The Leader paused at his work and looked up at her. The slightest smile drew up his thin lips, as devoid of warmth as the sky in winter. “If you’re ever in a position of power, you’ll need to think with more nuance,” he said, and she bristled. He drew the whetstone slowly over the blade. “No one who knows the game would be enough of a fool to make any move that only accomplishes one thing.”

Talking to him made her cold. She drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. At least Faolan was straightforward. “I see.”

“Work on your combat,” Luga said. “Watch and learn. Prove I made the right decision, when I didn’t just ask Hyena to kick you out into the sky.”

Another threat, and she knew he meant it, but there was something else. “You sound…” Orfeus said slowly. “Invested.”

“Hm. Here, with no one watching, I’ll say you have potential.” He rested his chin on one hand, watching her with that faint smile. “Better if my Wolf had carried out his duty, but if you had to survive, at least I can make the most of the opportunity. I’m familiar with your work, singer. Some of my hunters have passed around recordings.”

Orfeus blinked.

“So I knew you had some little ability with Blood, from your performance,” Luga said. “Besides. I quite liked it.”

“Oh?” Orfeus said, thrown again. “Thank you.” Overall she preferred patrons who didn’t carry swords.

“I enjoyed your mention of the Morrigan,” Luga continued, “who far too many people have forgotten.”

“Oh,” Orfeus said, brightening. “Yes.” She gestured. “And the crow queen washes clothes / In those long-forgotten groves… I had to dig deep into the archives at Eldergrove to even find which name to use, but it was worth it. In some stories there were three of her in one, which is why I made each verse three lines, of course—”

But someone among the Elders had taken her Blood secret as thieves in the night. She stopped short, stumbling into the memory.

“Of course,” Luga said, without seeming to notice. He undoubtedly had noticed. “Enjoyably creative. You’ll need more than a knack for rhymes to survive in my Order, however.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Orfeus said. He did not move, just sat there, smiling calmly. Too brusque. “Leader,” she added.

“Mind your tongue,” Luga said. He went back to sharpening his sword. Old-fashioned, primitive, and deadly sharp. “It would be a pity to kill you.”

Orfeus bit her lip, and bowed again instead of speaking.

She turned, walking back out into the corridor. After a few steps, another sound mingled with the shifting of metal and song of the wind: a whistle, off-key but recognisable, as Luga whistled the tune of her song.

She stopped dead in her tracks for a moment, shivering without knowing why.