Then she shook her head to clear it and strode out into the light and away from him.

When Orfeus glanced into the Trial arena, it was empty and dark. She wondered if they’d scrubbed the blood from the floor yet.

The door next to it yielded a room nearly as large, with the same tough, springy floor. A set of bars up along one wall formed almost a ladder, and ropes hung from the ceiling, mannequins set up at the back: a training area, then.

Faol was here, beating the ever-living pulp out of a mannequin. Orfeus watched as Faol drew back his fist, claws gleaming, and sliced it cleanly through, a motion that Orfeus only saw through the afterstreaks of light the claws left behind. The mannequin’s head flopped off and rolled a little on the ground.

“Do you go through a lot of those?” Orfeus said. “That must draw on the Order’s resources.”

Faol didn’t turn around, but tension went into those thick shoulders. “It’s my luxury,” he said after a pause. Orfeus had actually been joking.

Of course. Some people had luxuries that were guitars, or cats, or fine embroidery. Faol? An endless supply of things to destroy.

“We all need hobbies,” Orfeus said. “Of course, most of us have hobbies that aren’t also our sole occupation and pastime as well as the place we live and the only people we spend time with, but, Faol, you do you. I respect that. Honestly.”

Faolan didn’t rise to the bait, just snicked her claws back into place and turned. She wasn’t wearing her armour, and seeing her in just a plain black tank top and short pants, her bare skin gleaming with sweat like she was a real human, was in some ways as startling as if she was seeing her naked. Faol all peeled out of her armour like a lobster, looking at her disapprovingly.

“You need more rest,” Faol said.

Orfeus flared out her cloak with her hands, smiling a little. “And yet.”

Faolan sighed, audible across the room. He prowled forward –and the motion was most certainly a prowl, even when in anyone else it would have just been a walk, or a saunter. Faol didn’t move except with purpose.

He walked past her and into a corner, where a shelf of towels sat next to a basin like the one in her room. There was a little walk-in cubicle for shyer folk, tiles and a drain on the floor below. He draped a towel around his waist and splashed water on his body. Orfeus took a careful step back to avoid the damp.

Faol ran the towel roughly over his skin, spiking his hair into tangles, then hung it on a hook. A little more civilised than she’d been expecting. “Alright,” he said.

Orfeus couldn’t help but grin. Faol sounded just as grimly despairing about this as she felt.