Ansgarde held her breath, waiting for Larimar to come out of the trance. He was still like a statue, not a muscle twitching. The only movement came from the relentless wind blowing the brown sheet of his cape behind him.

Spinel audibly inhaled. Her chest rose and fell to the steady rhythm of his breathing as if his life force fed hers.

Ansgarde resisted the urge to shake him awake and sat quietly, scooting closer as if that could get him closer to his goal.

The moonlight carved shadows in his face, highlighting the shape of his cheekbones and jaw, brushed with coarse bristles - not so much that she couldn’t see his skin, but enough to prove that he was out of juvenile years. She was getting used to his starry-eyed look. Without the eye whites, he almost looked like a novel demon. She could pretend that the cape billowing in the wind was the shadow of wings. If he allowed his unruly hair to rest on his back in a braid, he would look like a dignified, hardworking Empyreal - and not a wet sock at that.

“Oh-ee,” Spinel squealed.

Ansgarde snapped herself back to reality. “Spinel?”

The little demon opened her black eyes, blinked a few times, and screeched when she recognized who was holding her. She tried to fly away but stumbled in the air and fell out of his open palms. Ansgarde caught her and brought her close to her chest. She wished Spinel was large enough to hug.

“Thank you,” she whimpered, smoothing Spinel’s feathery hair while her friend looked in all directions, still disoriented. “Thank you.”

He said nothing but continued sitting cross-legged, head hung, breaths deep. He slumped like he was about to faint.

“Larimar?”

He raised his head, eyes fluttering. Whatever that trance required of him, it wasn’t over yet.

“Can I help?” she asked, biting her lip.

He opened his eyes and blinked a few times before looking at her. His dark irises were framed by whites again.

“Took a lot out of me,” he closed his eyes for a moment, and opened them again, “but I’ll be fine. How is she?”

Ansgarde smoothed Spinel’s fuzzy hair. The little demon looked up at her and yawned widely. “How are you feeling?”

“Ouee!” Spinel exclaimed, looking from her to Larimar and jumped into a long tale about being lost in the most fantastical and confusing place.

It was a place without ground, walls, ceiling, and yet it enclosed her. There was no one there, and yet it felt crowded. And then a Lodolite - as small to her as she was to Ansgarde - asked her for directions to a royal slug ball. She wanted to dance too, but she had no proper shoes.

“You understand any of it?” Larimar asked, frowning.

“Yes,” Ansgarde answered and scolded her little friend. “And you, young lady, need to watch what you’re eating. Those mushrooms were not good for you. I nearly lost you…” her voice cracked, and she stopped, not wanting to say it out loud. She would not let anything happen to Spinel. “Larimar brought you back. You should thank him.”

Spinel hesitantly turned her head, and they locked eyes. After what happened in their village, she likely hated all humans as much as Ansgarde distrusted them, but he helped. At this moment, he was an ally. Maybe he was the one good human among the rotten rest? Spinel looked like she was about to stick a tongue out at him, but instead, she flew next to his face and started singing the Gratitude Song, complete with a dance in the air.

At first, Larimar leaned back as if frightened by the delicate demon in front of him. Eventually, Spinel’s sweet voice won him over. He relaxed and watched the performance with mild amusement. Spinel took her time, improvising words on the go, so entranced by her own voice, she did not notice his sigh of impatience or how he looked to Ansgarde for help. No, it would be rude to interrupt. They had to wait for the little demon to finish.

When she finished her last pirouette and cut off on a high note, he gave her a closed-lip smile and a nod of approval. Spinel beamed and interpreted it as a request for an encore. His eyes went wide when she started singing the same song again, inventing creative dance moves and flips in the air. The little demon was pulling her best tricks for him.

Ansgarde covered her mouth to hide a snicker. His “help me” expression was priceless, but she would not come to his rescue. He had to sit through Spinel’s song or the little demon would feel like she had not paid her debt yet.

Even though it seemed like she would sing all night, Spinel eventually finished her performance.

“It was lovely,” Ansgarde said.

“Yes. Riveting,” Larimar said with a sigh of relief.

Spinel spun in a little circle, excited at their praise. Ansgarde was tempted to ask her to sing again, just to see the look on Larimar’s face, but he stood up, ending the concert.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” he said in a rush.

Ansgarde scooped up Spinel who nearly got blown away by the wind and stood up but then fell back down with a cry as a sharp pain shot down her leg. She couldn’t put any weight on her left foot.

“Are you hurt?” Larimar bounded over.

She inspected her foot. There were no wounds visible, but her ankle was very tender. Larimar reached for it, and Ansgarde jumped.

“Don’t touch me!”

He respected her wish, examining her ankle without making contact. “You might have sprained it. Shouldn’t walk on it, so it can heal.” He glanced at her. “Good thing you can fly.”

She looked away, not wanting to admit how difficult flying was on this windy night. She was lucky she survived this fall and couldn’t risk more serious injuries. What would she do now?

She couldn’t see much around her. The moonlight, partially dimmed by swift clouds, illuminated jagged shapes that she assumed were rock formations. A strong gust chilled her skin through the rips in the silk. Spinel hid in her collar again. Ansgarde rubbed her arms to warm up, but it wasn’t helping. Why was this place so cold?

Larimar must have guessed her reluctance to take to the air. “Let me carry you.”

Ansgarde scoffed. She did not want a stinky human to touch her. And where would he carry her to?

He approached her on his knees and waited, a question in his eyes.

Ansgarde searched her dim surroundings for any other option but found no alternatives. The wind hit her so hard that her teeth chattered.

“I won’t hurt you,” he assured her, his voice low.

Why was he helping her? Was he an enemy or an ally? They locked eyes, and she looked for evidence of a cunning or hidden agenda, but his face was hard to read.

She was Ansgarde, daughter of Anselma and Ansfrid, a respectable Upper Heliodor household. She was not some delicate damsel that needed rescuing. This quest was supposed to be her chance to prove herself. She was more than a mere seamstress.

Her insides locked into a tight knot as another chill ran through her. Each one felt colder than the last, turning her ears numb and her nose runny. She couldn’t even think properly. She had to get out of this wind. She hated it with her whole being.

Spinel’s gentle nudge was sure, her words decided. She trusted him.

Last time she left the humans behind, thinking she could handle the quest on her own, Spinel had nearly died.

It was physically painful to nod as if her muscles were tied to her pride, but she had to accept his help and let him be the hero.

He scooped her up, one arm under her wings and around her lower back, the other under her knees. She grabbed onto his neck, unnerved by vertigo that hit her when he stood up. It was unnatural to rise while her wings were facing the ground.

“Featherlight,” he commented and carried her toward the source of the purple light that guided her to this ill-fated landing.

She hoped it was not their village.