The ascent from the bottom of the world was quiet.
Inside the silver-reinforced bubble, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and ancient dust. Ophelia sat on a cushioned bench conjured by Primrose, wrapped in a warm blanket. She looked incredibly small.
For a legend who had supposedly stolen the ocean and defied an Empire, she didn't look terrifying. She looked like a girl in her early twenties, with pale skin that hadn't seen the sun in a millennium and white hair that floated around her like a halo.
She was currently staring at Rurik.
"A Wolf," Ophelia murmured, her voice raspy but gaining strength. She poked Rurik's arm. "You're big. The wolves in my time were scrawny. Too much running, not enough eating."
Rurik puffed out his chest, looking pleased. "I am a Warlord, Grandma. I eat plenty."
"Don't call me Grandma," Ophelia snapped, though there was no heat in it. "I'm barely twenty-five. Plus a thousand years of nap time. That doesn't count."
