“You’re saying I’m lucky.”

“I’m saying you’re honoured. You’ll become legend,” Mallian says.

The pombero drops the rucksack close to Mallian’s side, but not too close. Wide-eyed, he stares the Nephilim up and down, gaze lingering on his arms and legs where they are held close to the ground by the fairy’s invisible glamours.

Then he turns and runs, not once looking back.

Mallian sighs. The long haul, then. He closes his eyes and considers what he might do next.

* * *

He’s surprised that he fell asleep.

When he wakes the pombero is sitting a few metres away. Close enough to smell, but not so close that Mallian can clasp him, or bite him. The mongrel is cautious, afraid. Yet Mallian hopes that his presence is a good sign, because it could mean that he is thinking things over.

Mallian does not speak. He’s said all that needs to be said. He will not beg. Instead he lies there and looks up at the sky. He wonders whether, if he could extend his vision and travel along its lines, he would eventually meet the gaze of some unknowable alien creature staring back at him. Such a thought would make any human and most Kin feel small and insignificant, but not Mallian. He feels more in charge, more in control. He is at the centre of everything.

“What will I get in return?” Markus asks at last. The pombero has sat in silence for so long that the sun has moved partway across the sky, and the light has changed towards dusk. Mallian can feel a chill on the air. There are no real seasons here, but he senses a cooler spell approaching.

“I’ve told you,” Mallian replies, “you will become legend. Songs will be written about you. Everyone will know your name as the Kin who enabled Ascent to commence.”

“I don’t mean in the future when I’m dead. What fucking use is being talked about when I won’t be there to hear? I mean here and now. I mean today and tomorrow, if your plan works and you get the fairy to open the Fold again. What’s my payment? What’s my reward?”

Fucking humans, Mallian thinks. He blinks slowly, keeping his eyes closed for a few seconds as he reins in the rage. Such selfish thoughts reveal him. He’ll never be Kin.

“My commander,” Mallian says. “My right hand.”

“But I’ll be unable to issue orders.”

“You think a Kin only speaks with its tongue?” It’s a strange question with no real answer, but the pombero does not wish to appear ignorant. He does not question what Mallian has said. His doubts are still obvious, but so is his thirst for reward, and now his desire for power.

“The armies of the Kin.”

“Yours to control,” Mallian says. “Under my overall command, of course.”