then using his teeth to wrench it into place. “There, see? Simple. I’ve got this.”

“Never said you didn’t, sir.” But Farris didn’t have to sound so worried, did he?

Next came his bracer, which was much the same process as his glove, teeth as good as an extra set of fingers no one actually needed—right? His sword harness proved harder, but if he propped his shoulder against Nightmare’s flank he could reach the buckle without dropping the whole thing to the ground.

Farris already had his sword held out when Fenrir turned back to take it.

Someone had cleaned her up. In the moonlight she shimmered, all sleek silvery steel-but-not-steel and a black pommel inlaid with mother of pearl, lighter weight than any other sword he’d wielded but no less dangerous for it. She’d been with him since the beginning, Well, at least since he joined Lore’s war. Like hell he would leave her behind now.

“Thanks for taking care of her, buddy.”

Farris lifted his chin at the nickname, hands hovering around him when Fenrir lifted the sword in his left hand and—

Oh. Right. Of course.

“Guess I’ll need a new harness made…”

“I can wrap her, sir. Strap her to your saddle packs instead. It’s no big effort.”

Except, how would he get to it when he needed it most? The Hell beasts may be gone but that didn’t mean there wasn’t other danger lurking in the Rim—their attackers were evidence that much remained true. But what other choice did he have?

“Sure…yeah. Let’s do that.”

While Farris wrapped his sword in a nondescript wool blanket that was meant for Fenrir’s bedroll, he turned to Nightmare.

“Ready, big guy? We’ve got to make good time, yeah?”

Not that he knew where he was going. Not that he had a map with Orpheus’ location, or anything more exact than the general impression of head east, through the Rim. But where knowledge gaped, instinct would fill in, and their attackers were sure to have left some kind of trail to follow. He’d find it on it his way, and luck would guide him; he hadn’t been let down by it yet.

No, but I sure came close—

Fenrir shoved the thought away and stuffed his boot into Nightmare’s stirrup, swinging up into the saddle. Momentum carried him up and over…and over.

“Sir!” Farris’ shout echoed through the night and Fenrir thought, oh shit.

Maybe it was his new balance of weight. Maybe it was the dizziness of the drugs hounding him still. Maybe it was simply that he’d overcompensated for a weakness that didn’t actually exist despite how fervently he fought it. Whatever it was, Fenrir fell—fell—out of his saddle, and without his right arm to break his fall his stump took the brunt.

Pain lanced through the wound, his shout muffled by the grass his face planted into, and if the humiliation of falling off his horse wasn’t bad enough, something worse called out over the grassy flat in response.

“So, have you convinced yourself yet?”

Under the silvery rays of a moonlit night, Red burned like one of her smokestacks.

Fenrir rolled over onto his back to blink up at the stars. “Red, please. Not right now.”

“Better now than a day from now when I find you dead in a ditch getting eaten by rats!”

Fenrir closed his eyes and fought his tears. Hells, was he really crying? “You can’t expect me to do nothing, Red.”

“Staying put and healing while rebuilding the stability of your empire is nothing?”

“Kings march into enemy territory all the time, too.”

“Oh? And do they do it alone, or do they bring an army? And if they do it alone, are they usually laid out flat on their ass because they’re still recovering from a near death injury?”

“Probably,” Fenrir muttered.

“Probably, is his answer!” Red threw her arms into the air and her face towards the sky.