The fight is brutal. The lion’s snarls mingle with the sharp clang of steel on rock. Vann moves with deadly precision; his strikes are clean and relentless. The lion lashes out. Its claws scrape against the leather on his forearms, but he doesn’t falter.
Vann thrusts one last time, and the beast collapses at his feet, blood soaking into the rocky ground.
I slump against the cliff wall, gasping for breath, pain radiating from my side despite the bleeding having stopped. The boy clings to my hip, tiny hands fisting into the fabric, shaking.
Reaching out, I pull him close.
“It’s all right,” I murmur into his impossibly shiny brown hair.
Vann turns to me, breathing hard. “Are you hurt?”
I hesitate.
“Firelocks.”
“Yes,” I say. In truth, the wound was already closing, but the Fuegorra’s effort is taking its toll. My body needs rest, and soon.
Vann curses under his breath, kneeling beside me. His hands are rough, but his touch is careful as he inspects the wound.
“You’re lucky,” he mutters.“Nothing too bad.”
I smile weakly, but the boy whimpers, his body trembling against mine. I exhale, forcing the pain aside, and brush my hand through his dusty hair.
“It’s all right,” I murmur. “You’re safe now.”
His wide, tear-filled eyes meet mine, and somethinginside me breaks when he leans into me. For the first time in days, I feel like I’ve done something right.
“I’m Arlet, are you well?” I manage in my meager grasp of elvish.
He looks at me, clearly confused and then starts spouting a stream of unfamiliar words.
I look up at Vann, slightly bewildered.
He kneels next to both me and the boy, then begins to speak. The words are clearer, and the lyrical grace surpasses anything I’ve heard before.
The boy responds.
“What language is this?” I ask.
He shoots me an amused look, “I thought you know a little about everything.”
I frown.“Vann.”
“This is a mix of the old northwestern wood elves dialects. I don’t know it fully. I think he’s saying he’s lost.”
“Clearly,” I say, and then the boy stands, pulling on my hand. “Would the elves we encountered by searching for him?”
Vann shrugs and the child starts to run.
“Ask him his name,” I say to Vann.
He does, and the boy responds with, “Lorien.”
I smile down at him, and gesture to him. “Lorien.”
My hand presses to my chest. “Arlet.”
He says the name slowly, but fear is still shining in his eyes when he looks at Vann.