A touch to his shoulder brought him awake.

In the space of a few breaths, he felt ready, alert. He opened his eyes to the sight of his father’s wan smile.

“Dawn is in an hour,” Father said.

“Thank you,” Mulin said in murmured reply.

Kralin was already dressing when Mulin got his feet onto the floor. Father left them to it. As Mulin was fastening his ironsilk cloak, Kralin touched the wrist of his wing.

“Doing well, brother? I was worried about you, for a little…”

“I’m fine,” Mulin assured him. And he meant it; the past few days, though frustrating on some level to wait through, had brought him not aggravation, but renewed focus and energy.

There was no time for a proper meal, and they dared not eat too heavily anyway; the twins broke their fast with a small journey-cake each. Mulin paused before biting into his, slipping into the nursery. Mother was on vigil there; he offered and received a smile, and he crouched down before the hearth, spreading his hand and laying it upon the smooth white shell.

“I’ll be back, sib,” he whispered.

This little life wasn’t the only reason he had to go. Liri had got him to come to terms with that; the first person served by putting magic to right would be himself, and the second was his twin. But this one was an important reason after those.

He rose and met his mother’s gaze, and held it for a few breaths; then he stepped closer, and held up one hand, fingers spread. “I’ll be back when this is settled, Mother.”

Her fingers laced between his, and she gave his hand a squeeze, smiling a grim, fang-baring smile. “Your father’s right,” she said, free hand giving an affectionate rub to the base of a horn. “You’ve grown so quickly, Mulin. I’m proud of you. Just don’t lose yourself out there, hmm?”

“I’ll always be me,” he added to his promise, and grinned, showing all his teeth. “I’ll have plenty of people around who’ll remind me of it, anyway.” They had, after all, already done so – and that was just the youngest three of his companions-to-be.

He didn’t need to say his final farewell quite yet, because Father was coming along to see them off. He and Kralin ate on the way; the cakes weren’t nearly as satisfying as actual meat, but they were easy to digest and would give a good burst of energy to see them through a long flight.

The sky was starting to lighten as they emerged from underground, although the sun was not yet visible in the east. Only Vhish was absent; most of the others were checking their own gear, and Hark was checking the harness of a grey-and-mottled-white lesser stoutwing that would carry the bulkiest parts of their gear. The docile beast wasn’t nearly so strong, nor so smart, as its greater cousins, but it was easy to lead, obedient, and could fly all day with the load it would be expected to bear, at a pace that would match the slowest flier among them – Hark himself, which was one reason he was the one tending the stoutwing.

Some pieces of gear had been set aside for the late arrivals. The traveller’s harness was standard fare; Mulin grabbed one of the three, Kralin got the second, and each buckled it in place. Once he’d adjusted the straps for a secure but not tight fit, he checked the pouches. Bandages, sealed in spelled cloth against the elements; his mage-sight saw no gap in the spell-work. Journey-cakes, similarly sealed; if need be he could live for a week on them and water, though he wouldn’t be happy. Speaking of water, a canteen, and a small, tightly-tied pouch of purifier stones – they did nothing he coudn’t do personally, not anymore, but the blue glass marbles, bound with single-use water-cleansing spells, were convenient. Smokesticks for signals during the day, flares for night-time use. A spool of ironsilk thread, and a silver needle with a mild enchantment for working the stuff. Hunting knife.

A Frostkin sorcerer offered him a tooled leather scabbard. He took it, gripped the hilt, drew the knife; even in the gloom, light glinted off the crystalline blade. A crysknife was a mage’s weapon, not worth the effort in the hands of someone with no or modest magical ability; in a sorcerer’s hands, it could channel a spell past even substantial wards.

It said something about how his lessons had gone, that he was being entrusted with one.

He sheathed it, and clipped the sheath to his harness by the hunting-knife, easily to hand.

Finally, he took hold of a spear.

It was a simple but well-made weapon. He only knew the basics, but that was all he needed; the haft was long and sturdy enough that he could take a firm grip with both hands, and a diving pass with it, while so likely to wrench the spear out of his hands that he’d been drilled to not even try keeping hold, would inflict a deep wound on whatever threat it was brought to bear against.

He slid his forearm through the straps it was clipped to, and drew them up tight.

Vhish had arrived while he was going over his gear; once she’d finished checking her own harness, she attached a few more things to it, some pouches and a roll-pack of physician’s tools. He was distracted from her progress by a flick of a wing from Srin; the Nightkin looked somewhere between eager and resolute, a fey expression that might have been worrying if Mulin didn’t feel much the same.

The black youth squeezed his shoulder, and Mulin gripped his in turn; they dipped their heads, nudging their horns together. “All’s ready here,” Srin reported. “Kisa has noted landmarks for the first leg – a short one, to stretch our wings and see how the pace holds. Everyone’s had their morning bite, even the stout. Most of us have said our farewells; we can leave when you and your brother are ready.”

“We’ll not be long,” Mulin assured him. Srin dipped his head in acknowledgement, patted his shoulder again, and went to talk to Hark.

They’d had weeks to prepare, days since they had a favourable prediction of the weather and knew when they’d be leaving. Yet this one step filled him with trepidation.

He needn’t have worried. Father was apparently better prepared for it than he was; if Kralin wasn’t, he followed Father’s lead. There was no weeping; Father looked from one of them to the other, and put a hand on each one’s shoulder. The one he had on Mulin didn’t rest flat; he was holding a memory crystal.

“My own sons,” he sighed. “Looking so serious, so grave. Well, and no wonder – but I look forward to seeing you back safe, able to enjoy life again.”

“We’ll be back to you, Father,” Kralin agreed.

“I know you don’t need me to tell you this,” said Mulin, “but take care of our little sibling for us.”

“However’s necessary,” Father breathed, as though daring the world itself to just try interfering with that duty.

They held each other’s gaze; Father’s head dipped a moment, the crystal coming briefly to life, recording their image, their posture, their resolve.

Then, with a bow, he stepped back.

The Consuls of Moon Gallery, Ruby Hall, and Cinnabar Deep were there, as was Archwizard Tranel of the Blood. The Archwizard poured wine into a chalice, and held it up. “To our newest generation of heroes,” he said. “May you know peace on your journey, and return to us safe and soon.” He dipped his head, lapping a quick mouthful from the chalice, then passing it on.

The Moon Gallery Consul also lifted it; she said, “To the pride of Druumat, young or old. May your strength and ingenuity never fail.” She took her sip.

Ruby Hall’s contribution was, “To the sons and daughters of tradition, the brothers and sisters of innovation – may you find good company wherever you go, and may those who oppose you ever falter.”

And finally, from Cinnabar Deep, Mulin and Kralin’s own home district: “To those who do what must be done,” the Consul said, dipping her head. “May the wind be swift at your back, and may it bring good tidings back home.” And she drained the chalice, before stepping back and cradling it in both hands.

The group exchanged glances. Kisa, their voice, stood up straight, her tail coiling behind. “We will not fail you,” she declared. “We will do our part, and put right that which is wrong. And when the world is again safe for the Vhark, we will return to you, soon and swift.” She clapped a fist to her heart in salute, then looked over her shoulder to the others. “Away! Sooner gone, the sooner the dawn breaks over our return!”

The stoutwing shrilled, and at Hark’s practised tug on the lead, it scrambled forward and leaped into the air behind its tender. One by one, the Vhark followed.

Mulin lingered just a moment more, meeting his Consul’s gaze.

You’ll do, those ruby eyes said.

And then he mantled his wings and sank his toes into the soil, feet pounding the sod until he was moving as fast as they could bear him; and then a sweep of his wings lifted him from the ground, and brought him curving around and up, joining his companions in a wedge that arrowed to the northwest.