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A roar strangled free, thin and panicked, resistance manifesting in the shaking bones that comprised its unholy skeleton. But Orpheus did not back down. To his will—to his intent—the Netherflame burning through the Prometheus’ veins was his to command, the Prometheus no more than a puppet. A tool for him to use. A weapon for him to wield. Their eyes held, Orpheus’ stinging with tears, the Prometheus’ two churning voids, locked force for force in a contest of wills, a contest Orpheus won when finger by finger the Prometheus’ fist unclenched and Fenrir…Fenrir tumbled free.

Wind streaked tears down his cheeks, the distance between him and Fenrir closing in an impossible blink. In a strange trade of roles, it was Orpheus who caught Fenrir. Orpheus who was the savior. Orpheus who dragged Fenrir close and then refused to let go, face buried in his hair and words whispering on his breath. Soft, gentle, comforting words that he’d learned firsthand could heal as well as any medicine, and that he got to use them now felt good. It felt right. It felt like, despite all he’d done and those he’d hurt, there was still a chance—hope, Fenrir would call it—for something better. For him. For Sanctuary. For this hells-forsaken world to finally be fixed.

“Fifi,” breathed into his ear on a raw laugh, “Did you just save me?”

“Shut up, Rawkner.” He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t.

They careened towards the center of the square where the chasm bubbled widest, Orpheus throwing up a weak shield spell that shattered instantly upon impact. They skidded to a stop atop the rough stone on the far side of the chasm, and Fenrir’s crushing weight would have been welcomed at any other time, but the hot slick of a leaking wound only left room for panic.

Orpheus found the shard of blade, fingers prodding around the place where it lodged into the meaty muscle at the back of his shoulder.

“Is that—all hells, Fenrir.”

“I’ll live,” he gasped, reaching up to push Orpheus’ fingers away, then grabbing the shard and ripping it free. “Didn’t get anything important.” Six inches of Fenrir’s broken sword skittered across the obsidian, blood leaking steadily, the wound small but alarmingly deep. “Orpheus, were you flying?”

“Something like that...” Orpheus wished desperately that his magic could heal, but he’d seen what had become of those he’d touched with raw Netherflame before. Something inside him had changed but he wouldn’t risk finding out what on Fenrir. “If only I could heal.”

“No time for that anyway.” Fenrir’s eyes lifted to something behind Orpheus. “Fight’s not over yet, Fifi.”

Fenrir grabbed his wrist and dragged them both to their feet just as the obsidian beneath their boots began to tremble. The Prometheus wrenched at the chain around its neck, the icy links shattering in a cascade of burning ice while the hold Orpheus had on its Netherflame extinguished. Fatigue hit him like a punch, the pulsing beat of his own blood warm once again, feverish compared to how cold he’d just been, and he staggered with it, hand flying to press hard into his chest. Fenrir caught him before he could fall.

“You alright?”

“I—ah—may have overdone it a bit.”

Fenrir snorted, like that wasn’t already enormously obvious. “You’re burning up,” Fenrir said, hands moving over Orpheus, from his shoulders to his neck to his cheeks and then his wrists. His hold was gentle, the stroke of his thumbs slow. Steady. Orpheus smothered the urge to fling himself into Fenrir’s arms and beg him to take them away. Far, far away. “Can you still fight?”

“I can fight,” wasn’t exactly convincing but the reality was that he didn’t have much of a choice. Not when the alternative was dying here, and running away only meant buying some time before the Prometheus or Atticus or any number of new potential enemies he’d made in the last few weeks came after him. He could push himself harder. Hells knew he had to, considering… “Fenrir, do you have another sword?”

Fenrir blinked, then cursed. “All hells, never had one break on me before, not that it was doing much good…”

But it had been something—better than the nothing Fenrir currently had to fight with. Orpheus looked around but only the little shard of broken blade lay forgotten atop the obsidian, any weapons Sanctuary’s denizens may have carried either taken with them or lost to the chasm. Not even the Iro knife remained, though Orpheus wasn’t sure it’d do much good against the Prometheus anyway.

But Fenrir needed something to fight with. Orpheus sucked in a breath and tried to think, the wall of fatigue he came up against refusing to move no matter how hard he pushed against it. Maybe that was why he didn’t hear it at first—let alone see them—the dozens of soldiers who came charging into the square.

Soldiers. Empire soldiers. With Red and Farris at their head.

“We’re ready to fight with you, sir,” Farris greeted in a rush, the soldiers at his back numbering in the dozens rather than the several hundred there should have been. A sour taste rose in the back of Orpheus’ throat, guilt hunching his shoulders beside soldiers who would throw their chance at survival away to support their general-turned-king. Soldiers Orpheus had slaughtered days ago. Who now glanced at him not with respect or suspicion, but fear.

Orpheus turned away just as Red said, “Tell us what you need, Fenrir.”

“I need you all to keep yourselves safe.” Maybe it was the honesty of what he asked, an honesty in direct opposition of the promise Fenrir had made and then broken, but the soldiers laughed, and then they jeered.

“He’s finally gone soft!”

“What are you talking about, he’s always been soft!”

“That’s just his hair, Captain!”

“Oh? What do you know about the General’s hair, Lieutenant?”

“Only what your mom told me, sir!”

“Hey now, that was my wife—”

The voices faded, Orpheus limping to the edge of the chasm to stare the Prometheus down, its steps slowed, its movements cautious. And while the soldiers continued to joke through a tension that refused to break, Orpheus saw them.

White cloaks snapping in the wind. Serval, Duluth, Atticus, Gwen and…