Dust clung to Aelorian's lashes, mingling with sweat and blood, and for a breathless second, all he could do was stare up at the beast holding up the sky for him. He'd heard tales whispered for years in the shadows. The ogre in the undercroft, the one who had lifted ox-carts in one hand, who had split a siege tower down the middle. But seeing him hold up the sky itself, sweat slicking the corded muscle of his neck, tusks bared in something between pain and defiance...it stopped the words in his throat.

Chains bit into the ogre's wrists as his arms locked, muscles swelling and straining beneath scar-scored skin. The weight drove him down an inch and no more. The sound it made was a grinding scream, stone on stone.

And now? He was standing between Aelorian and death like it meant something.

No, like he meant something.

That stunned heartbeat passed—and then, finally catching up to them, the guards flooded in. Seredane’s elite, armored in burnished gold and fire sigils, eyes furious behind sun-forged masks. Half a dozen, maybe more, blades drawn, chanting something in the old tongue—something that sounded like purification and felt like execution.

“There they are!” one shouted. “The moonborn—get the ogre away from him!”

Aelorian blinked. “Oh, now they show up.”

“I swear to every broken god in this place—move your ass, elf!” Thorne roared, voice shaking dust from the rafters.

Aelorian scrambled to his feet, weaving a shaky path through debris and shattered icons. “You don’t have to say it like that. Gods, you’re rude.”

Thorne didn’t waste breath answering. His hands shifted against the fractured stone, tendons standing out like steel cables beneath his skin. The ceiling groaned in surrender, dust falling in warm, gritty flurries. 

As soon as Aelorian staggered clear, Thorne shoved upward with a roar, hurling the slab in a single motion. It flew like a hurled cannonball shot across a battlefield, smashing into the mob of gold-armored guards and scattering them like ninepins. Shields clanged, men screamed, and holy fire sigils flared briefly before being snuffed under tons of stone.

The ogre didn’t wait to watch them fall. Instead, in three long strides, he was on Aelorian, one massive arm sweeping low, hooking around the elf’s waist and hoisting him bodily off the ground. A startled squawk rang out as the world flipped upside down.

“Put me down–!” He began, kicking indignantly.

“Not in your wildest dreams, pretty boy! We’re leaving!” Thorne snarled, barreling toward the archway, a guard sliding into view, jabbing a spear-point into his ribs before Thorne caught it in his free hand and snapped it in two. Without breaking stride, he shoved the guard into a row of prayer pillars that toppled like dominoes.

“You absolute beast! You menace! I had more monologues!”  Aelorian screeched, bouncing with each heavy step.

“You’ll live!”

Another guard lunged from the side, blade flashing. Thorne ducked under the swing, pivoted, and slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest with bone-rattling force. The impact sent the man sprawling across the tiles, straight into the path of his comrades, tripping three all at once.

“Ogre!” Aelorian yelped as they dodged a gout of flame from the far end of the hall.

The ogre barely turned his head, adjusted his grip, and wrenched a ceremonial spear from a fallen guard. With one vicious twist, he flung it spinning end over end into the mage who’d cast the fire. The shaft struck true, knocking the caster backward into a brazier that tipped and spilled molten coals into the melee. 

They broke through the first rank of guards, but another wave was charging, sun-forged masks gleaming.

Thorne’s jaw flexed. He reached out mid-run, seized one of the sunmasked soldiers by the scruff, and with a practiced rip, tore the plumed helmet free. Before Aelorian could protest, Thorne slammed it down over the elf’s head.

“What in the name of the gods–?!” Aelorian yelped as the plume immediately sagged into his face.

“Head protection!” Thorne barked, “You’re welcome!”

“I can’t see!” Aelorian screeched.

“Better than brain damage!” 

A beam smashed to the ground behind them. The golden sun window shattered into a million flaming shards as Thorne barreled through the main doors, Aelorian squawking the entire way.

Thorne didn’t flinch as glass rained down or as a pillar cracked open with a sound like a god screaming. He just kept moving—heavy, deliberate, alive—with Aelorian slung over his shoulder like a particularly loud designer handbag.

Aelorian, for his part, was shrieking at full capacity. “PUT ME DOWN, YOU COW-SIZED NEANDERTHAL!”

“You’d be paste on the floor if I hadn’t caught that ceiling,” Thorne grunted, dodging falling debris. “You’re welcome.”

“I was monologuing!” Aelorian screamed and lifted a corner of the helmet to glare back at Thorne.

“You were glowing and about to die. Again.” Thorne snarled. 

“I had at least three more devastating lines—devastating!—and instead I’m getting hauled like a sack of—”

His words cut off in a sputter as Thorne’s gaze dropped, accidentally catching a glimpse of the moonborn’s ass pressed against the shredded fabric of those blood-stained robes.

The thong wasn’t just a thong—it was an art piece. Black lace clung like a second skin, delicate silver embroidery tracing tiny constellations that shimmered faintly in the flickering light—as if the stars themselves had been stitched into the fabric just to mock the chaos around them.

One smooth, round cheek peeked out boldly, flushed from the heat of battle and movement, the skin impossibly soft-looking beneath the cruel battle-torn grime. The faintest sheen of sweat caught the light as Aelorian flailed, the perfect curve pulling Thorne’s eye with a magnetic force that was wildly inappropriate given the crumbling temple raining death around them.

Thorne blinked, then blinked again, as if trying to will his brain to stop treating that like a distraction.

“...Is that a fucking thong?” he finally managed, voice rough, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

Aelorian gasped like he’d been personally insulted by a duchess at tea. “FIEND! BRUTE! How DARE you!”

“You wore lingerie to a rebellion?”

“I WAS SUPPOSED TO GET MARRIED TO A SUN PRIEST, YOU UNCULTURED BRICK! What did you expect, chastity robes and combat boots?!”

Another blast rocked the temple behind them, divine fire screaming down the halls. Thorne cursed and ducked under a burning beam as stone cracked beneath their feet.

“You knew it might turn into a massacre,” he grunted. “You could’ve worn pants.”

“And you could’ve stayed chained up in the undercroft, but here we are!”

“I saved your ass.”

“You stared at it first!”

“I noticed it. There's a difference!”

“You lingered!”

“Oh, for—”

Another explosion tore through the hall—relics shattered, pillars screamed—and Thorne didn’t just turn, he charged, shouldering through a temple wall in an eruption of stone dust and splintered gold. Bricks flew, guards flew, screams ringing out. Before the air could even settle, he hit the next wall like a battering ram with a pulse, punching a path straight into the night.

Cold slapped them, sharp and sudden. The tangled black trees of the wildlands clawed at the sky ahead—freedom within reach, only to be ripped away again when another round of guards surged from the shadows, their armor catching the moonlight, eyes glowing faintly behind their sun-forged masks. One raised a horn, the brassy note blaring into the night.

“Shit,” Thorne snarled.

The first guard charged, sword raised high. Thorne lunged, dropped his already wounded shoulder into the blow, and let the steel screech harmlessly off his body before hooking the man’s leg with his own and hurling him bodily down the stairs. The crunch of metal on stone echoed into the trees.

Another came in from the flank, spear low, angling for Aelorian. Thorne caught it, yanked hard enough to pull the guard off his feet, and then swung the whole man into the next one in line. Both went down in a tangle of limbs and broken weapons.

The remaining three advanced together, shields up, swords tight in formation.

Thorne snarled and planted his heel. “Hold on, elf!”

“I am holding on!” came Aelorian’s muffled voice from under the helmet. “I’m also being rattled like a sack of turnips–”

Thorne charged. The first shield met his palm and went flying–the man behind it lifted off his feet and sailed back into the temple wall hard enough to leave a dent. Thorne kicked the second in the chest, buckling his breastplate, then caught the third by the gorget, lifted him clear off the ground, and tossed him down the stairs after his friend.

They didn’t wait to see if the guards would recover. Thorne barreled past the toppled, writhing bodies, boots pounding the mossy earth, the temple's golden glow shrinking behind them.

“Stop running!” Aelorian howled from his perch over Thorne’s shoulder, bouncing with every thunderous step. “You garangtuan fiend! I said I have LEGS!”

Thorne growled, low and rumbling. “I have legs too. Mine are just faster.”

“You smell like a minotaur’s armpit!”

“You smell like ego and an old lady’s perfume!”

“You’re ruining my aesthetic!”

“Again, I saved your godsdamned life!”

They cleared the last ridge just as a ball of fire arced high from the roof, its tail of embers hissing in the wind, and came screaming down toward the temple steps. Thorne didn’t stop. Didn’t even look back until they crested the ridge. The blast slammed heat into their backs, painting the sky in molten gold and black ash as the sun-temple crumbled inward.

The ogre didn’t slow until the forest swallowed them completely, shadows thick and damp around them, the sound of battle horns piercing the night in the distance. Only then did he drop Aelorian onto a bed of moss, the elf’s black hair spilling out from beneath the dented helmet. 

Aelorian landed with a squeak and immediately flailed into a seated position, robes tangled, hair full of twigs and righteous indignation. “You’ve concussed me! I’m reporting you to literally every celestial court in the realm.”

Thorne snorted, breath heavy, chains dragging as he turned away. “Go ahead. Pretty damn sure we’re both banned from all of them after tonight.”

Aelorian crossed his arms. “Well then, I hope you get sentenced to... to... community service and a very aggressive therapist.”

There was a beat of silence—just breathing, crackling fire in the distance, and the slow realization that they were alive.

Thorne glanced back. “You done?”

Aelorian hesitated. The retort wilted on his tongue. He exhaled and lowered his arms, hands brushing half-heartedly at the twigs in his hair. "I suppose," He huffed, "You did save my life. That was honorable, for an ogre."

The ogre didn’t reply. Just gave a low grunt—half acknowledgment, half dismissal—and turned his back again. Shoulders tense. Chains dragging through the moss. Like he was shaking off something heavy, something dangerous. Like feelings.

Aelorian watched him go, still seated in the moss, bleeding moonlight and sarcasm in equal measure. His chest ached, but he wasn’t sure if it was bruised ribs or the slow realization that he might owe the ogre his life.