As Taric made one last adjustment to his new ankle, he felt the first waft of cold. There was no heat from the forge to mask or counter it; the coals and ashes were all swept clean, the automaton quiet and still, waiting for the day it would be brought back to life.

A fresh wave of anxious doubts rose up. Had he planned properly? Had he remembered every detail? There was still so much that could go wrong. 

Pushing all thought aside, Taric stood from the chair at the kitchen table for one last time. No papers or loose crumbs spread over the table’s surface. The entire smithy and its little apartment were cleaner than it had ever been before.

He gave his latest adjustments a cautious test, absently rubbing the side of his new knee. The new design didn’t need a tension dial, but it would take some time to break the habit of reaching to adjust it.

Would his older habits come back, once he was in Underhill?

Taric silently harnessed his pack to his shoulders and took up the handles of the two tall, rectangular cases that held the shoes – one last collaboration with the clockmaker and his young apprentices. The weight of the metal cases and the metal shoes would have been daunting to most men, but Taric lifted it easily, albeit partly thanks to the rig hidden under the long sleeves of his shirt. A masterpiece (if he said so himself) of gears and springs and rods that not only augmented his own strength, but had a few other tricks waiting as well.

The realm of faery would not find him unprepared this time. There would be no divesting himself of iron, no approaching as a supplicant seeking diplomacy. No bone knives and stone-tipped spears. This was a new war. He would come home with Sunshine or not at all. 

When Taric crossed over to the smithy, the winter fae was waiting. Silent. Radiating a cold so strong that it tightened the skin of Taric’s face in an instant. The winter fae’s pale eyes fell on the cases in Taric’s hands.

Taric set them down and opened them up, displaying their contents. Twelve pairs of steel shoes. Six pairs in each case.

“You will bring me before the Eldritch King,” Taric announced boldly. “Unharmed.”

The winter fae’s eyes flared wide, then narrowed, calculating. “You would have me bring an Iron Warrior into the heart of Underhill?”

“I do.” Confident. Unwavering. 

The winter fae ran a bright red tongue over his frosted teeth. Taric could already see the answer, and he considered it a simple price. No doubt he expected that the Eldritch King would make short work of this merely human ironsmith.

“Very well,” the winter fae said, tugging the glove from his right hand and holding it out to Taric, intending to close the matter of Taric’s fee.

Taric paused only a breath before clasping the fae’s wrist. Fingers of ice folded around Taric’s own wrist, the cold stabbing deep into his bones. Taric’s muscles seized and cramped. He gritted his teeth and tried not to show his discomfort. 

“And for my price,” Taric hissed through his teeth, gripping the winter fae’s wrist tight, “I Name you Syrano.”

The ice in Taric’s veins melted into a mellow heat. The fae’s - Syrano’s touch hadn’t changed, only Taric’s tolerance of it. They were bound now, by agreement and by Name.

Syrano wrenched his hand back, gaping at it as if he’d been bitten by a cobra. He burst into a string of expletives that turned the air white with cold. But what was done was done, and could not be undone. He’d already agreed to take him to the Eldritch King - without specifying that it would be the price of Taric’s work.

“Bastard!” Syrano snarled.

“Human,” Taric corrected. He indicated toward the door. “Lead on. Syrano.”

Syrano visibly flinched. Sullenly he flung himself out the smithy door, leaving it open for Taric to follow.

Outside the smithy waited a beast that would have made anyone in Insbridge stop and stare – had they been able to see it. Taller in the shoulder than Taric’s head, covered in thick white fur groomed to perfection, saddled and harnessed in black leather and polished silver, the enormous polar bear nearly filled the street. Head hanging heavily from its shoulders, the bear seemed to glare at Taric from below the black swoops of its helmet. Clearly it was as thrilled by Taric’s presence as its master.

Syrano grabbed the cases from Taric’s hands and wordlessly strapped them to either side of the saddle. The bear moaned and huffed a complaint at the weight of them. Irritated, Syrano waved off its complaint. He mounted up into the saddle using a strap and stirrup and Taric followed his example. 

From the polar bear’s back, the beast seemed much, much larger.

Still without a word to Taric, Syrano goaded the beast into motion. The polar bear chuffed, then launched itself straight into a rambling gallop.

Taric grabbed for a handhold on the saddle, heart leaping straight into his throat. Preoccupied with managing his balance between the beast’s loping speed and his uneven seat on the beast, his prosthetic not providing the same kind of grip as his flesh and blood knee, Insbridge was left behind before Taric could so much as consider taking one final look. 

The entrances to Underhill were many and varied, some only opening at certain times of year at certain places, others opening and closing with wild unpredictability. Mortals could only reach Underhill through one of these natural means. 

Powerful fae could create their own.

Green light exploded around the polar bear’s feet, arcing up and over them to burst into all the colors of the aurora borealis. The colors swirled tight around them, cutting off all view of anything beyond. They snapped and sparked against the metal cases and against Taric, fighting the iron’s resistance to magic. 

Taric felt pressure building up against his chest, where the concentration of metal was heaviest. Soon he struggled to breathe, and feared that the transition between worlds would rip the device from his back and the leg from his stump.

Taric held grimly to the saddle and pushed back against the magical resistance, his teeth grinding so tightly that his temples hurt. The increasing pressure crushed against his chest, squeezing the last air from his lungs. He didn’t have the strength to fight it for another breath. The very fabric of the faery lands fought to keep him out.

It would be over soon. It had to be over soon. Then he could breathe. Soon he could breathe. He couldn't think. Crossing a gate had never taken this long before. 

Dark stars blotted out the burning colors boring into his skin, heating the metal until it sizzled.

Then the pressure released with a pop, so abruptly that Taric pitched forward into Syrano’s stiff back.

Taric felt himself slipping sideways out of the saddle as the dark stars swallowed him.