"Well, what?" he said, and stopped by the doorway.
"You're him."
"Of course I'm him," he said.
He wore travel-worn clothes.
The same pale skin she knew, almost luminous even in the hut's interior.
The same white hair, though cut short and uneven, as if trimmed with a knife.
The same ruby eyes, sharp and unmistakable.
Sonder's hands trembled.
But as that first rush of impossible hope faltered, she knew he couldn't be him.
This man was far more rugged. His face was hard, where Vell's features were either soft or sharp, never in between.
His build was thicker, with muscles earned from labor and survival, not just training alone.
And there was something else.
It was the way he carried himself.
Even just standing, Vell's posture was light, like he would fly off at any moment.
This man stood solidly in the doorway, rooted to the earth.
The floor creaked faintly beneath his weight.
He stared at her.
For a terrible, fragile moment, Sonder clung to the hope anyway.
"I—" she began. She straightened, fingers tightening around her staff. "I'm sorry. I thought… someone else."
The man didn't move from the doorway, but his gaze sharpened, studying her now the way she had studied the hut. He took in her clothes, her staff, and the featherling.
"Interesting," he said. "Do I look that much like him?"
"…You do," Sonder said. "Very much."
"Usually, when people talk about my looks, they ask if I'm an elf. I'm not."
"I didn't think you were," she said.
That seemed to amuse him.
"Well, that makes a change." He stepped fully inside the hut and closed the door behind him, barring the wind. The fire in the hearth steadied again, embers settling.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms folding loosely across his chest. "What are you doing here, at the end of the world, little lady? And who is this 'him'—the one I remind you of? There shouldn't be many that look like me. Maybe I know him."
Sonder hesitated. Her eyes drifted to the floor, then back up to his face. Though she could barely keep her eyes off him, she couldn't force herself to look at his face for long.
"His name is Vell. Vellichor, also known as the Dread Mage. Have you heard of him?"
"Vellichor," he said, thinking about the name. "No, can't say that I have. And I barely know anything about mages or magic. Judging by your staff and your own unusual appearance, I guess you're a mage too."
"I am, and he's very important to me. I am on a journey to save him," Sonder said, proud.
"A dangerous thing," he said. "Saving people. Especially when it involves breaking into other people's homes."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It's just that—"
"Shut it."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then the featherling drifted forward.
It had been hovering quietly near Sonder's shoulder. Now it floated toward the man, its form loosening, curious rather than wary. It circled his head once, slow and deliberate.
"Well now," he murmured.
His eyes followed it, not with surprise, but with a familiar fondness.
He raised his hand and caught it in the air, quickly.
He laughed quietly, a low sound of genuine delight.
He opened his hand. "Aren't you a rare little thing," he said. "Yes, you are."
He looked at Sonder. "I have a few questions for you. Maybe some answers too, if you have your own questions."