One of Pymon's brood came for them at dawn, a storm-eagle smaller than the true Sovereign but still vast enough to blot out the whole bruised sky of the Bloodroot Wilds, and landed at the edge of the scarred plain with a gentleness that seemed almost comically careful for something that size.
"The true Pymon sends his congratulations," the eagle said, voice carrying the same regal warmth every bird in that domain seemed to share. "Along with his apologies for not coming himself. He's currently occupied being smug about something else entirely, and honestly, so am I, a little. It's a family trait."
"That tracks," Julian said, and the laugh that went through the group was the first easy one any of them had managed in weeks.
They climbed onto the great eagle's back, nine tired, victorious people settling into feathers that felt more like solid ground than any bird's back had a right to, and the Bloodroot Wilds fell away beneath them in a single long, rising breath.
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