"In open war with an honorable opponent, yes," said Wheatley, quick enough to reply that Domingo would have bet his last biscuit that Brother Wan had coached him on the topic. "The Cobalt Company is not a legal army, though, so wouldn't there be some wiggle room-"

"There's no fucking wiggle room in my tent," said Domingo curtly. "I am amazed you could locate the errata on rebel factions in the Crimson Codices, Wheatley, when you couldn't find your own fucking command at the Siege of Myura. How fortunate for us you were off digging latrines when every other ranking officer was caught by the Cobalts, otherwise we would have had to promote some grunt with actual military experience to the post!"

"I was overseeing the sapping operation," Wheatley said, having gone the color of Wan's naked gums as the anathema gnawed at a piece of sheep cheese, watching the two colonels. "Not digging latrines. And the colonel and lieutenants and other captains weren't captured. They say... they say they vanished."

"Spirited away, were they, maybe by ghosts or devils?" Wheatley was making this too easy for Domingo-it felt even better to be shaving parts of this boy off with his tongue than it would have to do so with his saber! "They were caught with their greaves unbuckled, Wheatley, not once, but twice-bad enough old lady Culpepper fell for the oldest trick in the songs, sending the whole Ninth out of Myura after an obvious decoy, but then she couldn't even take back her own fucking city. While you were down in the dirt trying to... trying to..." Domingo was trying not to laugh, "... trying to blow open your own colonel's castle, the Cobalts swooped in and butchered the whole command. They vanished, all right, into an unmarked grave somewhere off the road between here and Myura. Another old Cobalt trick-if the bodies of your enemies are never found, superstitious humps will start whispering about how they weren't killed, they'll say..." Domingo lowered his voice in a passable imitation of the lad, looked back and forth between the livid Colonel Wheatley and the frowning Brother Wan. "They say... they say they vanished."

To say that the silence that followed was awkward would be a bit like saying gangrene was unpleasant: accurate, but nowhere close to capturing the severity of the condition. Domingo watched the trembling, wide-eyed Wheatley very carefully, in case he pounced across the table to attack him with his fork. That's what Domingo would have done, if any of his peers had talked that way to him, even in his youth. Especially in his youth.

"As I said, I mistakenly believed you intended to use Her Grace's weapon because you brought the wagonload of oil all the way here from Diadem, and me along with it," said Brother Wan snottily. Domingo had never seen the witchborn so blatantly annoyed, which, considering the innumerable times he had baited the anathema, seemed yet another feather in Domingo's already many-plumed helm. "If you had refused her gift, I never would have raised the subject, because I never would have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, to say nothing of riding all over the Empire with you and your army."

"Good steel has a little bend in it, and so does a good colonel," said Domingo. "You are correct that I accepted the Black Pope's weapon, but I have changed my mind. I am allowed to do that. I would rather risk the lives of every soldier in this regiment by fighting the Cobalts fairly than risk their souls by using your devilish magic."

"After all of your lectures on the matter I assumed you didn't believe in an everlasting soul, Colonel," said Wan.

"See here," said Wheatley, "the Burnished Chain does not practice black magic!"

"One fellow's faith is another's heresy," said Hjortt, which didn't sound as clever as he'd thought once he said it, but no matter. He was in charge; he didn't have to be clever.

"There is no more powerful weapon than faith, Colonel-" Wheatley began.

"Codswallop! I've been hearing that line from loonies my whole life-faith is the strongest weapon, the truth is a weapon, blah blah blah. You hit me with your faith and I'll hit you with my fist and we'll see which one's a weapon!"

"Colonel Hjortt," Wan said with poorly contained frustration, "a great many of your soldiers have already asked my brethren if they will be permitted to receive the Burnished Chain's blessing before they see combat. If we could compromise, and I could anoint only those soldiers who request-"

"I don't give a quick fuck what they asked you for, Wan. A soldier will ask for enough beer to drink herself blind and enough cheese to constipate himself for a week, but that doesn't mean they should have it," said Domingo, winking at Wheatley. "Even without the Third coming over from Thao to cut the Cobalts off, between my regiment and Wheatley's we've got more than enough stiff fingers to pluck every blue pansy in the Company. The horse I sent after those Raniputri riders should rejoin us any day, and then, well! It will be a massacre, that's the only word for it-they may have devils and witches and who knows what else, but our combined forces outnumber them two to one. That's all that matters, when the horns blow, not the Black Pope's dread weapon of holy slime and fatuous prayers."

"Thank you for dinner, Colonel," said Wheatley, stiffly rising and dropping his napkin over his barely touched beans. "I think... I think I had better see if the squad I sent to check on that odd signal from the western scouts has returned."

"See that you do," said Domingo, leaning back in his chair rather than standing. Fuck Colonel Wheatley. "If it turns out one of your scouts dropped his rifle and alerted the whole bloody mountain range to our presence, have the blighter hanged. That will do wonders for your morale, believe you me, nobody in the Ninth will discharge their weapon without-"

But Wheatley had turned without a salute and all but dashed out of the tent. "Well, Colonel..." the witchborn said, refilling Domingo's glass. "If anointing the rank and file is out, I hope it is not too much of an imposition to ask that I bless our armies when the horns sound? Just a few quick words to-"

"It is too much to ask, Wan, it damn well is. No Chain nonsense where the Fifteenth is concerned, nor the Ninth, nor any regiment within a hundred leagues of me, and that's final. I won't have you waving your rosaries around and then thieving all the credit when my intense planning and our hardworking troops bring us to victory. The queen's extra-special holy oil gets to ride right back to Diadem, along with news of our honest win over the Cobalts," said Domingo, knocking his glass back in one lusty swallow. Smacking his lips, he dealt the finishing blow: "If you really must have a prayer for them, Wan, I do give you leave to skulk about the latrines blessing the sounding of their farts... But ask for nothing more, or risk my discipline."

The anathema looked like he might squirt a tear, or even better, lose his temper... why, Domingo might have pushed Wan into saying something truly stupid, in which case that horsewhip might get some use after all. And even if it didn't, well, the warmth in Domingo's belly proved that a good tongue-beating could be even more rewarding than the traditional kind. But as he set down his glass a heart-stopping howl tripped his hand, causing the goblet to topple and roll off the table. It wasn't the first howl heard that evening, but it was a damn bit closer than the last few had been.

"Just a coyote, nothing to be alarmed about?" Brother Wan echoed Domingo's words from before, to his profound irritation. It was a low, common sort of thing indeed, mimicking a man.

"Coyote my eye, no mangy hilldog would come so close to a bustling camp," said Domingo, drumming his fingers on the table as he considered the possibilities. First Wheatley's scouts on the western ridge and their mysterious single gunshot, and now this... He rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse me, brother, I intend to go see just what in the merry hells is going on out there. I can't expect much of Wheatley, obviously, but Captain Shea should have something to report about all this caterwauling."

"Of course, sir," said Brother Wan, rising as well and offering a sharp salute. What had Domingo done to deserve this, where the anathemas were better disciplined than his own officers? "Shall I accompany you, or will you have one of the war nuns?"

"Think I'm safe walking around my own bloody camp," said Domingo, though another, closer howl took some of the scorn out of his step as he left the tent, a hand on the hilt of his saber. There was quite a bit of commotion now, as he stepped out into the chill, torchlit evening. Soldiers rushed between the rows of tents, but without betraying any definite purpose. Several gunshots came from the western edge of camp, and then a whole volley went off, the rising walls of the high valley flashing with muzzle blasts. Shouts. Screams. Howls. The pair of war nuns to the left of the tent's entrance were evidencing far less alarm than the pair of burly pureborn soldiers Domingo had stationed on the right, but all four guards looked to him for insight into what was happening, or failing that, an order. "You there, stop, stop at once, damn you!"

The bedraggled squad staggering past the command tent was a rum lot, no doubt about that, but they halted at his command. Wheatley's people, without a doubt-not the lowliest pike lass in the Fifteenth would go around in such a shoddy state. One man was being clumsily carried by three of his comrades, and the other two women supported each other, smeared with blood and dirt from top to bottom, but seeing a little action was no excuse to let your uniforms flap around half-buttoned. "Just what in the yellow hells is happening?"

None of the bedraggled morons spoke at first, trading guilty looks, and then they all started blathering at once: "Wolves!"

"A whole pack!"

"Big as oxen!"

"Hot on our heels!"

"Enough!" shouted Domingo. "Who's got rank here?"

"Him," said all three of the soldiers carrying the big man with the bloodied leg, nodding at their human cargo. The man raised a drowsy head, saluted in Domingo's direction as best he could with two men holding him up by the shoulders, and slumped back into the arms of his fellows. Domingo recognized him at once, but couldn't place which squad of Wheatley's the man led... No matter, he wouldn't be standing at the front of the ranks when this mess was over, Domingo would see to that-this idiot was getting busted down to stable duty for dereliction of duty, failure to wear a uniform, and... and... something pawed at the back of Domingo's mind, something about this wounded squad leader...

"Begging your pardon, sir, but we need to get him to the sawbones-he's going to lose the leg as it is," said the younger of the two women leaning against one another. Domingo looked her full in the face now, then took a long, hard look at the other one, who was even stranger-her hood bulged out at the top, and beneath the cowl he made out white hair and a flash of red eyes. What the hell was Wheatley thinking, letting his witchborn wear normal cloaks instead of Chain robes? You needed to know at a glance whether someone was a normal soldier or an anathema, that was just common sense.

Another howl ripped at Domingo's nerves, from just the other side of the officers' tents, and he shooed the shirkers away without another thought. Between their maimed squad leader's ridiculous flattop and the white-haired anathema they'd be an easy enough bunch to locate for disciplinary action once things calmed down, but for now it sounded like the beasts had actually stormed his camp. He drew his saber and nodded at his four guards to accompany him on the hunt-he'd never heard of anything so absurd, a pack of wolves attacking- He froze, having taken only two steps toward the howl, the wounded squad shuffling off in the opposite direction. It wasn't that their parting salutes had been sloppy-that would have been typical for the Ninth Regiment-but not even Wheatley would have soldiers so poorly disciplined that half of them used their right bloody hands. Ill-fitting or missing uniforms. Furtive glances. Heading east when the sawbones' pavilion was north. Domingo was slipping, to have let it go this far, but he made up for the sloppiness with a burst of insight so keen it rattled him to the tips of his boots. That was where he had seen the squad leader. Unbelievable.

Pivoting on his heel, he walked leisurely after the squad. They weren't going anywhere, not laden down with their injured leader and their anathema limping along with the help of the young Ugrakari girl. Domingo's saber felt light as a baton as he closed the ground behind himself and the fleeing spies. "Oh, one more thing."

The squad lurched to a stop again, but not a one of them looked back to meet Domingo's eye. The Ugrakari called, "Yes, sir?"

"I wonder if you would be so good as to drop Captain Maroto on the ground for me, so I don't have to cut him out of your arms." Not bad, Domingo, though at his root he knew he could have done better, if he hadn't been caught so off guard by seeing one of his old nemeses here in his camp... Then, to his further amazement, the men and woman carrying the big man did as he ordered, dropping the so-called Devilskinner onto the trampled meadow grass of the camp.

The witchborn guards behind Domingo shouted in unison, and well they might, but Domingo had seen things that would make a dead man squirm, and he kept his cool even as the monstrous silhouette stepped around the far end of the command tent, cutting off the spies. They'd dropped Maroto because they had seen it first, and slowly drew weapons as the gargantuan horned wolf stalked toward them. This should be quite the show!

Still, he was close enough as it was, and he took a step back, bumping into one of his guards. When he glanced at the girl to tell her to buck up, he saw that she was gawping behind them. He followed her eyes just in time to catch a second horned wolf shooting out from a gap between the officers' tents, burying his bigger witchborn guard in a wave of furious white fur. The other witchborn darted in to help her friend, but even with the speed of devils she was no match for the horned wolf; it snapped its head around to meet her charge, the straightest of its three horns punching neatly through robes, the armor beneath, and into her stomach. It reared back on its hind legs, standing as tall as the tents as it pranced on the first witchborn it had tackled, kicking its front hooves at the impaled woman who hung limply from its horn. A solid shove of a splayed hoof and she slid off, falling through the roof of the command tent and bringing the canvas down around her as the creature dropped back onto all fours.

The horned wolf looked at its next victim, and Domingo looked into the face of death. Maroto's spies were wrong; it wasn't as big as an ox, it was bigger. His last two guards screamed for help as the behemoth took a wary step toward them, but their voices seemed remote to Domingo, as remote as the shouts of Brother Wan inside the collapsing tent, as distant as the clamoring behind him where the other horned wolf rendered Maroto's spies into offal. The only thing Domingo heard clearly was Efrain crying over the kitten his father had refused him, and then the monster charged.

What saved him was not the bravery of his guards, but their cowardice. The man and woman both tried to run but crashed into one another, limbs tangling, and, unable to resist the flurry of motion, the horned wolf careened into the pair. One of its horns speared through both the guards, but as the animal drew up short to dislodge the annoyance from its face, Domingo took a wide step around the side and stabbed it through the eye. It didn't matter if it was mortal, devil, or something in between; a distracted opponent was a dead opponent when Domingo had his saber in hand.

Except deep as his saber went, it didn't go far enough to kill it outright, apparently, for the monster reared away, wrenching his saber out of his hand and snapping his wrist in the process. Pulled to his knees by the momentum, he blinked in surprise, and before his eyes had reopened he felt a battering ram catch him in the left hip. He was in the air, pinwheels of torch and starlight all around him, and then he landed in a roll, extremities crunching and then going dead as he bounced along and finally slid to a stop. Only one eye would open, but as the world stopped reeling he saw the horned wolf that had headbutted him was crashing drunkenly through the tangled canvas of the collapsed command tent, Domingo's saber still jutting from its eye, both guards still caught on its horns. A faint slapping sound, and then another, and black blooms spread on either side of its blind eye. It died abruptly, and Domingo closed his eye and gave silent thanks to the Fifteenth, those brave children of Azgaroth who had saved their father, even when he had been unable to save his son.

"Oi!" A stick prodded at his aching chest, and he tried to sit up and assault his assailant, but barely managed to reopen his eye. He hadn't recognized the voice because he had only ever seen him across the battlefield and had never parleyed with the man during the long war, never spoken to him in peace. There could be no doubt, though, that he had remembered true: the man standing over him was Mighty Maroto, the Fifth Villain of the Cold Cobalt. Well, not standing so much as tottering on the walking stick he had poked Domingo with, the man's black-bandaged knee apparently not just a crafty disguise. "I know you, friend?"

"Yes... Colonel..." he managed through ribs that were surely broken, but then lost his air. He might never speak another word...

"Hmmm," said Maroto, biting his bottom lip as he stared down at Domingo. "Nope. Sorry, friend, I can't say I remember."

"Fifteenth Regiment, out of Azgaroth," said Domingo, clear as the lymph oozing out of him now that rage had overridden agony. After all the times they had matched wits during Cobalt Zosia's war on the Empire, this moron didn't even remember him?

"Ah!" Maroto brightened considerably, snapped his fingers. "At Ensiferum, right before Zosia snuck into Diadem and got Kaldruut with the old sneak-and-shank! You would have had us for sure, if Hoartrap hadn't-"

"Thirteenth," Domingo hissed through gritted teeth. "The Thirteenth met you at Ensiferum, not us. We fought at-"

"Got it loose!" The Ugrakari woman entered Domingo's narrow, black-speckled field of vision. She looked to be holding a huge, wet rug, blood dripping from it to patter against Domingo's cheek. Peering down at the name badge his sister-in-law had sewn on his breast pocket, she said, "Bad news, Colonel Hjortt-looks like the Cobalt Company just jacked your shit all up."

"We kind of did, I guess?" Maroto lowered his voice as he leaned closer to the prone Domingo. "Make sure the queen knows I didn't mean to, you know-"

"Time to go!" one of the other spies called.

"Past time!" said another, and, offering him a blood-handed wave, the Ugrakari trotted away.

"Sorry?" Maroto offered Domingo an apologetic smile. "Sure it'll come to me, where we met. Probably right after I leave, you know?"

"Now, Maroto!"

"Right, sure. Like I said, really sorry about this-Colonel Hjortt, was it? Won't forget again, promise."

Domingo shut his throbbing eye-he'd always thought he'd be ready to look head-on at his own demise, but ignoble as it had turned out to be, he wanted no part in it. Killed by a ravenous monster in the mountains, that he could have done... but the truth was he'd been murdered by the incompetence of his own soldiers, who had let a pack of overgrown devil dogs into his camp, and a crew of obvious spies in the bargain. And now, at the very end, he was to be executed by a man who didn't even remember him. He tried to think of his murdered son, tried to think of the wife who had left them both to become an ambassador to Usba, but all he could think about was how fucking terrible it was that he should come this far, only to...

"Colonel?" Hjortt cracked his eye, and immediately regretted it. He wouldn't live out the night, bashed-in as he felt, and now the last thing he would ever see was Brother Wan's grisly visage. The anathema swam in and out of focus. "Sir, I know it must be hard to speak, but who were those soldiers who saved you? Come what may, I know you'll want commendations for them."

"They're... dead." Domingo's tongue felt heavier than his eyelid. Stop them. Arrest them. Spies. But no more words would leave his mouth that night, nor for several days to come. When he finally returned to consciousness and found Brother Wan at his bedside, the long-delayed intelligence came streaming out.

"Did you stop them, Wan? Are they in chains? Maroto's spies?"

"Um..." Brother Wan didn't have to give more answer than that, and Domingo let out a protracted groan, the pain of his weakness in not clinging to consciousness a few moments longer overshadowing the throbbing aches that occupied most of his body. "Is there anything I can get you, Colonel?"

"Yes," said Domingo, trying to sit up and spasming instead. "Every drop of the Black Pope's poison. And if you've got any devils or spells, those as well. Call on your heathen god, call on the Deceiver, call on every power. We're going to use your weapon, Wan, and we're going to kill every Cobalt we can find, and we're not going to be nice about it."

CHAPTER.

10.

That Sullen boy. Damn. It wasn't just that Ji-hyeon could tell he was into her, if only a little. She wasn't as pathetic as that. Dozens of people had made passes at her, especially as her small band of mercenaries became a large one, and finally grew big enough to call themselves the Cobalt Company. Once there was a Cobalt Empire, she'd be beating them off with the blunt end of an ax, even her advisors. Especially her advisors.

She wasn't callow enough to think most of these advances arose from earnest interest in her mind, body, or soul, though suitors had called on every conceivable combination of the three. Any idiot could see she was no more than a year out from a decisive conquest of Samoth, and everyone knew if you took Samoth you took the Empire. What's more, she'd do it without any of that wandering-the-wilderness business of her spiritual predecessor. No, what it had taken Zosia half a decade to accomplish, Ji-hyeon would see completed in under two years, and without thousands of her followers starving in the process. Ji-hyeon's victory was inevitable, which surely had something to do with all these attempts on her love life-get in before she was queen, before she realized people were just after her for power. As if she were that stupid.

Sullen wasn't like that, but it was more than just his earnest attention that appealed. After all, some of the others had probably been genuine in their affection, too. In part it was his attitude, respectful but not overly so. Maybe it was just pig ignorance on the boy's part, as Fennec suggested every chance he could, but to Ji-hyeon it seemed... real, as though she'd actually impressed him without even trying. Well, maybe she'd been trying a little, because she was always on, it seemed, trying to astound everyone, trying to fill the greaves of a woman whose death had elevated her from leader to god. Yet those quiet afternoons when she had him alone in her tent, taking kaldi with the quiet barbarian, she actually felt like herself again-not like Zosia Returned, as Fennec and the rest wanted, and not like Princess Ji-hyeon Bong of Hwabun, Betrothed of Prince Byeong-gu of Othean, etcetera, as her first father had wanted, but just like... Ji-hyeon. She didn't like to think of it that way, but something in Sullen's sincere interest in her moods instead of her ambitions, in her past instead of her future, reminded her of how things could be... of what she'd had with Keun-ju.

Keun-ju. It almost didn't hurt to think of him now. Not that she was some moonstruck kid, hung up on the first boy to reach under her dress, but she had really loved him, and even now she caught herself daydreaming explanations for his duplicity, envisioning scenarios to explain his actions. It wasn't like Sullen had come along and all of a sudden Keun-ju was forgotten; anything but. She thought of Keun-ju more than ever now, and, strangest of all, Sullen encouraged her. When she had told him about their relationship, and how Keun-ju had betrayed Ji-hyeon to her first father, almost foiling her escape from Hwabun, he had nodded sympathetically and said: "That's bad. I've been bit by beasts, and I've been bit by... by loved ones, and loved ones bite worst. Sorry, Ji-hyeon."

Sorry, Ji-hyeon. Simple, heartfelt, and oh so welcome. They'd been talking over kaldi, and even as the bowl went cold in her cupped hands he hadn't pressed her for more or tried to talk everything better, the way Fennec would have. She couldn't wait for him to meet Choi-when the laconic met the terse, who knew what might go unsaid?

A week later, another report came back that Keun-ju still hadn't sent word. It was the same shitty news she had received each and every month since she'd first left Hwabun with only two of her three guards. It was the not knowing where he was or what had really happened that made the pain of missing him so much worse.

"Nah," said Sullen, when she imperfectly articulated all this to him. "Pain's good. It's how you know you've been stuck, but also how you know you'll heal. Only thing that doesn't hurt is being dead."

"You sure about that?" Ji-hyeon eyed him skeptically over her ryefire.

"Devils, I hope so," said Sullen, blowing out his cheeks. "If being dead hurts, I don't want no part of it."

So he was funny, in an effortless sort of way, on top of the rest. But there was something else, too, and if it made her a shallow person, well, she had been called worse. What it was, simply, was this: Sullen was damn easy on the eyes.

Tall wasn't always her thing, and lanky but tight-muscled could go either way, but combine all that with his rich, dark skin, wide, striking features, and that halo of shocking white hair? Spirits keep her in check. Then there were those eyes... they were closer to a cat's than a man's, with inky pupils arching all the way up the cornflower blue orbs, the sparkling brightness a pleasing contrast to his perpetually serious jaw line. He had his fair share of scars, and some more besides, his nose had been broken so many times it looked off-center, and his enormous puffball of hair could do with some shaping, but still: the boy looked damn good.

She almost kissed those velvety lips, too, the night of drunken nonsense, but then Fennec had burst in with more news on the small Raniputri force that had been dogging their cat, and so she was saved the conundrum of what to do after a first kiss. For now. Gods, devils, and spirits willing, she wouldn't be spared that puzzle for too much longer. When Hoartrap informed her that the Raniputri riders would catch up to their slowly marching company within a day or two, and that his devils told him Choi, Maroto, and his noble entourage were but a few days out themselves, she decided it was time. What Sullen would do when his uncle returned had been left unsaid, as had the particulars of both her rise to power and his quest for his uncle-for all the time they'd logged since he'd crashed her camp, they had yet to revisit the aborted topic of their first conversation. It was time for that, too. Definitely.

Well, maybe.

"Did you name her?" Sullen asked, watching Fellwing squirm her way around the nearby heap of Ji-hyeon's chainmail. The owlbat loved crawling across her armor, hooking tiny talons in the links.

"My father did," said Ji-hyeon. "She was his before she was mine. They all bound their devils together, I guess-Dad, your uncle, Fennec, Hoartrap, the chevaleresse, and Zosia."

"My uncle... has a devil?" It took little to arouse Sullen's curiosity but quite a bit to surprise him.

"Not anymore, or else he's good enough at hiding him to fool even Hoartrap. But they all captured the creatures together, before they captured Samoth." Fellwing landed on her arm as she spoke.

"Horned Wolves don't bind devils," said Sullen glumly. "Not supposed to, anyway."

"Nor do the Immaculate, as a rule," said Ji-hyeon. "The royal family have some, but most people still think it's disrespectful."

"That's one word for it," said Sullen. "Disrespectful. The Jackal People take slaves, other clans, too, but not the Horned Wolves."

"A devil's not the same as a slave," said Ji-hyeon, stroking Fellwing and summoning a throaty croak from her beak.

"Then set her free, and see if she stays," said Sullen, which pissed Ji-hyeon right off.

"Is a horse a slave, then? What about cattle, or other livestock? I don't intend to eat Fellwing, so I'd say she's doing better than most beasts."

"Huh," said Sullen. "You're right."

"Of course I am," said Ji-hyeon, pouring them more malty liquor.

"Horned Wolves raise cattle and fowl, and trade for mules. We don't call them that, but they're slaves, just as you said. Not so different from others, much as we like to pretend. We're as bad as the rest of you."

"Well, it's nice to hear Saint Sullen admit such a mortal weakness."

"What?" Sullen blinked at her. He could be thick sometimes, the same as anyone. "Oh. Ha, no. Yes. Didn't mean to be a jerk. I'm bad, too, Ji-hyeon. Most people are, I guess. I've broken the laws of my clan. Killed one of my own people. Did everything wrong, and all because I was trying to do right. It's not easy, doing good."

It was hard to imagine the gentle, earnest man sitting across from her attacking anyone, let alone a fellow Horned Wolf. But he'd done something to come by those scars, and that white hair of his. Much as she liked him as an enigma, it was long past time she heard his tale. But that meant she had to go first.

"I've talked your ear off about Keun-ju, but you've never asked why I ran away from home, about what came before or after."

Sullen fidgeted on his cushion, knocked back his drink with a grimace. "Yeah... Sorry. I'd like to hear, I would, but didn't want to push you. I hate being pushed. Love Grandfather, but he's pushy, and much as I want to be like him some ways, that ain't one of 'em."

"Oh hells, I wasn't complaining! Quite the contrary," said Ji-hyeon, brushing Fellwing off her. The devil flitted over to Sullen, and he stuck out a finger for her to perch on. She'd never seen her owlbat land on anyone else, and like everything else in this world, that could probably be an omen. "I would call you many things, Sullen, but not pushy. You'd really like to hear?"

"Definitely," said the man, offering a sugarcube to the devil on his finger.