Lethophobia

The wish-dragons took to the air one final time, soaring nimbly between the pillars on wings of prismatic light. Sjur Eido watched their pale, sinuous reflections sweep across the surface of the geodes.

It had been many years since Huginn and Muninn first arrived in the city as a nameless pair, full of the fervor and cunning of their kind. For the greater portion of those years, Sjur considered them friends. They dined delicately on her desire for news of worlds beyond the Reef, spinning truth and lies with the cackling enthusiasm of dedicated storytellers.

But now the Hunt had been called, and there was only one path into the future.

Sjur stood waiting at the center of the chamber, her fingers loose around the grip of her bow, her head bowed.

At last, the Ahamkara landed heavily to either side of her, scenting the air.

"Are you unhappy?" Huginn asked, surprised.

"What story was there that never ended?" Muninn said.

"And can you not tell it again once it is over?" said Huginn.

"We will be as true and solid as bone, forever." Muninn yawned wide, his curling tusks scraping against one another.

"Rhetoric," Sjur muttered.

She would miss them, all the same. Their shining inquisitiveness, their impossible wisdom. The fleeting grace of weapons purposefully sheathed.

All of it lost in one dismal moment of surrender. Unless—

Huginn tilted his head. Muninn parted his jaws to brandish a fanged smile.

Sjur straightened to her full height. At her hip was the fractal knife she had been gifted from the Queen's own armory. In her hands, her great bow.

"Come, then," she said, plucking an arrow from its quiver. "Give me a fight to remember."