Page 8

In the gray morning light of a too early sun, Orpheus stood alone with his reflection.

His robes fell like a second skin, a familiar mantle that clung to his shoulders and cinched at his waist, silver stitching glinting in the light, sigils empty of the magic they once summoned. The lie fit, in the way all good lies did, and he played the part well: master wizard returned from the dead, as dark and imposing as when he’d lurked in Lore’s shadow.

Now he was expected to walk in Fenrir’s light, and Orpheus already felt the fallacy unraveling his seams.

He needs help. Vera’s words had not left his mind, but the last time Orpheus had helped anyone, he’d nearly destroyed the world. You know it won’t be the same, if only for the fact that his magic was, simply put, gone.

Chewing his lip and tugging his sleeves over his wrists, Orpheus spun away from the mirror and abandoned the little room to its shadows, taking a moment to straighten his spine before stepping out onto the courtyard’s cobbles.

Outside, the Rawkner farm was long awake. Fenrir’s siblings speckled the far pasture, animals bleating excitedly for their morning feed. At the crest of the hill, the tractor loomed, already loaded with the crates of food Vera had prepared, an extra trailer hitched to the back, large enough for the family to ride in, the slatted sides built high to safely corral the children—like a cage awaiting its charge.

Within the shadow of the nearby stables, Nightmare snuffled loudly.

“Lookin’ good, Fifi,” drifted over the rattle of tack.

Much the same as Orpheus, Fenrir donned the memory of the man he’d once been. His familiar leather cuirass shone a deep auburn, scarred surface retooled into something close to new. A soft creamy linen that matched Vera’s apron had replaced his cotton shirt, the stitches hand-done with care, its collar fastidiously buttoned up to Fenrir’s chin and that—that was what compelled Orpheus closer.

“How can you breathe like that?” He reached for Fenrir’s collar and pushed the top button free. “There, that’s—better?”

Fenrir cracked a grin, eyes hooded with sleep—or lack of it.

“Thanks,” came out quietly.

“We can’t have people think you’re taking this too seriously.” Except then he noticed it: embossed into the leather of Fenrir’s cuirass, a brilliant royal blue shield struck through with a white sword.

An emblem—a mark—of the new reigning power that would replace Lore’s bleeding scar of a herald.

Orpheus went still rather than take a step back. “What is this?”

“It was Red’s idea but she” —Fenrir cut off but Orpheus didn’t look up. He stared at the shield, hands fisting so Fenrir wouldn’t see them shake— “I chose the sword and shield.”

Weakness struck, allowing in all the anxiety and fear and—and jealousy—he’d been fighting the last week.

“Why not a crown too?” he snarled, still not meeting Fenrir’s eyes.

Too much time passed before Fenrir spoke. “I’m not an Emperor, Orpheus.”

“Emperor, king, what’s the difference?”

“Well, we…voted, for one.”

Orpheus laughed, a wretched, scathing sound.

Fenrir's voice went soft—weak—desperate. “Wasn’t voting your idea?”

And it was. It had been. Coups were only as good as the power that filled the resulting vacuum, and who better to study up on the politics of their past than the person freshly without a life’s purpose? Orpheus had jumped at the chance to fill the hole losing his magic had created in his heart, but that didn’t mean he actually wanted any of this.

“It was a thought experiment! I never considered you would…” But that was a lie too, wasn’t it? After all, here they were amongst rolling fields thriving for the first time in centuries, all because of what he and Fenrir had achieved together.

Fenrir may have started this, but Orpheus had been an integral part of it. So why was he getting cold feet now?

“Why does it have to be you?”

Fenrir stared down at him because…who else was there? Who else, in this world of orphans and refugees, survivors and victims, could take up the mantle of power Lore had left behind? The obvious remained true: where a vacuum of power existed, another must take its place. Or else...

What? All hell would break loose, again?

It can’t, the voice inside sang, because you sealed it off alongside your—