He raised a hand as if to halt this line of conversation. “Yet, you are entirely correct. There are no dragons left whose wings will flash through the sky, whose claws will churn a flood into a wall of water, whose beauty will enchant their prey so they may gobble them up. The last of them were shorn from the world in order to save the world and guard the world. For you see, El, the worst of the sorcerer-kings of ancient days were greedy, hoarding dragons. They devoured the lives not just of humans and aivur and swalters, and the animals who roam and even the plants that grow, but of their own kind. Those of their kinsfolk who did nothing to stop them were shamed into this final act, so the wicked ones might never rise again.”

She stared at him, dazzled and disturbed in equal parts.

He pressed a hand to his heart. “But that happened long in the past. I beg your pardon. You were explaining why two girls would attempt to cross the Pall when no one else had ever tried.”

“I don’t know if no one else tried. I just know we attempted it because we had nothing to lose but our lives, and our lives were already forfeit. But it’s a long story.”

“There is so little time remaining,” he murmured, pressing a hand to his face as if wondering if he were still there.

“What do you mean to do?”

“I mean to hear your story, so I may take the memory of your voice with me.”

The haunt caught her hand in his and laced his fingers through hers. The gesture struck Elen breathless. His skin was warm and hers cold. His grasp was firm, and she held on, wishing she need never let go. But he was leaving, and she had always known he could not stay in a body he had only borrowed, and even then, borrowed under false pretenses.

It took her a few inhalations to get her breath back. He waited.