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“Mate?” Daedra cut in, face contorting further, as if what she said was the worst kind of offense. “Mages do not need mates, not when they wield magic.”

“Don’t tell Orpheus that, okay? I’m already on thin ice.”

Daedra sneered but it seemed performative, the lift of her chin relaxed in a way Fenrir found curiously comfortable. He wasn’t one to treat prisoners badly, but Daedra was calmer than he expected of someone facing indefinite imprisonment.

“You do not know the story?” tore Fenrir from his thoughts.

“Never heard it before, to be honest.”

Daedra frowned. “From the stripped bones of his hand, this mage ground down his own essence into a chalky paste, and from that paste he cast his sigil, creating the very first Myrkur from the ashes of Hell itself.”

“Dramatic,” Fenrir breathed, grin sharpening. “I like it.”

“It’s a story every Myrkur whelp enjoys. Imagine my glee when facing down such a creature.”

“So, you killed it? What was it like?”

“I walked away alive, Ama. Such a creature does not die, it kills. Yet it could not kill me, despite its best efforts. Turns out, Prometheus cannot abide an Earthly inferno.”

The whistle slipped from him before he could stop it. Daedra lifted her chin, preening like a cat who caught its supper. “And here I’ve only faced off against an Emperor Dragon.”

“Truly?” Daedra said, attention focused. “Nearly as rare as they are intelligent. Once an Emperor Dragon marks its prey, it will not rest until it, or itself, is slaughtered.”

“Yeah, that checks out.” His laugh came out slightly stiff. “It was after Orpheus, actually. We fought it off over a couple weeks before we finally got it. Can’t tell you how many times that thing came back from the dead to find us.”

“A worthy opponent indeed. And no small feat for a human.”

“Ohm was harder, but not sure he counts.”

Across the room, Daedra went very, very still. “Tell me.”

“Well, first, I stole his sword. Then I rode that Emperor Dragon out of Hell and I guess nobody’s immune to dragon fire.” This time, his laugh came out strained, memories coalescing into a replay of that fateful fight and his near fall into Hell. “Gonna admit, that guy’s a dick.”

“Incredible,” Daedra breathed. “A story for the singers. Ohm is the most cruel of Hell’s children. A creature of pure malice, corrupted by his pursuit of power through war. My whole life I have sought the chance to paint the sands with his guts, just for a human to beat me to it.”

“Wow, okay.” Fenrir forced a laugh, his swallow audible. “If I knew it meant that much to you—”

“Merely a lifetime of battle and sacrifice,” Daedra said. “The hunt to end all hunts.”

“Right. Sorry?” Fenrir let the bent truth be, Daedra’s breathless awe inspiring a bubble of guilt in his gut. But it wasn’t like she was ever returning to Hell to find out the truth.

“Yet it was I who took your arm.” Daedra sounded so proud Fenrir wasn’t sure if he was supposed to agree. “The arm that slain Ohm.”

“I suppose we could say, you didn’t walk away empty-handed?” He lifted his stump to make his point clear. Silence fell, bloated and uncomfortable. Fenrir laughed just to fill the quiet. “Okay, gonna need you to laugh because that was a joke…”

“Your arm, Ama,” Daedra growled, “Would have made a fine bone for my hounds.”

“Okay, wow, way to bite the hand that feeds you.”

Daedra sneered.

“I always have a good pun up my sleeve.”

The sneer flickered, Daedra’s eyes narrowing.

“Come on, that was quite humerus.”

“Enough!” Daedra hissed. “Do you mock me?”