“I’ll prepare her for the Trial,” he said, in his grim voice. He tugged her away, and Orfeus let herself be towed.

Before they quite cleared the room, Luga called, “Do better this time, I trust, whelp.” The quick grimace Faol gave at the name was the closest she’d seen him come to a smile.

Outside the door, the Hyena stretched and yawned. It wasn’t especially late, but maybe huge laughter-prone bounty hunters slept to a different schedule. The Shark said, “Good luck with that one,” nodding at Orfeus. He didn’t sound especially mocking: if Faol was in disgrace, either the others didn’t know or it was temporary.

“Nghh,” Faol said.

As soon as they had peeled off, Orfeus pitched her voice quiet and pleasant and said, “Let the hell go of me.”

He did.

She rubbed her arm, trying to hide her surprise. Faol walked a few metres and Orfeus strode to keep up. His legs were shorter but he ate up the ground surprisingly fast. Wolf. Sure. “Your dear leader didn’t seem very pleased with you.”

“It’ll pass,” Faolan said briefly. “He’s disappointed, but I can prove myself.”

“Really?” Orfeus said and stretched her arms behind her back. “He didn’t seem ready to be pleased.”

Faol stopped short at a dark corridor, and turned. He reached out a hand as if to grab her, then stopped, his hand hanging in the air between them. He snapped, “He leads fairly and well.”

Orfeus let out a long sigh, pressing her hand to her forehead. “Well, I’m sorry to have thought badly of your father figure.”

“He’s not—we’re not,” Faol said, “it’s not,” and he subsided.

He didn’t start walking again. Orfeus ventured forth, picking a direction at random. Faolan strode behind her after a moment, and walked down a different branch, jerking his head sharply. Orfeus fell in line.

She was finally able to see him properly from the strips of light set in the roof of the corridors, though some were flickering and some entirely absent. He was significantly shorter than her, but something in his posture, or maybe his absurd amount of muscles, made it feel like he loomed. He had a squared chin, with a short nose under the helm he still hadn’t taken off. His black hair hung in thin strands and could use a wash, but then she supposed he’d been caught in an explosion and hadn’t much chance to clean up.

As if he sensed her thoughts, he said, eyes on the corridor, “Do you need to wash?”

She was smeared in smoke, too. Like the debris of her colossal mistake clung to her, like she was seared by her sins, as painted and stained as Luga. “I’m fine.” She tugged fingers through her hair and shrugged. It wasn’t too knotted. “Hey, will I get some of that armour?”