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She did not want to ask.

After a supper of pheasants and flat, dense bread, courtesy of Luna, Minerva rolled her metal arm back in her socket.

“You all right, Min?” Bell asked.

“This arm is chafing something fierce,” she said, as she stripped off her armour and peeled back the clothing surrounding the limb. She took a small wrench from a belt pocket and unscrewed the bolts at her shoulder. Most of the arm fell away, save the port it was attached to, and the pauldron fitted over where her shoulder used to be. That had to be unbuckled by a leather strap, stretched across her chest.

Finally, most of the limb was removed from her body. The metallic port remained, welded to her flesh, the skin around it red and chafed.

Aislinn stared. She wasn’t sure if she was unnerved by the damage, or impressed by it.

Minerva winced as Bell applied a lotion to the raw skin, Magna oiling the discarded arm as she did. She caught Aislinn’s stare.

“Tough doesn’t mean you don’t feel pain,” she informed her. “Tough means you survive it.”

“I’m not doubting your strength,” Aislinn responded. “I just… I’m curious, I suppose. How the arm works, how—”

“How I lost the meat one, you mean?”

Aislinn swallowed. “Yes.”

“Rogue golem attack in the deep. Thing got the arm in its mouth.”

“She cut it off herself, rather than be eaten,” Diana chimed in. “Or so the rumour is. She won’t confirm.”

Aislinn’s eyes widened. “That’s… impressive.”

Minerva looked down, like it was not the word she would use. “It had to be done,” she said.

Bell rubbed her hand against her neck, like her scars were burning, and all eyes turned back to the fire.

“So,” said Beau, somewhat hesitantly, “I can’t help but notice that Caer—”

Aislinn flashed him a dangerous look.

“—Does not have truesight.”

Caerwyn stared at him for a long moment, as if he’d quite forgotten Beau could speak at all. “What’s truesight?”

“It’s something given to mortals so that they’re immune to basic glamours, not so easily led astray, convinced of dragons sailing overhead etc...”

“That might be useful…” he mused, stroking a finger under his chin. “How do you get it?”

Aislinn finally caught his gaze. “Easiest way would be for me to spit in your eye.”

“You are not spitting in my eye!”

“I can spit in your eye, if you prefer?” Beau offered.

“I will… pass, for now,” he said. “I daresay I won’t really need it in Avalinth.”

“Suit yourself,” said Beau, shrugging. “Who cares for a story? I know a good one about why no mortal can set foot in Faerie twice.”

It was quickly agreed that a story would indeed be welcome. Beau cleared his throat, took the drink that Luna poured for him, and settled into his spot.

“They say that a long, long time ago, a faerie prince fell in love with a mortal girl, and she ran away to faerie to be with him. But, as the years passed, she grew homesick and wanted to return. The prince agreed, and they set off immediately. Only, when they returned to her village, they found that whilst only a handful of years had passed for them, centuries had turned in the mortal world. Everyone the girl knew from her old life was dead. She was devastated, and all the love the faerie prince could heap on her world not plug up that wound. She died of a broken heart.”

“Oh, how sad.” Luna sighed.