Faolan had held Orfeus up and steadied her. Come to her aid. Surely, she wouldn’t … “She wouldn’t like that,” Orfeus said numbly. She felt far away, and strangely light.

“Not now,” Luga agreed. He stretched out his hands and held the sword balanced between it, resting lightly on the palms of his hands. “This is what I’m talking about, Fox, what you’ll need to learn. If my Wolf proves loyal enough to the Order to slaughter someone he’s lost his heart to, then perhaps loyalty can be his strength and not a weakness, and he can be a suitable Leader after all. If not, then you are proven the stronger and worthy heir. Either way the Order wins.”

Not a simple sparring match, then. Duels to the death over line of descent: she had walked too long through the dark and found herself somewhere ancient.

She didn’t want Faolan to be faced with that choice.

Orfeus didn’t want to be faced with this choice either, Luga calmly looking her down. She was hurt and she was tired. She just wanted to go lie down and curl up, and maybe be a follower for a while, instead of the one dictating the story. Tucking songs and plants into the corners. Making no one hate her, and burning nothing down.

“Faol’s better than you think,” Orfeus said. Luga stood there, sword in hands. Orfeus lifted her hands helplessly up from her knife hilts. “She saved me. He didn’t just not blood me, he kept me from killing. And he’d be better at this than you are, at least. He wouldn’t pointlessly kill!”

Not pointlessly, but still when he thought it was necessary, graceful as a dance and with less regret. It hurt to think of.

“You think so?” Luga said. “He’d make a bad Leader then.”

Faolan nearly worshipped this man. “Anyone would be better than you,” Orfeus bit out.

Luga stood unmoving, the sword gleaming gold. “If you believe that, then prove it. The Leadership is in your hands; simply take it.”

She couldn’t take her eyes off the blade and the brightness. “Not like this.”

But what else could she do? Run, and feel that sword sliding into her back or slicing through her heels. Try to dive for the baton and knock him out before he could—

“My Boarhound can be in here in a moment,” Luga said patiently. “I’m faster than you. My Wolf, too, has not fallen so far that he won’t come when I call. There’s nothing you can do.”

Faol had called them partners. Perhaps she’d fight by Orfeus’s side, when faced with the awful choice.

The choice between a singer he was enamoured with, or the man who’d raised him from a child and taught him all he knew of the world.