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Markus moved to dive to the side, footpaws quick and light atop the cushioned mat, bare toepads easily leading his momentum and finding the traction to make such a move. He ducked his head and bent at the midsection, then took a step back, another half-step, dodged again-

“You’ll throw yourself off-balance doing that. Keep everything close and tight to your core. Hold on.”

Heart pounding from the exertion, he let every muscle in his body relax, and hunched over to catch his breath – but then just as quickly caught himself and straightened back up instead. The much older, much more weathered, surely much more out of shape wolf across from him displayed no such evidence of tiring.

Lan swung his own blade back and forth through the air in a quick flourish, then dipped down into his usual ready stance. “Like this,” the older lupine went on, then stepped into a rhythm much like what Markus had just attempted. He watched, a little chagrined, still trying to catch his breath, then waited; Lan tilted his head. “Again?”

Who do you think I am? was his first thought alongside a flare of annoyance, but then – no. I can’t think like that. The foxwolf swallowed, felt the slimy slickness of exertion in the back of his throat, and sighed out through just-parted lips, trying to maintain Lan’s previous tip to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. “Yes,” he finally said. “Please. Again.”

And again his opponent repeated the motion, then waved for him to do the same. Markus tried to emulate the posture, the stronger core, the straighter back. It’s always a dance, he reminded himself, wobbling for a moment, but I know how to waltz, and he can only tango.

“Almost,” the wolf conceded with a nod. “But it’d be foolish to expect something new to be picked up so quickly. I-”

“Ex_cuse_ you,” Markus interjected, unable to resist, “but I’ll have you know that I-”

“No, no. You misunderstand me. That is not a slight against you, Markus.” Lan relaxed back again, whiskers slack, hackles flat. “Swordplay is a skill like any other, and the only road to success is the path of diligent practice. You should not expect to perfect something the day you pick it up – you being, of course, the general you. In fact, you should never expect to perfect it. Do you know why?”

Again the foxwolf sighed. He tapped the end of his blade against the sparring mat, then jerked when the metal poked into the cushion. “Why?”

“The day you say you’ve perfected a skill is the day you say that there is nothing more for you to learn, that there is no further way for you to improve or hone your ability, or further your knowledge. It will be the day you give up.” Another flourish, and then the wolf angled his blade in towards the sheath at his side – Markus noticed that he had brought his own instead of taking one from the wall – and slid it in. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, looked the younger male over, and nodded.

Markus waited, but Lan did not continue. The foxwolf had no scabbard for his weapon; he just rolled the hilt beneath his fingers, pushed it into the cushion a little further, then let it go. It swung slowly. “I understand.”

“Do you?”

Gods, but he can be infuriating… He pressed his lips together, swallowed again, drew another breath through flared nostrils. “…I think I do,” Markus amended, “but… I’m learning that…”

“Vanity and hubris are the next two steps past confidence?”

“…Yes. Ah – how long did you say you will be staying here, Lan?”

“End of the week. I came to settle some future matters with your father-in-law-to-be, and now that that’s done, I’m taking a brief reprieve before I head back home.” The wolf brushed his paws together as he began moving towards the far side of the room. Markus glanced down at his blade, then began to follow. “How long will you be a visitor of House Thorn, then?”

“Well – as long as I like.”

“Oh. Is that because you’re entitled to it?” Sharp eyes glanced back over his shoulder. “Because you’re the – what was it – son of the Countess?”

Temper flared again. Markus felt the back of his neck prickle… “I could have you imprisoned for disrespect like this. Remember, I hold a higher station than Lord Thorn, I could-”

“You could,” and then Lan was in his face again, one finger waggling. Markus’s lip curled up. “But you won’t, because these are things you need to hear, and you know it.”

Flaring, swelling, blossoming… and then suddenly sputtering away. Lan leaned against the wall by the door; Markus strode up to him, took in yet another breath, and then sighed it back out. He shook his head, stepped around the wolf, turned with his back to the wall, and then slid down until he could rest his arms over his knees.

“It’s been two days since I sent my letter,” he said, trying to keep his ears up. “Rhea said that Lord Thorn could get it there and back by the end of the day.”

“And so he can. On busy office days we’ve still maintained a conversation throughout the course of a day, him here and myself back in Burls.”

“So what’s going on, do you think? Is she sending him?”

“The diplomat you mentioned?”

“Yes. Lord Strade.”

“Hmm.” Lan tapped his chin. “It grates at me to admit, but your mother knows business better than I do. I would expect that if – Strade? – had departed, then she would have informed you as such, and you would have heard by… the next morning, at the latest.”

“So he is there.”

“Well, consider, Markus: there’s the possibility that the messenger was waylaid somehow. Inclement weather, sickness…” He shrugged, then glanced down at the foxwolf. His tail swished. “Highwaymen. But that’s why we generally send two messengers, at the minimum.”

“You do?”

Lan looked down at him again. “You didn’t know? Ah, well, that would be for the best. It’s important that most don’t know, I suppose. There is another option, though.”

“What would that be?”

The wolf pushed himself away from the wall with a little huff, moved to face Markus, and then offered a paw down. He glanced at it, looked up at the older lupine, then back at the paw, then took it – and was hoisted back up again.

“If I know your mother, and I’m certain I don’t as well as her own son, then I wouldn’t consider it impossible that she might be waiting on the reply, to make you… squirm. Is that something she would do?”

Almost instinctively, Markus moved to wipe his paw off on his pants, then caught himself and instead just shoved them into the pockets. “Gods. It would be. What a hassle…”

“Yes, well… in your position, and particularly the position you will have, you might expect this kind of thing to happen. People fear power as much as they respect it; it’s a thin line balancing the two, and when wielding it, you’ll never fully fall to one side or the other.”

“I don’t think I want that power.” Markus’s ears flicked as he recalled what the older wolf had said just a few moments ago: your father-in-law-to-be. That itched, like the sensation of a tick buried beneath his fur somewhere.

“I remember. Just the title and the wealth, then, wasn’t it?”

“I’m…” He sighed. “Not so sure, anymore.”

The admission hung in the air between the two as they walked, a bright paper ribbon fluttering in gentle wind. The guards outside the sparring room stood at attention; the servants nearby bowed their deference. Markus still couldn’t help but keep an eye out for golden fur splashed in thick shadow.

When Lan spoke again it was with a quick exhalation of breath, a reserved sigh pushing its way free. “Well. There is no law against breaking an arranged marriage; it is completely within your prerogative. However, it would-”

“Bring down my mother’s disrespect? And Lord Thorn’s? Sure. Mother already doesn’t respect me, and Thorn and I have had-” Markus waved his paw. “Perhaps… I don’t know. Three? Four? Conversations in the month I’ve been here.”

“He’s a busy wolf. As for your-”

“I wouldn’t be losing anything I have, at least.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to discount that, Markus. Your mother chose you for this, and not your brother. Why do you think that might be?”

“What? I’m the firstborn. And Mercutio is a bastard.”

“Markus-”

“No, I mean that. My father was Lucius. His was… ah, I forget the name. One of Father’s councilors while he was King of Maldeth. Mercutio is no Kalla; I am. Therefore, I must marry.”

“Says who?”

“Says my mother? Says Lord Thorn? Says – everyone who’s backed House Kalla, financially, politically, or otherwise?”

“And is that your responsibility?”

“Wh- as the last line of the House, yes, it is. As much as I wish it weren’t.”

“Mm…”

Markus expected Lan to continue, but the wolf did not. The two strode through the lower halls of the manor, the pleasant, not-quite-warmth of summer trickling in through opened windows. It would be time for lunch soon, and already the foxwolf’s nose tickled with the rising spices, the intoxicating scent of roasting meat mixed with the vegetables that grew wild around here; Rhea had taken him out on a walk outside the city the previous day, through the low grasslands and sparse pine forests.

“Look!” she had said, crouching down low beside a squat, thorny plant. “Stormberry. Grows natural out here. Go ahead – try one.” She had reached in, brushed some of the branches aside with her other paw, found just the right berry, and with a quick twist tugged it free. Her fingers were warm in the cool air as she set it into Markus’s palm, and he had held it up to the light, and turned it back and forth, and looked over it…

“The whole thing?”

_ _

“The whole thing.”

“Even the leaves?”

_ _

“Yes. They actually contain a sweetness that balances the tart flavor of the berries, enough so that some harvesters separate them and grind them into a powder for use elsewhere.” Still crouching down with Markus across from her, his tail swishing across the ground and doubtless picking up little dried sticks and bits of leaves and grit, the wolfess had reached in for a second berry for herself. Then she had grinned at him, winked, tossed her head a little bit, and dropped it atop her tongue, briefly showing those same sharp fangs all over again. Markus looked down at his own berry, squeezed it a little bit, sniffed at it, then finally popped it in as well.

For some reason it surprised him that it tasted similar to the candies with which he was familiar, but… different in a way. Bolder, brighter, wider; the flavor was fuller, like a freshly seared steak against preserved salt-jerky. First a wave of fruity sweetness, then washed over with that bright, lip-puckering tang, swelling and dancing and then just as soon dying back down like a flash of fire, to give way to sweetness all over again.

Across from him Rhea had swallowed, and sighed, and dropped her mouth open, corners of her lips curling up. “Thee?” she had said, tongue hanging out. Pink flesh had tinted to warm, rich blue across the center fold. “You need a good few handfuls to have enough dye in any respectable amount, since most of the liquid is sugars and water that can be boiled out. What do you think?”

_ _

“It’s… good,” Markus had replied. He had looked across the bush for another, then felt Rhea’s paw brush across his chin and send a flutter through his shoulders.

“Come on,” she had urged, tail wagging. “Let me see. It doesn’t work as well on some folks. You might have to eat two or three to turn blue.”

_ _

“What? What are you – hey, don’t stick your – I can do it myself, I-”

_ _

“Markus! Let me see.”

_ _

So he had stuck his tongue out, and she had giggled, and he had frowned and tried to tilt his head so he could see, too, and then he had found out that one berry had indeed been enough. Rhea had already picked another two for herself by that point and was tugging at a third, and with that little flutter still bouncing throughout him Markus had brought his tongue back into his mouth, swallowed, tasted the syrupy sour-sweetness of the fruit on the back of his throat, and reached forward for her.

Her ears had perked before she consciously noticed the movement, and then she glanced over, surprise in her steel-blue eyes. Her lips had tinted slightly blue as well, the color dark on the silken black flesh there. While she waited she popped another berry into her mouth, and then Markus pushed his other paw against the soft ground, and tilted her muzzle towards his own, and leaned in… and tasted that slight sweetness crossed with the tangy bite, more than just from the berry as sharp lupine fangs nipped in at his lower lip, then his upper, then his tongue as well.

He had been able to taste the distinct character of the berry on her breath when it puffed across his face, and into his mouth, and when he drew it in himself. His eyes had fluttered shut, and her paw found his on the ground there, and she leaned in against him to press deeper into the kiss. Somewhere along the way the stormberry between them had burst, and then it had ended up in his mouth with those rich, sour-sweet juices spreading across his tongue, smeared back and forth and spread around beneath hers, and he had-

“Markus?”

“Huh?”

Lan had stopped in one of the manor annexes. Markus looked around; the stairs up to the residential section would be just around the next corner. The wolf extended a paw out to him, the other keeping his sheathed blade at his side.

“I think I shall retire until lunch,” he explained. “I enjoyed our discussion today.”

“Oh. Um.” Markus glanced at the offered paw, blinked, then reached out and took it. When Lan shook it was with a steady grip, firm without being tight enough to sting. “Yes. Of course.” Then, on a whim, he partially bowed at the waist. “Thank you for… sparring. We have an armsmaster back at home, but I’ve never really…”

“You should.” Lan shook his paw once more before releasing it. “You’re a quick study. We’ve done this twice now, and I’ve already seen noticeable improvement in your form. Shall I see you at the meal?”

“What? Yes. Of course. Where else would I be?”

Lan shrugged as he turned. “Even when you know a thing to be sure, you’d still do well to confirm it.” And with that he was off, trudging towards the stairs with a brief wave of that same paw. Markus looked after him, tail twitching, ears splayed. Now that I’ve spent some time with him, I suppose he isn’t so bad, he thought. But I’m still looking forward to his departure.

With nothing else to occupy him until then, the foxwolf straightened up, took in a breath of the now familiar, slightly spiced manor air, and turned to head down the other hallway, towards where he knew Lord Thorn’s offices to be. Smooth stone tile turned to thick, plush rug, then back to tile again; he eyed the hanging tapestries, framed artwork, and freestanding sculptures as he passed, observing them without seeing, rolling back and forth in his mind his lessons with Lan today as well as the previous day’s – is that how a gladiator fights? – and then, naturally, that walk with Rhea. He wished that he had plucked some berries to bring back; the flavor really was divine when fresh, and completely unlike anything he had had in the candies shipped into Oryon, and-

The door to the office wing was closed, and a servant stood outside. Markus nearly skidded to a stop but knew he was already in view, as was the servant himself: little teacup ears flicked forward at the noise and then back on the realization, and Doren visibly straightened up, set his shoulders, cleared his throat, and tucked his long, whipcord tail around one of his ankles.

Markus’s heart skipped a beat. He slowed his step, swung a leg out, kept on coming, then paused in front of the door. He looked at Doren; the cheetah glanced at him, blinked, then decided to instead focus on a spot slightly above and behind the foxwolf’s head.

“His lordship the Viscount is busy,” he chirped. “He asked to not be disturbed.”

Markus sighed again. “That’s okay. It… wasn’t urgent.”

In the pause that followed, he noticed Doren glance across him again and then look away, whiskers pinning back. “May I… hold a message, for his lordship?”

“If you like. It’s only the same thing as every other time I’ve come by these few days. Just wishing to know if there’s a letter for me.”

“Understood. May… I find you in your quarters, once I have his answer?”

You may, he was going to say, but then peered at the cheetah again. Doren swallowed and just as quickly glanced away again. “Whenever you see me next. As I said, it’s not urgent.”

Instead of continuing then, Doren bowed slightly and inclined his head, then shifted his posture. It seemed he expected Markus to turn and stride off, and became a little bit twitchy when he did not. One ear flicked; his whiskers pitched forward, then back again; his tail began to swing and lash, though he tried his best to keep it at his leg.

Then, finally, Markus pursed his lips, tilted his head, and waited for Doren to look at him. When he did, he smiled – and had to stifle a laugh at the look of shock that washed across the feline’s muzzle.

“You do good work, Doren,” he said, voice lower. “Perhaps once… this,” said with a vague wave of a paw, “is all resolved, I could… ask my mother to… purchase…”

Bright blue eyes watched him, flicked from one side of his muzzle to the other, blinked.

Markus cleared his throat, half-turning away from the cheetah. “You would… still be a servant, technically, but you would earn a wage. It would be much the same as you do here, I imagine, just on a smaller scale; there’s myself, and my brother, and my mother, and Mother’s staff, and we occasionally host merchants or diplomats as they pass through… but if I’m to be…” He took in a breath, and tasted the words before he shared them. “…Count, then I suppose I will need a secretary, won’t I?”

The small, pink sandpaper tongue flicked out between black lips, visible for only a flash of a second. Doren shifted how he stood again, paws tightening at his sides, then relaxing again.

“…You are saying, my lord,” he rumbled, still avoiding Markus’s eye, “that you might invite me to… serve you?”

That ignited a low, boiling flame within the foxwolf, the heat of which caught him by surprise. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Well, it’s – it wouldn’t be your duty to, ah – but I would… like it if, you might-”

“Or,” Doren went on while the foxwolf fumbled, “if you are to be Count, you could handle the arrangement yourself, my lord. Leave Her Excellency out of it. As for secretary, I would be truly honored, but – I cannot read, or write.”

Thankful for the reprieve, Markus’s ears perked. “Oh! Well, that’s no issue. My brother, Mercutio, he assists the scribes in the library, and he could-”

Then both of them jerked as the door beside the cheetah unlatched and opened. Markus immediately straightened into reflexive formal posture, Lord Volo Thorn’s cool eyes falling upon him, the older Alenari’s painted, polished claws rolling across the frame of the door as it opened. Beside him Doren stepped back, similarly straightened, and then bowed at the waist.

“Ah,” the Viscount said, looking from cheetah to foxwolf, “I thought I heard your voice. Here about your letter?”

Despite himself, Markus felt his tail wag. “I – yes, it’s come in?”

“Still no word, unfortunately. I was just considering sending another messenger for a follow-up. There is something about which I’d like to speak to you in private, however, if you would lend me your ear.”

“Of course.” Markus glanced at Doren again, inclined his head just slightly, and then followed Lord Thorn into the offices.

Immediately he sensed the change of presence and aura, so to say, with the background noise of the manor falling away behind dense stone walls strung with thick tapestries and woven artwork. The plush rug began again in this room, fringed in the black and navy of House Thorn and then taking on a more decorative array towards the center; the desk itself was of dark, polished wood, the surface pitted and scratched here and there where no doubt sharp claws had wandered amid deep thought or frustration; and then above and behind the desk, directly within view of the two visitors’ chairs and positioned between the windows behind with curtains partially drawn, hung one of the oddest displays of weaponry that the young foxwolf had ever seen.

A two-handed great axe, the kind that he thought was only ever used in books and history texts, crossed over a much more reasonable broadsword with an additional, jagged-edged dagger beneath. The shape of the blades, the quality of the wood, the weathering along the haft and grip, and then especially the relatively simple, unadorned appearance of the weapons, no fringes or frills, no raised etching, no glitter of silver or embedded gemstones, immediately told Markus that these were weapons that were intended for, and no doubt had seen, extensive use.

Thorn stepped easily around the desk, one paw brushing across the wood, and motioned towards one of the chairs. “If you would have a seat, my lord?”

Suddenly he felt like he was back at home again, brought before his mother and told to sit in much the same way. Reflexively Markus bristled, already expecting the lecture, but worked to tamp that reaction down: he did as told, pushed his back into the chair, straightened up, pulled his shoulders back, drew in a slow a breath. The air tasted thickly of lupine, sharp and dangerous, and he noticed through this that Thorn had opened one of the windows as well, just enough so that the cool, heady spice of the woods beyond the walls had begun to trickle in as well.

He looked around the room again. There was a door along the other way, guarded by two sets of bookshelves bearing all sorts of tomes, and documents, and little figures and statues, and a plant in a pot that looked as though it had never known water or proper sunlight. Across the desk itself Lord Thorn had spread a variety of documents, some clearly dealing with the House’s finances, some perhaps of a more personal nature; as he sat down he brushed one over another, obscuring the tight, dense scrawl of what was likely his own handwriting. That same paw bore a splotch of ink along grey fur, deep navy similar to what coated the Viscount’s claws.

Smooth, high in gloss, carefully done… enough to be noticed, not enough to stick out. Markus tilted his head, then glanced down at his own naked claws. House Kalla colors of yellow and scarlet…

“I understand,” the older wolf began, words rumbling as they rolled, “that… you are having doubts about marrying my daughter.”

Then, suddenly, everything halted. Markus blinked, waiting for the words to register in his mind, waiting for the response to drag itself forward. He swallowed, tilted his head the other way, realized he was gripping the arm of the chair so that his claws had begun to dig into the lacquered surface of the wood, and forced himself to relax.

He couldn’t look away from the ink staining Lord Thorn’s paw. “It’s archival,” he suddenly remembered Rhea telling him; “nothing short of high-quality soap will get it out.”

_ _

“Yes,” he heard himself say, from a great distance away.

Thorn nodded, absorbing the answer, letting it hang in the air between them. He entwined his paws along the desk between them. “What are your worries?”

“It is… not what I want,” he began. An ear flicked. “For myself, or for her. I haven’t… quite figured out what it is that I want, but I know it’s not this. Not – Leyo.” Markus swept an arm out. “Or – Oryon, or whatever it is you and my mother have planned for me. Did I hear you right, on that?”

The wolf’s whiskers twitched. He blinked, focusing his gaze directly between Markus’s eyes instead of on them. “That is… something that Her Excellency and I… ah…”

Markus waited another moment. “If you can’t tell me that much,” he offered, “then why should I think that the rest of this is done in good faith, then? The expectation, the arrangement, the outcome?”

“Oryon is-”

“As far as I can tell,” the foxwolf went on, “and as far as I’ve been told, the only underlying reason for this marriage is so that House Kalla can regain a foothold in political power and reputation after everything my father did to ruin it. Wrongfully usurping who was recognized as Maldeth’s most powerful, most influential, most personable Queen will do that. Perhaps it’s right that Kalla crumbles, and-”

Then, suddenly, another thought hitting him the force of a punch to the gut: “there are those who

would track him down and kill him, were they to know that he bears Calador blood.”

“-and… I wouldn’t…” A small, carved obsidian figure of a feral wolf smiled up at him from the desk. Markus’s ears folded. “I wouldn’t want Leyo, anyway. I don’t want it.”

Volo waited until he was certain that Markus had finished. The older wolf sat back in his chair, paws still entwined but now resting across himself. “You would hold Oryon,” he explained, softly, “alongside my daughter, as Viscount and Viscountess. Her Excellency would personally oversee your tutelage and preparation, to grant you the higher title once you feel you are properly equipped. Leyo,” said with a slow spread of the paw, “has always been intended for your brother.”

And that hung in the air between them, too. That doesn’t make sense, he thought. Everything I’ve heard, everything she’s told me… this is a lie, right? Or – or had I just misunderstood?

“Why didn’t…” Markus swallowed. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Would that have changed your thoughts on the engagement?”

“What? No. Yes? I don’t know. Maybe? Oryon is…”

“Smaller.” Volo inclined his head. “Closer. Familiar and known to you as home. No city bustle, no storied history. Relatively… easier to administrate, if I am allowed the leniency to say so. Here we require an entire council to properly run things, while back in Oryon it is just your mother and Ellie.”

He calls her Ellie, Markus thought. So they have been in close correspondence.

“May I speak personally, my lord?”

You weren’t already? It was so strange to Markus to have someone so much older than him, so much more experience, so much more respectable, speak to him as a superior. It made him somewhat uncomfortable. He waved a paw. “Go ahead.”

“Your mother held the information from you because she did not want to offend you.”

“Offend me? Why would-” Markus’s breath puffed out in a quick laugh. “Because Mercutio’s younger than me, and Leyo’s a greater responsibility? Well, I don’t want that responsibility. I never did. She knows that.”

“That is why, about a year ago, I received a letter from her outlining as much. She travelled up and we discussed it for a week, and eventually settled on those terms: Oryon to you and Rhea to become Count and Countess Kalla, and Leyo to Mercutio, where I would adopt him into House Thorn so that he would rise as Count after me.”

The foxwolf’s mouth fell open. “Because he’s a bastard?”

“Technically he is Mercutio Oryon – Maldeth is heavily matriarchal, as I’m sure you know – but seeing as Her Excellency was never married to his father, and that legally his birth was out of wedlock, he is disenfranchised. He is houseless. Not only that, but I do understand House Barachiel was extinguished in the uprisings at the end of your father’s reign.”

“Wedlock? But the Church of Vaska-”

“-is the main denomination for Mora,” Volo went on, “but not Maldeth. While the idea of free love is known, it is not as prevalent, nor is it fundamentally recognized. This heavily impacted your mother’s ideals and leanings, and seeing as how we have our own Church of Vaska here in Leyo, your father’s as well. You forget, my l- Markus; I’ve known them both personally. I knew them both.” He leaned in again and tapped a painted claw against the desk. “Azura has always had your best interests in mind. Believe me when I say that. She worried that giving Oryon to you and Leyo to your brother would feel like a betrayal.”

“Are we so-? I’ve never wanted Leyo. I’ve always thought Mercutio would serve better in this role than me. I’ve – often wished that…” Markus fell back into his seat. “That he were the firstborn, instead of me. He flourishes in the role. He loves the… complexity, the thinking, the knowledge and interaction, the… social dance.”

Volo waited.

“Give him Leyo. Give him Oryon, too. I don’t care. I don’t want any part of it.”

Then the t-t-t-tap, t-t-t-tap of those claws again. In the silence the wolf cleared his throat.

“I, too, wish it would be otherwise,” he went on, voice low. “I wish Leyo for my beautiful daughter, and nobody else. But I owe your mother – I owe Azura Kalla a great personal favor. It’s… well, let me put it this way. I met Rhea’s mother… when I was barely more than a pup, fighting in the Kaylor arena for both my life and my living.” Here he motioned up at the weapons behind his head. “I still remember the day I met her. I had heard of her before, of course – we all had – and she was a terror to be seen in the arena there. The rumor was that she had been taken from one of the wild tribes to the east, in the deep forests of Loria. This was…” The older wolf trailed off, pursed his lips, tilted his head, blinked at Markus. “…Anyway. I had come close to losing a fight before, but never that close. She fought like a wild beast, all… tooth and claw, wild amber eyes, slavering and frothing at the mouth, and I still remember lying there on the sand, thinking, oh, I’m dying. This is what it feels like. And I was fine with that. And I looked up and across at the audience going wild, and I saw there in the stands my personal sponsor, Kole Lan, and beside him another wolf I had seen before…”

Volo’s chair creaked as he leaned back, the reverie washing across him. He paused with his paws to his lips for a moment.

“And once I recovered, I would see him again, and again, and again. And always with Lan. I felt the flutter of hope that, perhaps they were discussing transferring my contract. But then that other wolf disappeared for… oh, years. My life was the arena; it was all I had known. Training, and fighting, and – killing. And then one day Lan arrives again, and he takes me into a carriage, and we travel for days. For weeks, even. And when I leave the carriage it’s to a sun brighter than I’d ever seen, to air so hot I thought it might char the fur from my skin. And there,” and once again he spread his paws out along the desk, “I learned that Her Royal Highness Azura Kalla, Queen of Maldeth, had bought out my contract, to present me, her husband the King’s favorite gladiator, as a gift to him. In two more turns of the moons that beast of the arena, Daro, my beloved, would stand beside me, and then in another two we were married.

“And that is the personal favor I owe to your mother. The freedom and lives of myself and Rhea’s mother in exchange for, now, helping Azura rebuild what Lucius lost her. As I said, Markus – Daro and I nearly killed each other on multiple occasions, not only in the sands of the arena, and I would give everything to be able to dance with her again. But your mother? I shudder to oppose her even in a verbal discussion.” He tapped the desk. “She wants Oryon for you and Rhea, and Leyo for Mercutio. So this is what I give her.”

Markus’s mouth was dry. Again he affixed onto the ink spot on Lord Thorn’s paw. “I understand,” was all he could think to say.

“But,” the older wolf went on with a sigh, “I do not have the power to force you to marry my daughter. The engagement is already here and gone; I wish you had come to this realization before, but then, what’s one more small administrative headache? How does Rhea feel about this?”

“She…” Markus blinked. “You should speak with her yourself about that.”

Volo stared at him, then nodded slowly. “You’re right,” he rumbled. “I suppose I should. The only issue, then, is Her Excellency’s take in all of this.”

“I… might be able to work something out.”

“Such confidence! Better you than me, my lord.”

“So you’re…” Markus shook his head. “Really okay with me – not wanting-”

“Of course.” Volo swept one of those documents aside, slid another one on top, and dipped his quill. “I’ll still get my County, my lord. Thorn is an established, recognized house. That is a boulder that, once started, cannot be stopped – and it began rolling some two decades past, by your mother’s own hand. We are already waiting on correspondence from Oryon; I understand that once that arrives, you might wish to return home soon after?

Markus paused in lifting himself out of his seat. His heart thumped, and his tail for some reason tried to curl around his body. “I’m… not sure.”

“Either way. We’ll get everything in order. That will be all, my lord. Oh, but, before you go…”

The foxwolf paused again where he stood now, back already turned to the desk. He looked over his shoulder at where Lord Thorn sat, painted claws glittering in the sun that slanted in through the windows.

“Pardon me for… ah, but she is my daughter, and you are her fiancé, and…” The wolf shook his head. “Her scent is on you. And yours on her.”

Heart pounding…

“I must know. You understand.” Volo coughed politely. “Without the… legal imposition. Would you still – love her? My Rhea?”

The ink splotch there, washing across grey fur… dashed just beneath her eye. “Rub at it,” she said. “Lick it.” “If you wanted to kiss me, you could have just asked. “Do it or do not, but don’t make me feel like a fool.” The way her eyes sparkle in the sunlight, how she throws her head back when she laughs… the way the stormberry juice stained her lips, and her tongue, and a little bit of the fur on her chin. And her breath, warm and soft, and how she grips with her claws first and fingerpads second, so that my lower back still itches with the subtle scratches, and how she’s so passionate, so driven to seek out what she desires, but so restricted by what her name has imposed on her, and-

_ _

“Yes,” Markus answered. “I think… I could do that.”

Volo smiled. His chair creaked again. “Thank you, Markus.”

The foxwolf nodded and took another half-step, but then paused again. He turned, took in a breath, sighed, drummed his fingers along his thigh. “Ah… Lord - er… Volo?

He looked up from his paperwork, curiosity perking his ears.

Markus wet his lips. “I’m… sorry for your loss. She sounds…” He searched for the words, and failed to find them. “Like she was… truly something.”

There was the soft clink of the quill settling into its holder again. “She was. And she always will be. She died as she lived: in a blaze of… claws and muscle, fighting, and loving the fight. I don’t think she even knew she was on her way out, those last moments. And if she did, then she didn’t care, because she had the two things she loved in this world the most: the victory first, and then myself at her side second. I… imagine you are familiar with the Old Tongue, Markus?”

“I know of it. Mercutio knows a few words.”

“Yes. Daro spoke it, with some fluency.” Volo folded his paws. “Her name… means Sun’s Warmth. And that’s all I felt, whenever I looked into her eyes.” He blinked, then did so again, and again. Markus glanced away, and in the corner of his vision saw the older wolf reach up to dab at his eyes. “And even if all of this falls through, if Her Excellency your mother strips me of my title and disbands House Thorn, that would be alright. Because some of my Daro’s sunlight shines through in our daughter. As long as Rhea is loved,” and he dipped his quill again, “then I will be happy. That is all I ask of you. Thank you, Markus.”

I am not the only one to fulfill this, the foxwolf thought, but bit his tongue. He inclined his head, paused there for a second, then continued on his way out. The cool pressure of the air in the hallway washed around him, the rich presence of powerful lupine suddenly sapping away somewhat, leaving him instead with the general aura of the rest of the manor house.

The scent of grief always dampened his mood. Like a weight tugging down at everything else, it clung tight about the shoulders of whoever felt it and spread out like a ribbon of oil through still water. Markus knew it well from his mother’s visits to the memorial within the hidden rear courtyard of the Oryon manor, a small, close space where she performed her own gardening, and that Markus was allowed but had not visited in some half a decade or so. Volo had come to terms with it, but he could tell on that scent that the older wolf still felt the loss just as keenly. Markus reached up, sighed, rubbed at the bridge of his snout…

“My lord?”

…felt his ears perk and tail twitch, and glanced aside to where Doren eyed him, paws held respectfully behind his back and tail resting around a leg. The cheetah tilted his head.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes. It’s…” He went back over the conversation again. “…Perfect, actually. Thank you. Say, would you – happen to know what will be served for dinner tonight?”

“Tonight? Well, lunch will be something with fresh hunted venison. I’m not serving in the kitchens today; I do not know outright. Dinner might be tartare, I think I heard?”

His ears flicked all the way up. “Really?”

“I believe so, but as always I could be wrong.”

“Well. That is perfect, then. Thank you, Doren.”

The cheetah risked a small smile, then bowed his head to hide it. “At your service, my lord.”

Markus nodded, then turned and swept down the hall back to the main annex. Everything’s turning out better than I had expected or even hoped, he thought: Lord Thorn accepts my rejection of the marriage and will handle the resolution with Mother. Rhea already has an established relationship and another path available to her – this should be the end of the ‘I’m doing this because I have to’ nonsense. And she’ll be happy. That’s wonderful. His tail wagged at the thought, then slowed as he tried to imagine what she might look like in the traditional healer’s robe and sash of the Church. So I can stop… distracting her, and I can get back to my own life, and continue what I was doing.

_ _

But… what was I doing? Where am I going next? What is it that I have waiting for me? Other than… well, Lura isn’t there anymore, is he? I can’t rely on that. Gods, I know Rhea now better than I ever knew him. I’ve spent more time with her, more of my thoughts, more of myself. And he’s gone; I just… left him. I ran away. I ran away and came here, without knowing or even thinking what it might do for me, just knowing that it was somewhere else, somewhere I wouldn’t have to think about what was happening with him.

There was that weight, hovering in, draping around his shoulders like a cloak woven of lead. He turned a corner.

I have only myself to blame. Everything’s coming to its resolution, and yet throughout it all I’m standing still, stagnant in place. He turned another corner. It’s… not fair. This isn’t what I deserve. It’s not fair, and I shouldn’t – then another corner, paws in his pockets, tail around one of his legs and swishing with each step.

Then he stopped, pawpads sinking into the thick carpet, ornamental tapestries billowing gently alongside him with the draft he had brought. The foxwolf blinked, tilted his head, wet his lips.

So what am I going to do about it, then? How will I resolve this?