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Orpheus made a quiet sound behind his gag. Fenrir, he thought, searching the wreckage and finding what remained of the stage. Where in all hells are you?

Atticus said nothing when he came to a stop beside Duluth who stared out over the same cursed scene from those strange, empty eyes. The Myrkur hadn’t shown any indication of a mind beyond the ability to obey commands, but here something stirred, like the blossom of a bud on an otherwise barren tree.

“She’ll catch up, buddy,” Serval said from somewhere Orpheus couldn’t see. “You know Daedra, I’m sure she’s simply enjoying her hunt.” The voice came closer, comfort abandoned for a caustic hiss. “Wanna know what her quarry is, little mage?”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to think—

“I don’t see her, and we’ve no time to wait,” Atticus confirmed. “Let’s ride.”

Past the farmlands the area north of the Gilded Palace was known for, they rode with a confidence that spoke of experience—or at least thorough planning. But where could they have possibly holed up all this time that not even Lore had found them? There were too many pieces that didn’t fit. Too many important details that never would have passed her by: Duluth, a hell beast of a man Orpheus had never seen the breed of before; Atticus, who wielded control with the kind of temperance that only came with decades of power; Serval, who harbored hatred like it was a personal vendetta Orpheus was responsible for.

And Gwen, with her magic. Magic that had, always, belonged solely to him.

When Aticus finally called for a rest, twilight had set fire to the horizon over a lush field of swaying grass. Pollen thickened the air, buds of pink and orange and brilliant blue flowers winking with each wave. It was beautiful. Life in a place where, for so long, it hadn’t existed. But Orpheus couldn’t care. He squeezed his broken fingers just to feel the pain, then welcomed the grapple of hands that roughly hauled him from the saddle and dropped him next to a barely kindled fire.

They replaced his ropes with iron. The cuff bit into his ankle alongside a chain heavy enough it took effort to move. Serval took his time hammering the stake through a link at the end while the rest of the camp divided up supper. Perfectly portioned plates were passed out, the white cloaks huddling close to the fire while they ate. Only Gwen was served a second helping—a fact clearly not lost on her when she sat alone opposite the fire from the rest of the group.

Orpheus chewed his bit when Duluth joined her and that Umbralcat promptly leaped into his lap. Duluth’s movements were strangely tactile when he scratched behind its ears.

“That’s good, Lou. Really good,” she said, softer than Orpheus expected, like this behavior was new and novel to the enormous Myrkur. As if in reward, Netherflame sputtered into her hand, a weak little wispy thing she handed to Duluth to cradle, moonlight limning them both silver against the backdrop of a clear star-filled night.

Orpheus looked away when Gwen caught him staring, the heat in his eyes reaching his cheeks, the hunger he fought unrelated to that in his belly.

It was Duluth who later fed Orpheus steamed carrots and some kind of stringy meat he couldn’t identify the taste of. Mushed up into a soggy paste he spooned through the gaps in his gag, Orpheus swallowed what he could and fought off the impression that this was its own kind of torture meant to wear him down. An impression that became inescapable when Duluth tipped a canteen into Orpheus’ perpetually open mouth and he choked on more than he swallowed, coughing well into the night while the crickets sang and the fire crackled.

He didn’t sleep, but that wasn’t new or strange. Orpheus was almost grateful, because he knew what shape his dreams would take, and he wasn’t ready to face them. Instead, he watched the horizon, waiting for the break in the darkness, the torch in the night that would mark Fenrir’s approach—rescue delayed a few hours but on its way. Fenrir would have to organize the recovery for the fairgrounds first. He’d seen the destruction. People had been hurt. And Fenrir would ensure Red had a plan in place before leaving her in charge to chase him down.

Orpheus wasn’t naive enough to think Fenrir would abandon everyone to ride off on a rescue mission without a plan. And a few hours’ delay wouldn’t make a difference. One man could travel far faster than a whole band of riders loaded down with a packed wagon.

All Orpheus had to do was wait.

Night ambled on, camp slumbering around him, voices drifting on the wind with each pass of the night watch. Orpheus focused on the western horizon, counting seconds to pass the time, then counting minutes. Any moment, he thought when an icy gust of wind cut through the weave of his robes. He’ll probably arrive right before dawn, because that’s when the camp would be most vulnerable, everyone still deeply asleep, the night watch comfortable from an eventless patrol. It’d be a quick raid, over before the fire even had a chance to smolder—an expert extraction because if Fenrir was anything, he was a professional, and he knew better than to bargain Orpheus’ life for the sake of the theatrics he typically favored.

Hours later, the stars began to dim in the pre-dawn light, and Orpheus watched the window of opportunity for his rescue close with the rising sun.

He didn’t come.

Sickness swelled in his gut, rising with a panic he hadn’t entirely felt during the numbness of the night because he’d thought—he’d hoped—but what if he wasn’t—

—Don’t be stupid, of course he’s coming. Something had simply gotten in Fenrir’s way: a delay with the recovery, or an issue with Nightmare. Maybe he was rendezvousing with the fleet to mobilize the army, Orpheus too important to risk with a solo mission. That wouldn’t stop Orpheus from giving him an earful of how unheroic it was to make his damsel wait once he did finally catch up, but it was a logical explanation for the delay, becoming more logical the longer Orpheus gave it some thought.

Camp woke with the dawn. No one said a word to him. Whatever poisonous animosity Serval harbored had been tempered by a cold night’s sleep. Orpheus watched him pack up his bedroll from across the fire, exhaustion dragging movements that, yesterday, had been thief-like quick. When Duluth appeared at his side to help him load his gear onto one of the pack horses, Orpheus’ curiosity peaked when he pulled a bright red apple from Serval’s bag.

Lit below by the fire, apple held out before him, Serval went completely stiff except for the hand trembling at his side.

“I wasn’t stealin’ or nothin’,” Serval hissed. Duluth didn’t react, he held the apple up until Serval snatched it and turned on his heel, taking a vicious bite and heading for the tall grass.

Interesting. Was an apple worth stealing? Was it considered stealing at all when the food had been stolen to begin with? Orpheus didn’t get the opportunity to consider the answer. He almost jumped when a leather medical bag clattered to the ground and someone touched his shoulder.

“Morning, my ill-fated mage. Do you want your fingers set?”

Atticus’ voice came low close to his ear.

Orpheus went very still.

“We don’t know each other well, and I’ll admit we probably won’t get the chance, but I am not a man without honor, so I present you with the first of several choices.”

If Orpheus wasn’t already staked to the ground, he would have crumpled.