The Boarhound blinked and smiled, looking sleepily amused. Everyone else was silent, still, stiff. Luga sat very still at this direct contradiction of his power. She hadn’t meant it as that, but bit back any quick covering babble, either. She looked up and met his eyes calmly, because no. She would not lose the simple little daisy earring. Not that too.

Was this it, the moment he’d show his fangs?

“Fine,” Luga said at last and flicked his hand with its blackened fingers. “But you’ll need to stick closer to your partner than usual.”

Orfeus cocked her head. “Partner?” she said. Hyena and Shark seemed to be a unit that worked together, and the Wolf meanwhile had hunted alone.

Luga looked over her shoulders. “As you’re less skilled in combat than many of our new recruits,” he said, “I shall pair you with our best.”

A low growl, barely audible, like a shaking in the ground. Orfeus grinned in dismay. So the Wolf would not be free of her yet.

“Be grateful for this chance, cub,” Luga said, and even though his eyes were not on her Orfeus felt another shiver at the ice in his tone.

Who was this man, that she should fear his opinion and wish to please him to avoid his wrath? Orfeus would bow her head whenever it helped her, but she was her own, her actions her own, beholden to no one.

Lately, she had done a piss poor job of it.

“I am, sire,” she said, and glanced up: he seemed surprised but not displeased.

Luga leaned forward. Eyes gleaming. Crowned all in antlers and sharp. “Welcome then, Fox, to the Vengeful Wild.”

After a moment he said, sounding puzzled, “Rise.”

Orfeus blinked and stood, and her pain swept over her screaming and blinding, pulsing in her head bright as a nova, and she slumped to the floor unconscious.

Orfeus woke up on a flat firm bed, someone half-familiar looming over her. She blinked her eyes shut against the pain of the light, reconfigured the world in her mind, and opened her eyes again. “Hello, Owl.”

They smiled down at her vaguely. The Owl looked different without their mask, but not as different as all that. They had scrubby brown hair in loose curls, and were dressed in long brown robes like a monk, not a healer. But this was definitely a med bay of a sort, no other bed was ever this specific sort of uncomfortable. “Fox,” the Owl said.

Orfeus’s lips twitched in an unwilling grin. There was something to that: to being acknowledged. A lot of old stories spoke about the brotherhood of battle.