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The RDA camp burns clean. Not loud, not dramatic. Just efficient—a dismantling rather than a massacre. The fire eats through synthetic canvas and metal supports with a quiet hunger. Smoke curls upward in slow ribbons, staining the sky gray where the clouds already gather. Broken floodlights flicker uselessly, their white glare cutting weak lines across the clearing before sputtering out entirely.
So’lek moves through the last of the smoke with the patience of someone who has done this a hundred times before.
The humans scatter poorly; they always do when the sky itself turns against them, when arrows fly through clouds and cut them down. Panic fractures their coordination, their radios crackling useless orders over each other until the voices dissolve into static. They never learn.
He takes the final soldier down with a swift motion, blade flashing once, then stillness. The human collapses in the damp earth with a choked breath that quickly fades. So’lek does not linger. His blade is wiped clean in a practiced motion against the soldier’s uniform before returning to its sheath.
The only sound left is the crackle of damaged machinery and the distant echo of retreating engines.
Above, wings cut through clouds.
Tamtey circles once, high and predatory, Nimun’s silhouette passing briefly across the broken sun. For a moment she is nothing but a dark shape against the pale sky—then she dives, fast and precise. Wind tears through the clearing as Nimun unfolds her wings at the last second, landing near him with a rush of air that scatters ash and leaves in spiraling patterns. The ikran’s talons dig easily into the soft ground, tail lashing once as she settles.
The sharp scent of rain rides the breeze now.
Nimun folds her wings with a satisfied croon, head tilting as if the battle had been nothing more than a game. Her bright eyes track the last wisps of smoke curling from the broken structures.
Tamtey slides down from the saddle in one smooth motion. “Clear,” she says, voice calm, breathing steady. Death on Wings indeed. She doesn’t even look winded.
A few loose strands of her braid cling to her cheek, damp with sweat and mist. Her eyes sweep the camp once—methodical and sharp—checking angles, shadows, movement. Even when the fighting ends she remains alert, every sense still tuned for danger.
So’lek inclines his head slowly. “Clear.”
They do not touch. They never do, not here, not in the open. They stand side by side, surveying the ruin like two hunters confirming the end of a successful chase.
For a moment the wind carries only the scent of burned metal and wet earth.
So’lek reaches down and removes another set of dog tags from the ground, their metal still warm. The thin chain catches the light briefly as he lifts it. He adds them to the others strung across his chest. They clink softly. It is a quiet sound. Metallic. Hollow.
Tamtey has come to associate it with survival. But with him as well.
Her gaze flicks to them for half a second—never lingering, never judging. She knows what they mean. Everyone does. Each one a reminder. Each one a promise.
Clouds thicken overhead, rolling in low and heavy, muting the colors of the forest until everything becomes shades of green and gray. The breeze sharpens, cool against sweat damp skin. Leaves whisper overhead.
“Storm’s coming,” she murmurs.
So’lek glances upward. The clouds are thick enough now to swallow the mountains entirely. He nods. “Good. RDA will not fly in this.”
Tamtey’s mouth twitches faintly. “Neither will anyone with sense.”
She swings lightly back onto Nimun’s saddle. The ikran shifts eagerly beneath her, muscles bunching with anticipation. She pauses a moment, glancing sideways at him. “You coming, chicken?”
So’lek narrows his eyes. “I still do not know what that means.”
She grins. “Exactly.”
Then she leaves the clearing first, slipping back into the clouds like she was never there at all. Nimun vanishes into the thickening mist within seconds, her wings cutting silently through the sky.
So’lek watches her for a second longer than necessary. Just long enough to make sure she flies alright.
Then he whistles softly and Iley drops from the clouds above with a low answering call.
-
The floating mountains cradle his camp like an open palm. Stone spires drift lazily through the clouds, their shadows sliding across one another in slow motion. Massive vines drape between them like bridges woven by the forest itself. Far below, the world disappears beneath a blanket of shifting white and gray. The air is cooler up here. Cleaner.
The camp itself is modest—woven mats stretched between stone anchors, a fire pit ringed by flat rock, racks for drying meat and tools carved carefully into the cliff face—but it feels anchored in a place where nothing else ever is. Even the wind seems quieter here.
So’lek guides the ikrans to their perches while Tamtey checks Nimun’s wings for any damage. Her fingers move with practiced care, sliding along the membrane and bone structure while she murmurs praise under her breath.
“Good girl… Yes, you were very impressive. Prettiest baby.”
Nimun croons happily, leaning into the attention shamelessly. Her tail flicks back and forth with smug satisfaction.
So’lek watches for a moment before stepping closer. “You spoil her,” he says, undoing the saddle straps for Tamtey with steady hands.
Tamtey smiles without looking at him. “She deserves it.”
“By nearly biting three soldiers in half?”
“Yes.”
He hums quietly.
Then the first drops of rain begin to fall.
They retreat under the shelter of the rocky overhang and woven canopy as the mist thickens into rain. So’lek removes his gear first, methodical as always. Weapons stowed. Arrows counted. Dog tags unfastened and set aside carefully on a flat stone.
Tamtey watches him from the entrance. He looks different here. Calmer. His dark hair has loosened from its tight battle braids, several strands falling along the line of his jaw. The low firelight softens the sharpness of his expression.
Less warrior. More… something else. Familiar. Safe.
The thought lingers longer than she wants it to.
She shrugs off her own gear, setting her bow carefully where it won’t catch the rain. When she turns back, So’lek has already started a small fire. He crouches near the pit, coaxing the flames to life with practiced patience. Sparks flicker upward, catching briefly in the damp air before vanishing.
The fire grows slowly, steady and warm. The flames reflect off of him, casting shifting shadows across his shoulders.
For a while, they do not speak.
Tamtey sits, legs folded beneath her, stretching her sore limbs as the tension finally bleeds out of her muscles. Her shoulders pop quietly and she lifts her hand to hold it, but then winces when the cut on her hand opens more.
So’lek notices. He always notices.
“Hand.” He holds out his own.
“You don’t have to—” She starts automatically.
“I know,” he says, not looking up. Then, quieter, “I want to.”
Something in his tone settles the protest before it can finish forming. She gives it to him without argument after that.
His grip is careful. He cleans the small cut with cool water and crushed herbs, fingers steady as he wraps it neatly in soft cloth. His thumbs brush the inside of her wrist once as he ties the knot. Warm. Grounding.
Tamtey watches him through her lashes, chest tightening with something dangerous and soft all at once.
He lets go first.
Silence again.
He passes her a strip of dried meat without comment. She takes it. Their fingers brush.
It is nothing. Yet, it is everything.
“You flew well today,” he says quietly after a moment.
Tamtey chews thoughtfully before shrugging. “You kept up.”
So’lek lifts a brow. “High praise.”
“You should treasure it,” she hums.
“I will carve it into stone.”
She snorts.
-
The storm does not pass quickly. Rain turns relentless, drumming against stone and vine until the entire mountain seems to hum with the sound of it. Thunder rolls through the floating peaks like something massive pacing just out of sight. The fire burns low but steady, throwing warm light across the shelter and catching in the rain-misted air.
Tamtey shifts first. She has finished her food and now lies half reclined on her side, one elbow propped, tail flicking lazily behind her.
So’lek is wandering around. Fletching arrows. Rearranging the oldest herbs to the front and the newer to the back. Adjusting a rack that did not actually need adjusting. And of course, he checks on the ikrans.
…Which leaves him soaked when he returns.
Tamtey watches him for a moment.
Then she grins. “You know,” she says casually, “you fight real scary for someone who looks like a wet chicken right now.”
So’lek pauses mid-step and he looks at her slowly. “What?”
She blinks. Then laughs. It bursts out of her before she can stop it—a bright, unguarded sound that fills the shelter brighter than the fire.
“A chicken!”
He frowns—not offended, just deeply confused.
“Is this a human insult?”
“Sometimes,” she says cheerfully. “Sometimes it’s affectionate.”
His tail twitches.
“You have called me this before.”
“Many times.”
“And each time, you do not explain.”
“That’s because it’s funnier if you don’t know.”
So’lek starts walking over to her. “Then explain.”
She pushes herself upright, eyes gleaming. “Okay. A chicken is a small bird. It cannot fly very well. Humans raise them for eggs.”
“And food, I presume,” he adds after a thoughtful pause.
“Yes,” she admits. “Also food.”
He stares at her. Long and flat. “You are calling me a small, flightless food animal?”
“Well, when you’re soaked and grumpy, yeah.”
“I am not grumpy.”
She snorts. “You just stopped in your tracks to interrogate me about poultry.”
“I am not interrogating you.”
“You definitely are.”
“I simply do not enjoy being compared to prey.”
“Oh relax,” she waves a hand lazily. “You’re a very dangerous chicken.”
He considers this. And then sits beside her with slow deliberation. “Explain.”
She scoots closer until their knees nearly touch.
“It means you’re scary in a fight but secretly kind of…” she hesitates. “Soft.”
So’lek scoffs. “I am not soft.”
She leans back smugly. “You made sure Nimun’s tack was dry before you took Iley’s off.”
“That was practical.”
“You always give Iley your warmer perch.”
“He is older.”
“You shared your last dried fruit with me.”
He pauses, suddenly unsure. “That was habit…?”
Tamtey beams. “See? Chicken.”
He exhales through his nose, something very close to a sigh.
“Humans have a strange language.”
“You like it.”
“I tolerate it when it comes from you.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Wow. Smooth.”
Thunder rolls again, closer this time. Outside, the ikrans rumble in response.
So’lek reaches for a cloth and starts drying his braids.
Tamtey watches, then without thinking, her fingers reach out to catch the end of one braid.
He freezes. She does too.
“…Is this allowed?” She asks lightly, though her eyes are careful.
After a heartbeat, he nods. “If you do not pull.”
She smiles softly. Her hands move slow and gently as she helps untangle the damp strands, careful not to tug.
He sits very still.
Maybe too still.
“You speak like a human,” he says eventually. “Your words move quickly. You shorten them.”
“Yeah,” she shrugs. “Picked it up in TAP. Easier to survive if you sound like you belong.”
“You belong here.” He says it easily, like he didn’t even have to think about it.
Her fingers pause briefly in his hair and she has to clear her throat.
“Still gonna call you chicken.”
“That is unfortunate.”
“Very.”
“Hm. May I call you something?” He asks. She nods curiously and he continues, “Slotsyaltsyìp.”
Her brow lifts. “Oh?”
“You call them stormgliders,” he says carefully. “You are loud in the sky. Unavoidable.”
She laughs softly. “That’s one way to put it.”
“In storms,” he continues, voice thoughtful, “you remind me of them.” He glances at her then, brief but honest. “Beautiful.. dangerous.”
Her smile softens. “That’s almost romantic.”
“It is not meant to be.”
She leans closer anyway. “Sure, chicken.”
This time So’lek finally allows himself the smallest smile.
Rain pours outside, inside there is only firelight. The warmth of shared space.
The quiet understanding between two warriors who pretend, just for tonight, that they are not what the RDA fears them to be. Not Death on Wings. Not the Dog Tag Warrior.
Just Tamtey and So’lek.
Sitting out a storm together. Yearning folded carefully between them like something fragile neither of them quite dares to touch.
And for now, just for now, that is enough.