I was elbow-deep in a pulley system that had given up on engineering three decades ago when I heard it.
Not a threat. Not monsters.
Laughter.
That kind of stupid, high-volume, badly-disguised laughter that could only belong to one person on the entire continent.
I turned.
Splitjaw was sprinting down the hill like a boulder with enthusiasm issues, arms waving wildly, shouting something I couldn't hear over the sound of my own brain short-circuiting.
I barely had time to say "oh no" before he crashed into me like a wrecking ball made of armor, joy, and unresolved trauma.
We hit the dirt hard.
"STILL ALIVE, I SEE!" he shouted in my ear, already half-crushing me with a bear hug that probably left glyph imprints in my spine.
"You're loud," I wheezed.
"You're smaller than I remember."
"You say that every time."
"Because you keep shrinking!"
"Because you keep throwing me across courtyards!"
