Orfeus glanced back at him, then nodded. She didn’t say anything else as they navigated through the twisting ratway of corridors.

Being quiet had its advantages. She heard the Shark say in a low tone, “Wolf, I know what you said back there, but are you sure? A lot of trees were burning.” The cheer in his voice sounded strained. “The Falcon’s going to have my head for letting my explosion get so out of hand, but… there’s still time to go help—”

The Wolf cut him off. “If the Leader orders it,” he said, in a tone sharp enough to cut the throat of any further conversation.

Orfeus glanced back at them to find Faol glaring a hole in her back. Same as usual then. She gave him a winsome shrug and innocent smile. Faol gritted his teeth and walked in front of her, so Orfeus was surrounded by hunters.

The Hyena laughed. Looking at her would mean turning her back on Faolan, but the back of Orfeus’s neck prickled unpleasantly at the sound of that laugh. “We’re the ones who decide what’s wrong and what’s right. Let them burn!”

Orfeus curled her hand into a fist, nails digging into her palm. She kept her silence.

They came out into a broad and open room, uncarpeted, with some kind of steel alloy underfoot and a few hatches in the ground.

At one end of the room stood a square, broad chair that looked like it had been torn from a cockpit, large enough for two people, but seating only one. It sat solidly atop a pile of what she would uncharitably describe as junk: old machine parts, taseguns missing their power cells, heavy links of chain.

In the chair sat someone in their late middle age, sitting with one hand on the armrest and one on the hilt of a long, long sword. They had long fair hair tied back sharply from their face, which was smeared with black as if someone had wiped an ink-stained hand across it. Beneath the paint, they had a sharp chin and thin brows and eyes that cut into the room like knives.

On one corner of the throne was hung what looked like some sort of crown made of twisted black antlers, and it caught Orfeus’s gaze. She looked back at the figure when they shifted slightly, legs crossing, hand going from their sword hilt to rest on one knee.

The Wolf strode forward and dropped to one knee before the throne. He made the motion look natural, easy, like he didn’t grudge it in the least. “Luga, sir,” he said. He held a hand out behind him, indicating her. “Orfeus.” She was obscurely offended that he didn’t say the singer. “She…wants to join the Order.”