““I’ll forgive you for saving my life just this once,” Orfeus said. She wished she could sit up: exhaustion had seeped deep in her bones, but she wanted to be up, moving, doing something, running ahead of her thoughts. “Shockingly enough, after being beaten to a pulp by all of you, I don’t take such minor violations as personally as I might.”

The Owl leaned against the cabinet and cleared their throat. “Speaking of which, sorry about the darts,” they said.

“Mm?” So they were that shadowy figure, throwing the darts which hit her back. “I didn’t really notice.”

The Owl drew out an excessively long needle and primed it. “For the pain?” they suggested.

Orfeus eyed it. “I have remedies,” she said, not mentioning that she wouldn’t be stupid enough to chew down on willow bark when she had this many open wounds. She could handle pain, and she could heal it: her mind was the master here, not her body.

A shadow loomed, a prickle in her back. Orfeus rolled her eyes towards the door as Faolan shouldered through it. “Push your body too far and it’ll fail you,” she said. “This, I know.”

“Thank you, because of course I asked,” Orfeus said.

Faolan looked at the Owl, exchanging some communication perhaps, but no words. Faolan didn’t seem one for words. She looked over to the side, as well. Orfeus craned up to see what Faol was looking at. There were five or six empty beds, and one where the Ocelot lay. She was unconscious but breathing, her chest lifting and falling, alive.

Orfeus hadn’t killed anyone. Not on purpose. Not yet.

Faolan stood in the doorway another moment, looking at her. Orfeus met her eyes as challengingly as she could while prone in a bed. She wished Owl had left her damn shirt on.

“We shall begin our work tomorrow,” Faol said, and left the room again.

The work, yes. Orfeus lay still, trying to let her body heal and trying not to think at the same time. The Owl hummed to themself off-key as they washed their hands again, surgically thorough. No one here had hands that were clean. She was a hunter of the Wild now.

Chapter Eight

The wild hunt ride on horses fleet-flying, borne by the clouds. King Arawn - or was it Herne the Hunter? Well, the king leads them, flanked by his hounds, white-bodied and red-eared. They’ll steal you away into Faerie; but not if you wear iron at your neck, and guard your true name.

- An old folktale, as told by Basma of Hollyhock

Her room was small and dark, but adequate. If the ringing quiet in the place indicated anything, she had woken up early. She had time to herself. Dammit.