Roderick tugged at his shift and breeches, excessively conscious of how the damp cloth clung to his skin. Henry, cheery as usual, set his maille coat to rights and fiddled with the seams of his wool tunic on the line.

“…Think you still need your armor?” Roderick asked. Cold metal and damp cloth sounded like trouble in the making. Henry chuckled.

“Who’s to say? You haven’t attacked me the past few nights.”

“I’ve been able to remember you, finally.”

“But if I have to stand between you and the– what did you call her again?”

“Nocticary.”

“Mm.” Henry nodded, still fingering the felted hem. “If that nocticary ends up in your line of sight, I’ll have to get between you, won’t I?”

Roderick eyed the snagged, bent, and crushed rings of Henry’s tarnished chain maille. Months of travel and near-nightly chases through the woods hadn’t just worn on their bodies—their equipment was fair at its limits, as well. Oat-colored linen peeked through the remains of claw marks, warning him to consider his friend’s vulnerability anew.

“Who’s to say,” Roderick mused, half-hopeful. “She’s part fae, so she may not need protection.”

Of course, strength depended upon the manner of fae, and he hadn’t thought to ask what sort she might be. Would she answer if he did?

Though I can only imagine her brazenly knocking aside any questions she doesn’t want to answer.

“Best wear it, I suppose. And this, too,” Henry said as he tugged on his tunic with a shiver. “Even if she’s only part, no telling what iron rings would do.”

Iron weakened the fair folk and burned their skin if touched. Roderick self-consciously traced the ruddy scars that pocked and streaked his hands.

“Roddy?”

“Hm?” Henry eyed him, curious, expectant, somewhat guarded. Roderick shook his head. “Nothing. Let’s go, then. That soup must be long done by now.”

Lennie yipped and bounced about, then bounded off toward the cottage with wings stretched aloft. Samhain watched him go in stony silence. The grim only stood to escort them once Henry had properly tied his pockets and slung their packs across his shoulders. The door to the cottage burst open with a deafening crack when Lennie blundered in, a cloud of dust in his wake and thatch raining from the eaves.

Thus, on the threshold of her disastrously ill-kept abode, Henry first laid eyes on their host: a tiny girl scolding a winged dog, while trying to hoist a copper pot nigh half as tall as she was off the fireplace.

“…You weren’t jesting,” came Henry’s quiet confirmation.

Roderick followed the proper letter of the chivalric code when dealing with women, but Henry’s reasons had always run on different logic. Dainty ladies and young girls were his direst weakness, no matter how insidious or treacherous they proved themselves to be. Whether Calanthe and her ill-gotten spell, or innkeepers’ daughters and their grandiose aspirations, the blind spot remained.

But if Henry at least recognizes her as a weakness, he can try to pay attention. Roderick tapped his friend’s elbow and urged him onward.

“Fresh and rosy now? Or—” their host gave a sniff, “minty, as it were. Welcome back to the land of the living, red-haired knight of suspicious relation. Please refrain from spit-polishing any of my other possessions.”

Henry stiffened.

“Easy,” Roderick muttered. Louder, he said, “At least give him a proper introduction before you chastise him so, miss.”

“Haven’t you told him my name?”

“I have not. Please introduce yourself properly.”

“…As you like, then.” Her nose wrinkled briefly in distaste as she set down the pot with a resounding clatter. “I am the nocticary, Sionann, presently of Eastlake. Spew forth thy name, Knight of Slobber, and let’s be done with this.”

“Henry of Eddon’s Pier. I am a knight in sworn service to the honorable Sir Roderick of Endshire. It is a pleasure to make our lady’s acquaintance.”

Sionann tilted her head, cocked a brow, and cast Roderick a most curious glance.

“You’ve trained this one poorly, Sir Werewolf. He’s lying through his teeth already.”