Too late does Nymeria realize Lilómiel’s err; too late does she realize that the flame pouring out from between his teeth was not a delicate instrument of surgery but a crude hand smashing away at fragile bones in effort to resolve an X-Ray’s fracture. Whatever people liked to say, fire couldn’t be fought with fire. It would only ever result with cataclysmic burns and smouldering destruction.

Her mind was desolately empty as she watched the black charge, until it dawns upon her that the drake's war cry and his red, red flame is not a beacon of hope for the unicorn maid but instead a promise of pain. And she, as the only one capable of raising a hand, of halting the fall of the executioner’s sword upon an exposed neck, had done nothing to halt it but flutter her fingers in whimsy. It was her fault when red jaws bit down upon champagne skin and silver scales in equal measure; her fault when tendrils of mane go up in flame and legs crumple in agony. Nymeria cannot tell if it is the unicorn screaming or the wyvern—or if it matters.

The water sizzles and steams as the burning body hits it, sending up gauzy gray curtains between the grullo and the stranger. Her heart feels numb and tight in her chest, but to claim she feels badly for the destruction she’s caused would be a lie.

It reeks like burnt hair and ruined flesh, and she thinks, with a sense of detachment, that that is exquisite. No doubt she should feel guilty—that's what a good horse would feel—and yet she sins, and relishes the power that feels to be at her hands. If she wanted to, she could kill, slaughter, butcher this mare lying at her feet, make her weep and pray for mercy and beg for oblivion. Nobody would know; there would be no trace. Or she could say that the mare attacked her—brutalized her—and she fought back in self-defence. A couple of stab wounds... it wouldn't be difficult.

Except Nymeria did not want to play the villain. She would rather play the hero.

Fuck.

Nymeria reaches for her magic unconsciously, feeling for the small and ever-waiting nub that connects her to the sea. The water sizzling around Sikeax's body, heated by hot flesh, immediately begins to cool. With infinite tenderness, Nymeria brings up a sheet of cold water to curve around Sikeax’s body, continuously renewing the sheets until the heat emanating from the unicorn’s corpse has dissipated. Simultaneous to her magical care, the grullo comes closer until she is standing just above the champagne mare.

Nymeria lowers her massive head to nuzzle at the stranger’s cheek. There is only concern at her eyes, and inwardly she gloats.

“Are you okay?” She is careful to make no mention of her or Lilómiel’s part in the mare's injuries; she prays that the champagne did not see Lilómiel’s attack. If she had—well, that would require a different story. And if she hadn’t… perhaps she could spin this her way; perhaps she could become a hero. The skull-faced Illusor hadn't yet realized that the wyvern was, in fact, Sikeax's companion.

This is a rather marvellous idea, Nym thinks; you are incredible, Lilómiel. Thank you. How fervently grateful she is now for his recklessness, his audacity, his ignoble intentions; even she would not have had the courage to commit this disparaging act. To think she had once wanted to cut him out of her mind! They belonged together—they always had—they always would. He always supported her, pushed her, improved her... and he didn't question her ability, her gender, her parents.

How very lucky I am.