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Aren’t you? That voice inside him wondered. Or was all that change just because of him?

A cold shiver crawled through Orpheus’ grief, truth gnashing ugly from the shadows within him. A truth born of survival, where benevolence was the privilege of the strong, rather than a weak little boy with only books to escape his pain. Where choice meant deciding between eating or his friend starving, killing or losing his soul to the brutality of a world that would use him, and strength came not from a sword or a pen, but the very ice in his veins.

And as his grief hardened into something strange, something different, something he’d known the frosty tenements of before, but never to such a degree that it made much sense—Orpheus wondered.

Beyond the gray smoke of the smothered fire, Netherflame crawled across a child’s palm, and Orpheus wondered if the world was worth the cost he’d paid if the one man who’d made it worth saving was dead.

And whether there was a way to take back the magic he’d given up if it wasn’t.

Chapter IX

Missing

From beneath the clouded pall of a deep dreamless sleep, a voice spoke.

Wake up.

Gray harrowed his edges, heavy like the weight that held him under. It felt like sleep, but he was too aware to be dreaming. Consciousness skimmed over him like a gossamer veil, teasing a light beyond the boggy nothing that cradled him. He wanted to open his eyes, but at the same time, the chance to sleep was a precious comfort. One he’d not always gotten when he’d needed it most. For so long, his soldiers had needed him to lead. To fight for them. To dance circles around Lore and draw her sights away from within and to the threats without. To stand steadfast as their guard while they rested. To lead their charge even when none of them knew exactly where they were headed.

To protect them, even if that meant Fenrir got very little sleep.

Wake up.

Protect them?

Wake up.

No, no. Not them. Him.

Wake up.

Orpheus. He needed to protect Orpheus.

Where was Orpheus?

Oh. Oh sh—

Light erupted, as blinding as a newborn star.

Fenrir gasped awake, blinking against the fire flooding his eyes. Like a piece of fractured glass, the world shimmered, the edges of his vision a dancing light, the air in his lungs cool and stinging. Sterile. Unnatural. Too pure to be anything real. Where in all hells was he? He blinked again, shadows emerging into shapes, a suggestion of a room and—he felt around and encountered a thin padding beneath his left hand. He palmed at it until he touched something smooth and long and rubbery that tugged uncomfortably at the crook of his arm.

Someone was saying something nearby, but he couldn’t hear over the beep-beep-beep of a strange, mechanical creature. It breathed like it was alive, timed to his own inhales as if together, they were one, until Fenrir became aware of a pressure sealed over his mouth—the source of that cold, sterile air.

His vision came to at the exact moment he tore a breathing mask from his face.

Orpheus. Where in all hells was Orpheus?

“Fifi—”

Red appeared at his side, soot-stained and hollow-eyed.

“Easy there, pal. Take it slowly. Don’t move just yet.”

The hands on his shoulders were cool, like Red had spent a long time out in the cold. Or was it that his skin was actually that hot? The world swam alongside his vision, the buzzy hum he thought was a machine coming from somewhere far deeper.

“Fenrir, lay back down, yeah?”

Red pushed at him, gently, incongruent to the rigidity in her voice.