haunted dog central

The Palace of the Bull of the Sun was an artistic marvel. 

Sat upon a hill overlooking the Oasis, with the main palace just over half a day’s ride away, it was comprised of glittering white marble that shone under the Goldsea light, carved only from the finest rock, with high columns supporting open air walkways. It was two stories tall, with plenty of outlets into the sky, and where there wasn’t a doorway, there was most certainly a window to allow in the light and wind carried off the sea. It was full of rooms meant for lounging in the mild weather, packed full of art and cushions and any manner of wealth and comfort. 

It was also notable for its courtyards and gardens. They were painstakingly maintained by florists and gardeners from all over Loria, keeping the plants at the peak of their brilliance— selecting them carefully for color, for smell, for hardiness. One couldn’t walk thirty feet inside the palace without smelling the gentle perfume of a prospering flower, brought all the way to Goldsea. 

However, the palace got its name from one thing: at the very crest of the roof sat a massive copper bull — growing pale green with exposure — that twice a day, as the sun rose and set, perfectly framed the ball of fire as the sky cast the palace in rich shades of pink and orange. 

Of course, with a name like “The Palace of the Bull of the Sun,” it had gained nicknames. As far as Achilles knew, the most common was much simpler: the Palace of Love. 

Achilles liked that name very much. The entire place had been a gift to Patroclus for their first anniversary, a grand declaration for all to see. He knew that his beloved husband had never gotten used to the bustle of the main palace, of the constant push and pull of his attention. Even after he had given up Weaving, Patroclus was still keenly intelligent and excellent at planning and mediation, and he had quickly worked his way into Phoenix’s closest advisory council, and it seemed that poor Patroclus was always run ragged. 

As such, Achilles had had their home built a good distance away: close enough to reach in case of emergency, but far enough that everyone would finally leave him and Patroclus alone. 

Of course, that was only the first grand gift he had given Patroclus, but it was the one Achilles became famous for. 

The Palace of Love, in every minute detail, was built for Patroclus. 

It had been Achilles’ most nightmarish secret to keep from him, what was being built a little ways over on the hill with the view of everything. Achilles had spent all of his free time working with the designers on every choice. The rooms all had doors that could be easily locked with just a claw. The plants had been chosen by his knowledge of Patroclus’ preferences (he liked mild smells that let him scent the world around him beneath the sweetness) and then placed in perfectly manicured gardens, as Patroclus preferred bedrooms beside the courtyards crowded with greenery. He had libraries full of books in all manner of topics. Achilles had felt all of the fabrics that were chosen for the cushions and blankets, vetting out what made it inside. Every servant was someone Achilles personally knew and trusted. Most importantly, he had made sure to have a space dedicated to all of Patroclus’ hobbies: namely, at the moment, knitting. Achilles’ closet was now a rainbow of scarves and sweaters and cloaks that he wore with pride. He even had a plush doll made in the likeness of himself. 

Patroclus had been overwhelmed when Achilles had presented him with the palace. He still remembered his face, stricken with shock, claw pressed to his heart. 

“What… what is this?”

“Our home! It’s built for you, love,” he had said, grin slipping as Patroclus had continued to stare at the grand building with that same dumbfounded expression. 

Achilles stopped wagging his tail when Patroclus put his face in his wings. 

“Patroclus..?”

“I only got you a necklace!” he wailed. 

The memory was funny now. But this had not been the last time Achilles had taken his love declarations perhaps just a teensy bit too far. 

What was strange, though, was that Patroclus was not in his usual spots, nor had anyone else seen him since breakfast. This annoyed Achilles greatly; he’d been back at the main palace for a week, but Patroclus had stayed behind, and Achilles was antsy to situate himself far too closely into Patroclus’ personal space. 

In Patroclus’ knitting room, instead of his dear, beloved husband, he found Recluse who, finding himself out of a job as a weaving loom, had also taken up knitting. The wooden spider sat on Patroclus’ favorite cushion with two toothpicks as needles, making itself a set of socks out of old twine and unwound yarn. 

Achilles approached it, tapping its back with a claw. “Where’s Pat?” he asked, long over the ridiculousness of asking a toy spider questions. 

Recluse set down its needles, making a series of motions that Achilles translated to outside, in the flower field. 

Of course, Achilles had been stupid not to check there first. He left Recluse to its task, trotting quickly to the nearest exit. 

The Sea of Elysium was Achilles’ other great declaration of love. He did that one for Patroclus’ birthday. 

The Sea wasn’t actually a sea, but instead a field of flowers that, when viewed from the top of the Palace of Love, extended as far as the eye could see, only stopping when it touched sand or crept down a hill. It was composed entirely of Nosorrow— a tiny, hardy powder blue flower that grew in clusters, with four soft, heart-shaped petals. It was traditionally a wedding flower, as no one could accuse Achilles of subtlety. 

As he bounded out into the meadow, he caught sight of Patroclus almost immediately. He was lying in his favorite spot, a patch that was just out of sight from the main entrances to the palace. He rested there so often the flowers had begun to shy away from the spot. Achilles would have to have a tree planted there, just so that Patroclus could rest in its shade. As he got closer, he saw his husband was reading, gently turning the pages with a claw. 

Achilles flopped down as soon as he reached Patroclus. “Whatcha reading about?”

He beamed, closing the book. Achilles would never grow tired of that smile. “You’re home.”

Achilles leaned forward, pressing his nose to Patroclus’. “Of course I’m home. You know I can’t stay away from you for long.”

Patroclus huffed a laugh, but didn’t move. “You’re absolutely ridiculous. How is everything?”

Achilles pulled away, grumbling and putting his head on his paws and looking away. 

“Not well, then. Your nose is red.”

That made him startle. He glared at Patroclus. “What does that mean?”

His husband just chuckled. “Your nose turns red when something annoys you, or you’ve been running around too long.”

Achilles huffed, indignant. “My nose is a delightful shade of pink and you know it.”

Patroclus pressed in closer, and now his tail was wagging, slow, like it surprised itself by moving. It disrupted the flowers around them. From here, Achilles could already smell how the trampled blooms had begun to perfume Patroclus’ fur, adding to his warm, earthy smell. 

“Your nose is delightful, and I love it as much as I love the rest of you,” he said, placing a gentle lick right on the tip of Achilles’ nose. “But it is currently more red than pink. It looks like a cherry.”

Achilles loved his husband more than life itself, but he could not let such slander as calling his nose a cherry slide. So he did what any self respecting wolf does, and lunged for Patroclus’ ears, nipping and yelping like a puppy as they rolled in the flowers, stirring up petals and catching blooms in their fur. 

Eventually, when Achilles came out victorious through his own mighty prowess, and certainly not because Patroclus told him he loved him and acquiesced, he settled happily, laying on top of Patroclus’ outspread wing, resting his head against the other’s chest. 

“Seriously, how did things go?” Achilles could more feel Patroclus talking than hear him. 

“There’s an embassy coming in from Icerun. Father wants both of us to speak to them, so we need to return by the full moon,” Achilles said. 

That embassy could go to Chaos for all Achilles cared. He could guess what they were after. A massive family up north was in shambles, as their alpha had been killed and had not named any of her children as heir. Now, the four were going to war to decide it. Pointless, the whole mess of it, and Achilles wasn’t interested in fighting a foreign battle anyhow, and certainly not a pointless one. 

He felt Patroclus tense beneath him. “An embassy? Who?”

Achilles flicked his ear. “Can’t remember their name, but the warring family, you know the one. They’re sending some princess or another. I’ll hear them out to keep the peace, but we’re not going anywhere. I have everything I want right here.” 

He buried his nose in Patroclus’ fur. He had started keeping it clipped short around his body, but longer and thicker around his chest and shoulders. Achilles was quite fond of shoving his face into the downy softness. He heaved a sigh. 

Patroclus, though, was still tense, so Achilles nosed at his muzzle. “I know you’re scared, but I promise you, everything is alright. We’re okay, and it’s gonna stay that way.”

Achilles knew it was hard on Patroclus, not looking into the future. He was such a worrier, especially when it came to Achilles. But he meant it; he wasn’t going anywhere. 

That future was never going to come to pass. 

Patroclus nuzzled him back. “I believe you, darling.”

He was still tense, but that would have to do. Sometimes, there was nothing to do to calm Patroclus’ nerves but give it time and distraction. 

Achilles stood, nosing at Patroclus’ ears. “Come inside. I wanna take a nap and drink something cool. I’m getting warm out here.” He wasn’t, but it was as good an excuse as any, and he did want to sleep in his own nest, preferably accompanied by his husband. 

Patroclus, as always, was happy to oblige. 

——

Patroclus sprints through the darkness, chasing after the light in the far distance. No matter how fast he runs, no matter how his lungs scream and his heart threatens to burst, it only gets further away. 

“Patroclus!” He knows its voice. He recognizes it, but he can’t place why. He knows it intrinsically. 

He flaps his wings faster, straining against the black air that tangles him in it like a snare, pulling him back, keeping him from catching that ball of light. Nonetheless, he pushes forward. Something terrible is going to happen. He must catch the sunlight before it does. He can’t come to understand what terrible thing it is he’s trying to prevent. 

After a gaping, oozing eternity, Patroclus makes headway, almost reaching the light. He gives one last push of his wings—

And fetches up with a gag at a set of bars. They aren’t solid, though. Instead, they’re as wispy as smoke, sickly sweet in scent, but as strong as steel. 

From outside his cage, Patroclus spots… a rabbit. No, not a rabbit, a hare— eyes glinting red in the low light, with fur as pastel and soft as the sun through the clouds. It sits atop a throne of fungi and rotting logs, and it smokes a cigar. Upon its head is a silver crown, made to look as if its composed of thin, delicate leaves. 

As the hare puffs its cigar, the air fills with shapes: a lion with a mane shaped like the sun, a group of thirteen songbirds, a set of outstretched claws. 

“What’s the matter?” the hare asks him. “Been a while, hasn’t it? You’re rusty, old Spider.”

When Patroclus opens his mouth to speak, only black smoke pours out, stinging his eyes and obscuring his vision further. 

The hare puffs its cigar again, and from the end forms a massive, six-winged owl. 

“You need to wake up, Patroclus. You’ll miss the tea party,” it says, as the owl, talons extended, flies towards Patroclus’ face. 

Patroclus came to with a gasp, pulling his claws away from the loom, which clicked to a resolute stop. Hung from it was another tapestry, just like the other two from the past nights. 

This one depicted a bronze owl with stark blue eyes. It had six wings, and in its claws were an ax and a blank page. It felt mocking. 

With a great puff of air, Recluse transformed, dislodging the tapestry. Patroclus carefully picked it up, moving it to the nearby table. From the bottom of his supply chest, he dug out the two others.  

Patroclus didn’t know why he was doing this. All he knew is he went to sleep just fine, snuggled up next to Achilles, and then he woke from his nightmares to a new tapestry on the loom. Something dire must be about to happen, if the Spinner had ended their stalemate and forcefully pulled his mind to the Web through his dreams. 

Laid out beside each other, the three tapestries had nothing in common: the new one of the owl, a hare wearing a crown of smoke and leaves, and again — that damn haunting image — the lion catching the sun. 

Recluse crept up on his shoulder, tapping Patroclus to get his attention, before making a series of gestures. 

“I… I know I should tell him, Recluse. But I made a promise, and I don’t want him to worry. I— I just need to figure this out, and it’ll go away. It has to,” he replied. 

The spider just shifted, and Patroclus knew that if it could, Recluse would’ve glared at him. Instead, its shiny onyx eyes reflected fragments of his own troubled face back. 

Patroclus sighed. “You know I can’t just—“

“… Pat? Where are you?”

Quickly, Patroclus shoved the tapestries back into the trunk, slamming the lid and locking it. 

He couldn’t do this to Achilles. He couldn’t ruin what they had built for themselves here. Patroclus wouldn’t let it happen. 

“I’m coming, love! I’m just looking for an extra blanket.”

Achilles found him just as Patroclus had finished bandaging his leg with the remains of his ruined robes. Patroclus didn’t hear him — Achilles walked silently, every step carefully placed — but he would know him anywhere: in the dark, in a crowded room, even in death. 

Achilles sat down beside him on the hard stone of the courtyard. They were all supposed to dance there, before the night had gone to hell. All of the lanterns were still lit, hanging from the greenery and columns. Patroclus could see him out of the corner of his eye. Achilles’ nose had stopped bleeding, but the claw marks were still angry and red. Patroclus thought it might scar. Achilles, too, was wearing his ruined, bloody chiton. He had washed his paws, at least, and he held something in a box between them. 

Achilles cleared his throat, opening up the box. “I’m not much of a medic, but I think I can at least restitch your leg, if you’ll let me.”

There once was a wolf who loved the earth but chased the sun. 

Patroclus offered his leg. He still didn’t say anything as Achilles removed his hastily done bandages. 

Achilles hissed when he saw the damage. Patroclus had already seen it. He doubted that it would ever heal right, that he would ever walk without a pronounced limp again. It was a small price to pay, he supposed. After all, Aster wouldn’t, either. 

Patroclus felt manic laughter bubbling up and shoved it back down. He didn’t feel very okay, not at all. 

“Patroclus? Hey, you there?”

He was as fast as the moon and stars, and one day, he came very close to catching it. 

Patroclus forced himself to nod, to look Achilles in his eyes. A part of himself calmed when there was that same kindness he had known from before. He found that he had needed to see it, to make sure that no matter what cruelty Achilles was capable of, he could come back to himself. 

“I— I’m so sorry, for everything. For lying, for… for running away. For— for this.” He didn’t have to elaborate. “But something just came over me. I— I couldn’t even stop myself. He was hurting you.” 

A long beat of silence passed. Patroclus barely felt the needle or the sting of himself being pieced back together. He trusted Achilles. He trusted him to put him together and to tear him apart. It didn’t much matter to Patroclus. He supposed there wasn’t much of a difference. 

Below, all the creatures cheered him on, but the earth knew it was a doomed quest, and cried, for its words could not reach the wolf, high in the sky as he was. 

When Achilles spoke again, his voice shook. “… you aren’t afraid of me, are you?”

That shook Patroclus a little more awake. “Never. I could never fear you, Achilles.”

Achilles searched his eyes, and seemed satisfied with what he saw there. “Good. That’s… that’s good.”

Again, that silence. Even the breeze had settled, like it was waiting for something. They had only the screaming of the night insects, far off in the distance. If Patroclus listened hard enough, he could hear wolves speaking inside the palace. He couldn’t care less. 

“I— I know this is probably the absolute worst time to say this, Pat, but I don’t think I can live with myself if I don’t say something now—“

As the wolf sank his teeth into the sun’s surface, he caught fire and fell all the way back down, blazing like a star as he went and struck down in a bed of yarrow and black clay.

“— But I meant it. I am in love with you, and that scared me. It scared me so bad. I’ve never felt the way I feel about you—“

The earth covered his broken body with mountains and rivers, and never again loved anything that walked its surface.

“— and maybe this is too soon, or you’ll think I’m crazy for even saying this. Hell, I think maybe I am, saying this after I just… just cut off a guy’s paws, but…”

Patroclus prayed to the Creator who he knew didn’t care about him for Achilles to stop. 

“But I would like to spend my life with you. If you’ll have me. For real, this time. M-maybe not right now, obviously! I know this is sudden and crazy and—“

“I can’t marry you, Achilles. Ever.” 

Patroclus wasn’t looking at him anymore, but he could feel Achilles’ heart crack. It made him hate himself, more than a little bit. 

“What?” He sounded so small. 

“I’m supposed to kill you,” Patroclus said. His voice was hollow, tinny. He felt like he was underwater. 

“Patroclus, what are you talking about? You saved my life.” Achilles sounded confused and more than a little distressed. 

“That was that time, but— but the Spinner’s will isn’t always good. It isn’t always what I want. You remember what I told you, about my first vision? That’s my sacred mission. It always has been from the start. I’m supposed to make sure you die, and you die in the way the Spinner wants and I— I…”

Patroclus stared down at his wings, thought of all the threads he had pulled and changed and snipped in pursuit of this awful, horrible mission he had been set on. He knew that the Creators could be cruel. He knew that their wills expanded far past his own, but it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to do this to Patroclus. It wasn’t fair to let him have everything he ever wanted — to love and be loved — and to ask him to give it all up willingly, with a smile on his face. 

His vision was blurry; he couldn’t breathe.

He felt himself break. 

“I don’t want to do this anymore!” he sobbed. 

Patroclus was dying, he thought. This was what it felt like to die. Maybe he was actually bleeding out on the floor on the stage, back inside, and was only imagining the freedom of the beautiful open skies and plains as a death mirage. Maybe Aster had actually ripped his throat out. It couldn’t hurt much worse than this. Somehow, he ended up flat on his back, with his wings spread-eagled. The stars wheeled above him, dim from the light of the lanterns. They looked like his threads who never showed him the future he wanted. 

How could you do this to me? he screamed in his mind. There was no answer. There was never an answer. Above him, the stars twinkled. He felt mocked. 

His head was being cushioned, and something tickled across his cheeks and his ears, sticking his fur up in all manner of wild directions. It took him a moment to realize Achilles was licking him methodically: gently across his cheek, the back of his ears, occasionally just above his eyebrow. It felt… nice— the rhythm, the way he could predict each motion and the feel of it. Slowly, his chest stopped heaving, and the stars stopped circling, sitting in place. His eyes were still watery, and he brushed at them with his still glittery green claw. 

“There you are,” Achilles said. He flopped his head against Patroclus’ shoulder so that Patroclus had to crane his neck to look down at him. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Patroclus huffed a strangled laugh. His eyes hurt now. “I’m sorry for that.”

“Don’t you dare apologize to me for having a panic attack. It’s not your fault.”

Patroclus didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. He just looked up at the unfeeling stars again, where his Creator watched him. They were probably disgusted with him. 

It hit him suddenly that he didn’t think he much cared. 

“I totally get it if you don’t wanna talk about what just happened, but… you realize you aren’t the only one who gets to decide, right?” Achilles said. “Even if I’m supposed to die, and you’re supposed to be some scary, evil warden of death, and there’s nothing anyone can do to change that, then I should still get a say. I’d much rather it be you taking me there than to live without you because you think you’re some irredeemable monster.”

That struck Patroclus like a bolt of lightning. He sat up, displacing Achilles’ head and instead turning fully to look at him. “You mean that?”

“Well, I mean… you said yourself that futures can change. I just think it would suck if you did all of this, and I still died anyway.”

The gears in Patroclus’ mind turned. The future could change. And… and maybe if the Fatespinner lost their acting hand, maybe then it would turn around. 

Maybe Patroclus didn’t have to do this anymore at all. 

“I think… I think I’m done,” he said. “Yeah. I think I’m through.”

“… with us? Because you really could’ve cut me off if you were just gonna still gonna say no—“

“No, no, Achilles. I’m done with Fate. I’m done with Weaving. If they want you to die, then they’ll have to find someone else to keep their blasted webs straight. I think I’m perfectly fine to live not knowing what the next day will bring.”

Patroclus, with a great deal of effort, heaved himself to his feet. His body hurt all over, like the night was catching up with him. The courtyard sat on top of a hill overlooking the oasis, where the trading ships came and went. The water rippled gently below, reflecting the light of the moons. The breeze of the sea wafted salt into his nose, ruffling his fur. He pulled on his pendant until the chain snapped. 

He looked down at the paw sized stone, carved with its lion head. 

You want sacrifice? he thought venomously. I’ll show you my damn sacrifice. 

With all of his strength, he hurled the stone as far as it would go, and he turned away. He never saw if it made it to the sea. He didn’t care. 

Patroclus turned back to Achilles, who was watching him closely, some unnameable emotion in his eyes. “You may very well still die, but I’ll be with you until the very end. I swear it on my life.” 

“You didn’t have to do all that,” Achilles said softly. Now it looked like he might cry. 

Patroclus stepped closer, wrapping a wing around Achilles’ shoulder and burying his nose in the salt-sweet smell of his fur. “No, but I wanted to.”

There had been a wire tightening around Patroclus’ neck from the moment he was born, silvery and deadly. He had grown accustomed to the snare over the years, how it made him bleed and crushed at his windpipe. It had almost felt like a friend. 

He didn’t know how nice it felt to breathe freely. 

I think I’m in love with you. 

The prince thought he was in love with Patroclus. And he ran from him. He ran away, like the thought of loving him was the worst thing that could’ve ever happened to him. 

I think I’m in love with you. 

Patroclus didn’t think he was in love with Achilles. Unfortunately, Patroclus knew he was, and that was why watching Achilles call him his fiancé had hurt Patroclus’ heart so badly. He had thought Achilles cruel for that, but this… this was worse. 

Because now Achilles was avoiding him. 

Patroclus could feel him like a ghost, orbiting around wherever he went, but never in view. He was always conveniently training when Patroclus went to breakfast, or he was in a meeting with the court when the Weaver tried to find him, or he had already retired for the night by dinner. Patroclus knew it was all fabricated to keep away from him, but what could he do about it?

So instead, Patroclus planned. 

Strangely, although the Four Seasons ceremony was only days away, it was still hazy in his visions; he only got snippets of images, but it was like catching minnows with his paws for even those tiny fragments. He hadn’t been lying when he told Achilles that the prince had a habit of disrupting his visions. He could tell something big would happen, something that would have massive ripples down the line, but he couldn’t tell what. 

A ceremonial sword, a set of outstretched paws, a snarling maw, lips pulled back in rage, a bloodied crown. 

He looked down at the fabric he was clutching. Recluse leaned over his shoulder, studying his handiwork. 

It depicted a bull, its horns glistening wetly and a pointed crown of thorns lying in a twisted heap at its feet. The animal’s nose was bloody, and the guide ring it had worn was tossed to the ground. Patroclus didn’t like it, whatever it meant. 

“I don’t think this party is going to go well, friend,” he told Recluse. It let out a sad, defeated metallic whine and creaked uneasily on his shoulder. Patroclus felt much the same. 

Patroclus had also been acting as a go-between for Hawkmoth and Phoenix. The assassin had agreed to testify against Aster in exchange for her exile to the far outreaches of Goldsea, rather than an execution. That part of his plan, at least, was going swimmingly.

Achilles would be upset that Patroclus had actually followed through on his promise to make sure she was freed, but he wasn’t around, was he? 

Thinking of Achilles only made his heart hurt, but he couldn’t bring himself to go and try to find him again. If there was one thing Achilles was good at, it was running, and if there was one thing Patroclus was good at, it was pretending that nothing was wrong. 

But eventually, Achilles couldn’t run anymore. On the evening of the ceremony, Patroclus was dressed in traditional wedding garb— a long, somewhat fitted tunic of black fabric, detailed in gold and accented around the collar and train with dyed feather plumes that itched terribly. Even though Achilles had been lying, the family had decided it best to fully lean into the “engagement” until after the ceremony, so the servants who dressed him flitted around like birds, giggling about how excited he must be, asking him details about the wedding, saying how lucky he was. 

“They’ve been trying to get the prince to agree to marry for years!” said the lead stylist, as she lined his eyes with gold glitter. “You must be really something special. Now, we just need to find someone for the princess, see.”

Patroclus just laughed nervously, then sneezed when she brushed the same powder across his nose. 

Another stylist was painting his claws with a glittery paint. “The prince was awfully nervous when we were getting him ready,” they said lightly. “I’ve never seen him not marvel over his own reflection, so you better tell him how handsome he looks tonight multiple times.”

Patroclus didn’t tell them that he was probably nervous for a million other reasons, including but not limited to the fact that he fake-proposed to Patroclus, told him that he was in love with him, and then has spent the entire past week running away. 

“Of course. I can’t wait to see him,” he said instead. It wasn’t a lie. He did need to see Achilles, but his stomach churned at the thought. What would he even say? Would Achilles tell Patroclus that he regretted it, that he said it in the heat of the moment? Probably. That would only hurt worse. 

After an eternity of being poked and prodded, powdered and preened, Patroclus was finally released from the clutches of the royal stylists. When he looked at his reflection in the surface of the bronze mirror, he nearly couldn’t recognize himself. The wolf in the mirror stood tall, the long unruly mane that ran along his spine freshly clipped and gelled. He was adorned in earrings made of fine gold chains, and he wore gauntlet-like bracelets studded with emeralds. His clawtips were painted forest green and glittered as they caught the light. Oh, but those eyes were certainly his: solemn, and just a little bit afraid. 

Finally, when he could delay it no longer, he walked to Achilles’ rooms like he was going to the gallows. He rapped gently on the door with his claws, and when Achilles opened the door, Patroclus couldn’t stifle his giggle. 

Achilles wore a robe much like his own, but of a pale gold fabric inlaid with black designs. However, unlike Patroclus’ robe, Achilles’ had a high collar of peacock feathers that framed his head like foliage. He wore all manner of bright jewels, and his crown sat squarely on his head, polished to a gleaming shine. 

Achilles flattened his ears. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. You’re the one wearing a feather dress,” he grumbled, stepping aside to let him inside. 

As soon as Patroclus shut the door, he got a further look at Achilles’ outfit. His robe was shorter, missing the long trailing end that dragged the floor, and it seemed that he had fully ripped the sleeves off of it. At his hip sat a ceremonial sword, shining silver and green in the light. 

Patroclus’ mind flashed back to his vision: the same sword, edged in blood. Recluse, who was nestled hidden in between his shoulders shivered, like it could feel his unease. 

“Achilles, be prepared for violence,” he said, before he could stop himself. He gestured to the sword. “I saw that in my vision. You may have to use it.”

Achilles’ expression immediately soured, but he nodded grimly. “Is it bad?”

“I wish I could say. I’ve woven the same web six times in as many days, and things are still unclear. Whatever happens today is a turning point, I think, into something greater.”

The prince huffed a laugh. “Of course, it is. Because that’s what me and you need, huh? To completely mess up the future.”

Patroclus smiled, but his lips were tight. 

“Is there anything else I should know?“

“Hawkmoth will be making an appearance. She’s agreed to testify against Aster tonight.”

Again, Achilles nodded. “I figured.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Achilles shifted uneasily on his paws. 

“Patroclus, I—“ he began, but was cut off by a knock at the door. 

Thetis nosed her way in. She, too, was dressed opulently, but not nearly as gaudily as they were. “Achilles, we’re waiting on you. Hurry the sap show up.”

Patroclus cleared his throat, thankful for the interruption. Achilles looked frustrated. 

“Shall we?” Patroclus asked, outstretching his wingtip to the prince. He took it gratefully, and Patroclus tried to ignore how it settled his nerves. 

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the fanfare. 

Their announcement as they entered was met with raucous applause, and Patroclus kept a tight smile plastered to his face the entire evening as droves of wolves in costumes just as ridiculous as his own came up to him, congratulating him, complimenting him, and in several cases, passive aggressively insulting him. Achilles seemed more at ease, greeting every newcomer with a smile and a warm comment, but when he happened to catch Patroclus’ eye, he could see the exhaustion in them. He flashed the Volmyr a tired grin once the onslaught had ended. 

As they took their seats at the high table reserved for the family and their closest advisors, he leaned over to Achilles. “You know, I expected a lot more puppies here. It’s a Four Seasons ceremony, you know, for a puppy.”

It was true, little Amalthea seemed to be the only pup present here, which felt strange. The Four Seasons ceremony was meant to celebrate a pup’s first full year, and was meant to be filled with all their favorite things. Amalthea, sitting at the head of the table with her parents, just looked bored and sleepy. He would be too, if he were her. This party was full of adults who would, sooner rather than later, be drunker than skunks. 

Achilles just laughed. “She’ll get her real party on her actual birthday— this is just for show, honestly. All they’re gonna do is present her formally, she’ll get her first crown, we all cheer, and then she gets to go to bed. Next week she’ll get a big party where she can eat sweets and run around until she drops.”

Patroclus nodded, looking around the vast, opulent party until he spotted uncanny silver fur. Aster was sitting at a table with his two companions and a group of what appeared to be noblemen’ children: young but growing into their own. They were all laughing at something the Weaver had said, but it was what he wore that made Patroclus’ blood freeze. 

A crown of iron, twisted into thorny spines. 

Slowly, Patroclus reached up, offering his wing to Recluse, who crawled out of his collar. 

“Bud, go get me that crown,” he whispered. He knew that it would be bad if Aster made it to the stage with that thing. 

The little wooden spider saluted, hopping down and skittering sneakily between the table legs. 

When Patroclus looked back, Achilles was staring at him, mouth agape. 

Patroclus chuckled, shrugging sheepishly. “I told you it’s magic.”

“You didn’t tell me it was sentient—“

The prince was cut off by a sharp howl as Phoenix stood. It was time for the actual ceremony. 

Achilles, Thetis, and Patroclus remained seated as they went through crowning Amalthea and naming her as one of the princesses of the Anthills. Amalthea just squirmed uncomfortably, trying to get back to the table with her nanny and siblings. She was promptly taken to her rooms; it was far past her bedtime. 

As the party went on, with food and wine being served and wolves coming up to speak with him, Patroclus grew more antsy. When was Aster going to speak?

He felt a tug at his robe, and he looked down. 

Recluse was dragging a metal ring behind it, looking up at Patroclus expectantly. 

“You brilliant little spider!” he whisper-shouted, offering Recluse his claw for a paw-bump. The spider danced around happily. 

Achilles reached down, taking the crown off the floor, looking at Patroclus quizzically. 

“That, my prince, is what our dear Weaver chose to wear tonight,” he said. 

Achilles snarled, lips pulling back to reveal his razor sharp teeth. “He’ll pay for that one in his blood,” he snapped. “I’ll—“

Just then, Aster was escorted to the stage, and all eyes turned to the charlatan. 

“Greetings, fine wolves of the Anthills!“ he boomed, voice loud even over the din of the quieting crowd. “I am Aster, hailing from the Tapestry of the Birdeater, on the far flanks of this fine territory—“

Patroclus leaned in. “… I don’t sound like that, do I?”

Achilles whispered back. “If you did, I would’ve ran you off all the way to Icerun by now.”

Patroclus laughed, and tried his best to listen to Aster’s spiel. It felt like hours dragged on, and he could feel his eyes glazing over. 

“— by your fine king and queen to use my divine appointment to predict the future for our fine couple to be!”

Oh, Patroclus must’ve really zoned out. 

Nonetheless, he smiled, waving awkwardly to the clapping crowd. This was his own personal hell; how did Achilles do this all the time???

They wheeled out a fine lyre to Aster. It was inset with gold, crafted with master hands— undoubtedly from the royal treasury. And then he began to play. 

Patroclus had to admit, his skill was unmatched. Even he, knowing that he should be watching him for even more proof to call out his lies, was enthralled. The high, tragic music echoed out across the enraptured hall, dancing along the eaves and pulling in everyone who listened. Achilles leaned forward, just a bit, ensnared by the song. 

Still, Patroclus forced himself to pay attention. He had known Weavers whose Looms were musical, knew the way their paws moved as if possessed, the way they played music that reflected what they saw— rising and falling in alignment with the Spinner’s vision. Aster, though, didn’t play in that fervent manner. He played like a skilled musician, dedicated to his craft, but intimately familiar with the tune he played. If he was Seeing, then he looked entirely different doing so than any Weaver Patroclus had ever known. 

As Aster’s song wound down, the audience seemed to shake themselves back into awareness, the spell the song had cast dissipating. 

Aster bowed his head, a mockery of submission. “I have conferred with the Spinner and what they have planned.” He turned his attention to Achilles and Patroclus. “They have written for you a long, happy life filled with gentility.” Then, he had the audacity to wink. “And lots of heirs, should you so see it fit.”

Patroclus couldn’t help himself. 

He laughed. 

Because he had read his and Achilles’ futures a thousand times, and never was it long or gentle. Happy, certainly, as they had each other, but their life together was simply full of strife and cruelty. No choice could ever change that. And the line about heirs was preposterous. Only in the far, far distance had Patroclus ever seen them with a pup — just one, a son — and those futures… he had hardly been able to see them. It had been like swimming through tar to even catch a glimpse. He didn’t think it was ever likely that they would have one. 

Even from a distance, he saw Aster’s eyes narrow at him. Everyone in the crowd had turned to him, questioning. 

Patroclus stood, making towards the stage and attempting to hide his limp. Achilles rose as well, following behind. 

“You give a good show, Aster of the Birdeaters, I will give you that,” Patroclus said, stalking closer. “But the Fatespinner did not bestow those visions upon you.”

Aster’s face twitched, but his showman’s smile never failed. “Your… grace, I assure you that I did. Do you really not allow yourself to believe in your own happiness?” He looked behind him to Achilles, who wasn’t smiling. “Your beloved fiancé is quite the downer, prince.” He laughed awkwardly, and Patroclus saw how he edged closer to the end of the stage. 

It was Achilles who spoke next. “If you’d really spoken to your Creator, then maybe they would’ve told you it’s in poor taste to wear a crown to a princess’ coronation.” He tossed the iron crown at Aster’s feet. 

The crowd tittered, muttering to themselves. Aster snarled. “How did you—?!”

“It matters not. What matters, Aster of the Birdeaters, is you have lied in the name of our god, and worse, tried to use that lie for your own gain,” Patroclus said, simmering with rage. He motioned for the guard, and watched as Hawkmoth edged in. 

Aster wasn’t paying attention, though. “… our?”

“I am Patroclus of the Widow, son of Merit and the chosen of the Fatespinner. I know what you have done, Aster. The Spinner sent me to make sure you didn’t disrupt her plans with your lying greed.”

Suddenly, it seemed that Aster’s mind began to turn, looking back and forth between Achilles and Patroclus, before glancing down to the Volmyr’s still injured leg. His ears went flat, and he took another step back as he put the pieces together. 

“You have no proof,” he said quietly, his voice wavering. 

The crowd’s whispers got louder as Hawkmoth stepped onto the stage, still in her chains. 

Achilles jerked his chin to her. “Tell them. Tell them what you told us.”

Hawkmoth looked to Aster coolly, then to the audience. “This wolf is your would-be prince killer.” The audience gasped, and the horrified whispers turned to an angry roar. Still, the assassin spoke louder. “He is the one who hired me to kill your prince. He is the one who looked to tear down your pack from the inside.”

Aster looked into the audience, pleadingly towards the back. Patroclus followed his eyes, and saw as Aegean and Devious skittered out of the room, making a break while they still could. But Patroclus wasn’t finished with him. 

“I know why your Loom doesn’t speak to you; you make the Spinner sick.”

It seemed that was what finally broke Aster, because Patroclus saw as his eyes alit with a burning hatred—

And then he pounced, slamming hard into Patroclus’ chest and knocking him off balance. His teeth and claws tore at Patroclus’ robes as he tried to sink his jaws into the Volmyr’s throat. His claws dug into the arrow wound, ripping it open, but in an adrenaline fueled haze, Patroclus barely felt it as he tried desperately to get the upper hand. At some point, the room had began to desperately clear out, fleeing the violence.

Patroclus heard Achilles call for him and saw briefly as he latched on to Aster’s scruff, throwing him to the ground. The silver wolf let out a snarl and lashed out with his front paws at Achilles’ face. Achilles stumbled back, bringing his own paw to his nose. Patroclus watched as it came away red. Three jagged, oozing claw marks dripped blood down his muzzle. 

The look in Achilles’ eyes wasn’t one Patroclus had ever seen before, and it made his blood run cold. His eyes burned with fury, but there was something manic in them, something predatory and so beyond. Patroclus didn’t even have time to react before Aster screamed. He knew that the sound would be burned into his mind forever. 

Achilles stood over the other wolf, who howled in agony. In one of his paws, Achilles held the ceremonial sword that had been at his hip, and in his other… he held paws. Silvery, bloodied paws. 

When Achilles spoke, his voice was hollow, dangerous. He addressed those left in the room, who had gone dead silent in horror. “Let this be a warning to anyone else who thinks to raise a paw against myself or those that I love. You may just find yourself without them.”

Patroclus dragged himself laboriously to his feet, gasping for breath. The stitches in his leg had been ripped open, blood was soaking the ruined hem of his robe, and he was covered in new scratches. Achilles turned to him, and that horrifying anger flickered out into something gentler. He thought it might be concern. A medic had come in and was dragging poor, doomed Aster away from them. The entire room had emptied. Patroclus knew that the Crown would be playing damage control for months. 

Achilles dropped his sword with a clatter, walking up to Patroclus. He brought his paw, soaked with both his blood and Aster’s near Patroclus’ cheek, hovering instead of touching him. 

“Are you alright?” It was the gentleness in his voice that broke Patroclus. How he managed it after a display of such brutality, he didn’t know. 

Because this is what you are together, a voice in his mind whispered. This is what your life together will always be: stolen kindness in a sea of blood. 

Patroclus stepped back. He felt faint. 

“Patroclus?” he sounded hurt. Patroclus didn’t want him to sound hurt, wanted to tell him that he wasn’t afraid of him, but he just couldn’t. He didn’t want to be here anymore. He couldn’t stand the acrid tang of iron in the air any longer. 

“So you want us to invite the ones who attempted to kill our son here?”

Patroclus held up a placating wing to Phoenix. “If you would like, I will search every future forwards and backwards, but they won’t make such a move again. It’s power they’re after. Killing the prince was meant to make you afraid, and get him out of the way—“

Achilles interjected, “—because they knew I wouldn’t believe them—“

Patroclus nodded. “Then, when they came waltzing in, claiming they knew a way to make sure this never happened again, they would worm their way into your good graces and use their Sight as an excuse to get you to do as they pleased.”

Achilles watched as his father sighed, rubbing at his forehead, ears flat. At his feet, little Amalthea sat, flopped on the ground and staring very intensely at Patroclus. To his father’s left, Thetis eyed the Weaver as well. 

“And how do we know that this isn’t your plan?” she asked. “Worm your way into my brother’s good graces—“ Achilles heard the implication dripping off the words, and he bared his teeth at her, “— and whisper in his ear what you want done?”

Patroclus opened his mouth to defend himself, and Achilles cut him off. “He hasn’t asked me to do anything that wasn’t my idea, Thetis,” he hissed. Achilles didn’t know who slammed her tail in a door, but he wasn’t having it today. “But—“

Patroclus cut him off. “I swear it on Luana and Elius both that I have no ill intent. And even if I did, I haven’t tried to kill anyone. The Weavers who planned this did, though. And I would see them brought to justice, just as you. They’ve blighted not only your family, but the name of the Spinner, as well.”

Achilles continued to glare at Thetis, not appeased. But he was the bigger person. He was. He could move on with the conversation. He could be helpful. 

“I think we should put out a summons, pretending we’re all scared and need new guidance, and when they show up, expose everything we know in front of everyone,” he said. 

Phoenix frowned. “But how are we to know if they’re really the perpetrators, and not someone else looking for an opportunity for power, and jumping at the chance?” 

Patroclus bowed his head. “I am certain that they will be the first to answer the summons, but I can see what my loom tells me. I imagine the Spinner is just as angry at their indiscretion.”

Phoenix nodded; he looked tired of this conversation. “It will be done, Weaver. But know this: if your plan goes awry, it’ll be your head I’m coming for first.”

Patroclus trembled a little, and Achilles felt himself flush hot with anger. He was helping them! But Pat simply bowed his head again, acquiescent. “Of course. I will begin my Weavings immediately.” 

Pat turned, leaving the throne room, but Achilles didn’t immediately follow him. He whirled on his father. “You can’t speak to him like that! Did you forget that he saved my life?”

His father looked dumbfounded. “And for all we know it could be a plot. He could be working with them. Listen, son, I know he’s caught your eye—“

Achilles stood up, defensive. “That doesn’t matter! He flew in from Murkwood, father. Through a hurricane— he had a head injury from debris! You really think he was involved in some… some plot from a fringe Goldsea insurrectionist group?!”

“We just don’t know much about him, Achilles, that’s all I’m saying—“

“— Oh, Achilles knows plenty about him,” Thetis said lightly, but there was pure evil in her eyes. “He slept in the Weaver’s room last night. In his bed, according to the servants.”

Achilles was going to kill her. He was going to kill her dead. 

“Because he has a bum leg!!!” Achilles shrieked, hackles raised. He was furious. “I didn’t even do anything! He’s my friend, and he asked for my help!”

“Define ‘help,’ because that seems a lot more friendly than ‘helping’—“

“Enough!!!” Phoenix roared, slamming his paw down and making Amalthea yelp. Achilles and Thetis went silent, snapping their jaws shut. “Achilles, I don’t like that you’re sniffing around him so much, but you’re an adult. I don’t care what fancies you take to. Just don’t lose your head. And you, Thetis, quit antagonizing your brother. He’s got a hot enough head as is.”

His father sighed, long and deep. He looked so, so much older than he actually was, like his twins’ bickering was stealing the life out of him. He turned back to Achilles. “You and that Weaver of yours have until Amalthea’s Four Seasons celebration to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who did this. I don’t want any of the rest of my family in mortal danger. Now both of you, get out, and for the Creators’ sake, leave each other alone.” 

Phoenix picked up Amalthea, who immediately wailed, demanding to go with Achilles to see “the big bird.” Achilles would’ve found it endearing, if he hadn’t been so furious. He snarled at Thetis before marching out the main door. 

He swung open the doors, expecting to stomp his way all the way to the Volmyr’s rooms. Instead, all he saw was Patroclus sitting in the hall, hunched in embarrassment. 

Achilles cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I, uh… you heard that?”

Patroclus nodded. 

“… I’m sorry.”

Patroclus nodded again. 

“Listen, I don’t care what anyone thinks, okay?” Achilles said, shoving down his anger. “We’re sticking together. We’re friends now.”

Yeah… yeah, they were friends now. 

Friends who took arrows for each other and snuggled in the same nest. In a friendly way. Like friends do. 

Oh Creators, Thetis had a point. 

Maybe they were a little more than just friendly.

Achilles shoved that thought far, far into the back of his brain, reserved to be agonized over when he tried to sleep at night. 

Instead, he nosed at Patroclus’ neck. “C’mon, let’s go back. You can do your weird knitting, and I’ll order us lunch. We’ve got a mystery to solve.”

And if during their mystery solving, Achilles decided to take a very warm and very cozy nap in definitely-not-his-own-bed, it was to spite Thetis. That was all. 

——

The morons took less than three days to respond to the royal summons. 

Patroclus had seen their names in his visions — a group (or Tapestry, as he had called them) called the Birdeaters — and had seen that they would fall for the trap and come to answer the royal call. He said that, then, his visions had gotten hazy. 

When Achilles had asked what that meant, Patroclus had simply shrugged. “It means that part of the future isn’t very certain. There’s still too many pathways and choices to be made.” He had smiled, then, and looked at Achilles with a fondness that made his heart hurt. “And reading anything with you involved gets tricky, sometimes. You’re very unpredictable, Achilles.”

Now, a week later, he, Patroclus, Thetis, and his parents waited in the receiving room. Achilles fidgeted with his paws, turning a ring on his dewclaw around over and over, making the gold catch the light. He had worn his finest crown and was draped in a light robe. 

They wouldn’t let him have his sword. Admittedly, it was probably for the best. 

To his right sat Patroclus. He leaned closer to the Weaver. 

“So what does this weirdo look like?”

Patroclus — who wore a fine forest green tunic that brought out the richness in his eyes, but strangely, had forgone his Weaver pendant — didn’t take his eyes off the still closed door. “There is a party of three, but the leader of them is the only one who will speak. They look as if a weasel was cursed to be a wolf.”

Achilles snickered. Thetis, to his left, stomped hard on his foot. He glared at her, but just as he was about to open his mouth, the door flung open. 

Patroclus was right. The guy did look like a weasel. 

Through the doors, flanked by guards, walked three wolves. One was a Bracchus, a little younger than Achilles himself and the color of the sea. Another was a Kit with a coat that seemed to shift color with every step, every color under the sun merging across their fur. The wolf in the middle was clearly the leader. He was thin, far thinner than any Lupin Achilles had met, with fur that flashed silver and shiny, unnervingly blue eyes scanning across the room. He didn’t walk so much as slink, and the long hems of the Vespen-feather coat he wore dragged the ground softly. On his head, he wore a circlet that looked far too close to a crown for Achilles’ liking. 

Achilles hated him instantly. 

He felt Patroclus’ breath at his ear. 

“You have to speak before your parents,” he whispered, hardly more than a rush of air. He had barely turned his head, eyes locked on the silver wolf. “They cannot know that I am a Weaver as well. They’ll take it as a threat. Lie. Tell them another reason why I’m here.”

Achilles nodded slightly. He could do that. He was a great liar. It definitely didn’t stress him out at all, being put on the spot like that. Nope. The great Achilles could figure this one out. 

The three wolves stopped at the foot of the dais, bowing low and averting their eyes in respect. 

Achilles saw his father begin to speak. Before he could, he cut him off. He could apologize later. 

“The family thanks you for your answer to our summons, friends. You may rise,” he said in his most princely voice. 

The silver wolf looked up, and his eyes cut between himself and Phoenix, like he had been caught off guard over who was doing the talking. He hid it well. “Of course, Prince Achilles. After what has happened, we are just glad to see you alive and well.”

Yeah, right, Achilles thought, biting back a sneer. “I’m glad that it all turned out okay, but I would rather nothing like it happen again. My…”

He paused. He couldn’t say advisor— then that ruined the bait for the trap, right? And a bodyguard wouldn’t be sitting directly with the royal family in a reception of a foreign group, neither would a far-off dignitary. 

In the end, his mouth ran off before his head could catch up. 

“My fiancé was seriously injured.”

He felt Patroclus go stiff at his side. 

A ripple of tension raced across the room, starting on the dais, creeping through the shocked Weavers below, before infecting the now murmuring guards. 

Phoenix took over in an instant, but not before cutting his eyes sharply at Achilles. 

Yeah. That had been a bad call. 

But it was too late to back out now. 

“Yes, well,” Phoenix continued, his voice ever so slightly strained. “As my son said, when we read your response to our summons, we were instantly intrigued about your… abilities. Your names are..?”

Finally, the silver wolf spoke. “My name is Aster.” His voice was smooth, but too loud, echoing off the walls. “And behind me are my seconds, Aegean—“ He gestured to the blue wolf. “— and Devious.” The rainbow wolf. “We hail from the outskirts of this fine pack, from a group called the Tapestry of the Birdeater, and we have been blessed by the divine Creator Fate with the ability to predict the future.” 

Thus began the twenty minute tirade of him “regaling” them all with his grand visions and predictions. 

Achilles almost laughed, if it wasn’t for all the glares he was still getting. 

When Aster had finally slowed down, his mother cleared her throat. “Yes, well, Aster… all of that would certainly be useful in stopping this from happening again. But would you be willing to prove your abilities, publicly?”

“Of course,” he crooned, and Achilles thought his voice was about as charming as a snail’s trail. “My skills with the lyre aren’t just for Weaving; I play a lovely tune, as well.”

“Excellent,” Nereid said. “My youngest has her Four Seasons ceremony just a week from now. Could you perhaps do a reading then, both for my daughter and for my dear son’s engagement?“

Oh, Achilles was so getting an earful. 

“I’d be more than honored, Queen Nereid.”

“Good,” she said. “One of our courtiers will guide you to where you and your companions will be staying. You’re welcome to ask them for anything you need, and we’ll tell you everything you need to know later today.” Her smile was gentle.

The three Weavers were led out of the room. The heavy doors slammed shut behind them. 

Achilles knew his life was over when his mother dismissed the guards. 

Throughout the forty-five minute long reaming he got about lying and this rumor is going to be all the way to Darkspine by the morning and how do you expect to cover your tail this time, Achilles?, Patroclus was eerily silent. He only spoke to confirm that, no, he had not been asked to marry Achilles, and no, that particular lie had not been his idea. That fact made Achilles more afraid than anything else. 

When he was finally dismissed from his execution, he walked beside Patroclus. If his tail was long enough, he would’ve tucked it between his legs. 

The walk was painfully silent. It was like even the wind was embarrassed. 

Finally, just before they reached the door to Patroclus’ room — which Achilles had thoroughly claimed as his own — he squeaked out, “Are you mad at me?”

Patroclus breathed in, let out a deep sigh. 

“What is wrong with you?!”

“You were the one who put me on the spot!!!”

“So your first thought was to say we’re getting married?! The very first thing that ran through your head was to say I was your husband-to-be. You cannot be serious, Achilles.”

“Well, it was, okay?! I’m sooo sorry that not everyone was raised in a cult and can lie with no problem!” 

Achilles stalked inside. He should probably go to his own rooms, then, if Patroclus was also upset with him. Rationally, Achilles knew he had every reason to be upset. He had wound Patroclus up into a very emotionally charged lie, without consulting him. But the prince wasn’t being rational and… and it hurt, he realized, when he didn’t have Patroclus in his corner. He started to grab the few essential things he had ferreted into Patroclus’ room, and the Volmyr watched him in silence. 

He stomped back to the door, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it. Why did it suck to be mad at Patroclus? He never felt this horrible when he was holding a grudge against anyone else. 

“I just want to know why you said that,” Patroclus said quietly. Achilles heard him settle heavily on the ground, somewhere near the fireplace. “Out of all of the lies, why was that the first thing that stuck out to you as believable? I— I know I have not been exactly… subtle, with how I feel about you. But— but I didn’t think you so cruel as to punish me so publicly for it.”

The fire in his veins sputtered and died, doused by the rain of those words. 

Patroclus thought he did it to spite him. 

Achilles whirled. “I would never do that to you, Patroclus.” Because that had never, never been his intention. He would never hurt him like that, not in a million years. 

“Then why—“

“Because— I… I don’t know, Pat! I just said it,” he snapped. He felt cornered, suddenly, felt like something was clawing its way out of his throat. “Just like I don’t know why I sleep in here instead of my own rooms, or why it feels wrong if I look to the right, and you aren’t there. I said it because… because it felt right to say it, okay? It felt like that was the only thing there was to say. I—“

Achilles stumbled backwards as the force of the realization hit him. 

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Patroclus was staring at him now, his green eyes bright, his mouth hung open in shock. 

For an eternity, the two stared at each other as the world held its breath. 

“Achilles—“

The spell broke, and what he had just done rushed over Achilles like a choking wave. So he did what he was best at. 

Achilles the Fearless, Achilles the Swift, ran for his life. 

They told him Honor will be fine. 

The arrow missed anything vital, they said. It’s just a muscle wound. As long as he stays off it, he should make a sound recovery. 

But Honor shouldn’t have to make a recovery at all. 

His parents, for fear of Achilles doing something rash, had forbidden him from seeing the would-be assassin, who was being held in the prison tower on the other side of the estate. Which, honestly, was fair. If Achilles had had his way, he’d have them dragged through the streets by runaway horses for what they had done. 

Truly, how dare they! They had tried to kill him, the Bull of Goldsea! 

Admittedly, Achilles hadn’t believed Honor about the assassination attempt until the moment he saw the arrow hit home in the Volmyr’s haunch, right where Achilles himself would’ve been standing. And then the following events, that included watching Honor almost tear a Jocol to shreds while actively bleeding out, and then having to hold pressure on his injury while the coachman barreled back to the palace to get him help. 

It had been terrifying, watching as the cloth Achilles had been pressing to his leg turned deep red and sticky with blood. He had talked the entire time to Honor, chattering about nothing, in an attempt to keep him aware. Through it all, the Volmyr had kept his eyes closed, huffing out a sigh occasionally in response to something Achilles said. It seemed all of the fight had drained out of him after the encounter with the Jocol. 

He’d helped support Honor all the way to the infirmary but couldn’t bring himself to stay. He was… he was ashamed. Someone had gotten seriously injured because of his bullheadedness, not to mention that Achilles himself had almost been killed. Why couldn’t he just listen?

He could almost hear Honor’s response. “It is okay, prince,” he would say, in that solemn voice of his. “I wouldn’t have believed me either.”

Instead of facing him, Achilles busied himself with finding out exactly how this had happened. Though he wasn’t allowed any words with the assassin, he had been speaking with the guards about what they did know. The necklace they had been wearing was marked with a seal for a notorious band of bounty hunters, thieves, and killers-for-hire, but so far none of them had ever been so bold as to do anything to royalty. Whoever paid this particular assassin must’ve had money in droves. 

The assassin was still refusing to talk beyond what the guards had gleaned from what they found in their equipment, so they had no idea who would’ve actually had that kind of funding to hire such a bold target in the first place, but Achilles was growing impatient. He wasn’t going to abide by his parents’ wishes much longer. 

But before he started pulling out teeth and breaking paws, he thought he should first apologize to Honor. 

Achilles paced uncomfortably outside the cracked door. They’d moved the Volmyr from the infirmary a few hours ago, so that he could rest in the quiet of his own rooms. He could see Honor resting in his nest of blankets and pillows, his head cushioned, and his eyes closed. 

Maybe he was asleep, maybe Achilles should leave him be and come back later—

“If you keep panicking that hard, you’ll put me out of a job.”

Honor had cracked open a bleary green eye and was peering at Achilles through the doorway. 

Well. Now he didn’t have much of any choice. 

“I—“ Achilles cleared his throat and tried again. “Is it alright if I come in?”

“Who am I to deny such a humble request?” Honor mused, lifting his head and yawning. 

Achilles padded his way in, head low and tail down, and Honor’s eyes lit up with curiosity when he saw the basket at Achilles’ hip. 

He carefully untied the container, pulling out the contents while he spoke. “You said you’ve never been to a festival, and after… after what happened, I didn’t get to take you to see everything, so I brought it to you.”

That had been Achilles’ other side project. They had all insisted the festival still continue for the simple fact of not letting whoever orchestrated this have the satisfaction of ruining one of the most important celebrations in the Anthills. As such, Achilles had spent all day today collecting everything he could to give to Honor. He’d gotten him a selection of candied fruits, still soft and sticky-sweet with honey, fry breads coated with sugar or butter and herbs or fresh cheese, ribs slow cooked until they were dripping with fat and falling off the bone, flower blossoms stuffed with garlic, and anything else that caught his eye or nose. He’d also gotten a paper puppet shaped like an enderling that danced on sticks — a common toy for pups, who would dance them through the streets until the paper fell to tatters. 

Achilles pulled out the most important part: two paper crowns, decorated with dyes added by tiny paws. They had been given to him by two puppies in the market as a gift, and he had sworn to them that they would be treasured. 

He placed one on Honor’s head, who looked up at it and laughed, shaking his head softly and making the flimsy spines flop with the movement. Achilles placed his own on his own head, skewing it sideways off of one ear. 

“It’s not exactly the same, but there’s always next year,” Achilles said when Honor didn’t immediately respond to the display. He nudged one of the breads towards him. “They’re for you.”

Tentatively, Honor took a bite, and his eyes lit up. He ripped off a massive chunk before sliding the dish back towards Achilles. 

“Meals are best when shared,” he said between chewing. 

Reluctantly, as he had meant all of this for Honor and thus not gotten enough for sharing, Achilles took a bite. 

They ate in silence for a long while, but Achilles spent most of it watching Honor. 

There was something in the joy that had taken over his face with everything new he tried, but Achilles couldn’t help but notice how he gravitated back, over and over, to the sweet things in the spread. He had a sweet tooth, then. 

Honor must’ve noticed him watching, because his ears drooped, just a bit, embarrassed. “I wasn’t allowed many sweets as a pup. It’s given me an awful taste for them as an adult.”

Achilles grinned, wagging his tail. “Then I’ll just have to bring you all the sweets I can find. You know, to level out that bitterness of yours.”

Honor barked a short laugh, and the sound warmed something soft in Achilles’ chest. 

“I get shot, and this is how you still treat me. Truly, prince, nothing is ever to your mighty standards.” Honor was teasing, he knew, but it made that shame burn deep in the prince’s gut again. 

“I— that’s why I’m here, actually. I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier, but I wanted to let you rest.” Achilles stared down at his paws. “I’m sorry, for not believing you. If I had, then this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Or it would’ve.”

“You don’t know that.” Well… he actually might, Achilles supposed. That made him feel worse. 

“No, I don’t,” Honor conceded, “but that doesn’t matter. I flew through a hurricane to stop you from dying. You’re still here, so I’m not upset with the outcome. I’d much rather be injured than you dead.”

Achilles looked back up, and there was only honesty in his deep eyes. He truly meant it. Achilles had gotten him shot, and he just… forgave him! He wasn’t even angry!

“How can you even say that?” Achilles asked, incredulous. “I got you shot! If someone got me shot because they didn’t listen to me, I’d shoot them back!”

Honor shook his head, a gentle smile on his face. He seemed weary, even beyond the wound, like his very soul was just like that: weary. Achilles remembered then that Honor had already lived parts of his life, over and over and over again, trying to perfect his outcome in the present. 

It sent a shiver down Achilles’ spine. Yeah, it’d probably make him tired, too. 

“I don’t fault you, Achilles. You had every right doubt me. I know I mostly certainly looked insane,” he replied. 

Achilles scoffed and shook his head. “You really live by your name, huh? Honorable.”

Honor winced. 

Achilles cocked his head at his reaction, questioning. Achilles didn’t expect him to be forthcoming with the answer, but like always, Honor surprised him. 

“I… I don’t much like my name, if I’m to be honest,” Honor said sheepishly. He shifted nervously where he lay. “I mean, who names their son ‘Honor?’ That’s a lot of pressure to put on a puppy, y’know? I just feel like I’m spending my entire life trying to… to compete with the wolf my mother imagined while giving me that name.”

Achilles shrugged. “Then change it.”

Honor looked at him like he had grown wings and horns. “What?”

“If you don’t like it, then change your name. I did.”

Achilles knew that feeling, knew it well. He understood, acutely, how the wrong name stuck poorly to the tongue, cloying and clinging like quicksand. It didn’t matter the reasons. 

Honor watched him for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Yours means ‘swift river,’ in old Darkspine, right?”

Achilles had no idea his name meant anything. 

“Yup! Because I’m fast as a river, you know?” Honor only looked at him, but Achilles saw the amusement in Honor’s eyes. 

He cleared his throat and shuffled just a bit under his gaze. “I, uh… didn’t know it actually meant anything until just now. I picked it because I was a pup and it sounded cool.”

And then Honor laughed. It was a deep, pealing sound, like the toll of a temple bell. It rattled comfortably in Achilles’ ribs and shook its way warmly into the stone floor. 

Achilles wasn’t going to sit there and be mocked, so he quickly changed the subject. “I didn’t know you spoke the Old Tongues.”

Honor nodded, before shifting around and sinking further down to rest his head on a cushion. After clearing the dishes, Achilles mimicked him, meeting him at eye level. “I only know a little,” the Volmyr said. “They’re considered magic tongues, so Weavers learn them all. Some of us get our visions in them.”

“Do you?”

“Thank all the Creators both alive and dead that I do not. Mine are in common script, but they’re mostly images, anyhow. Very little actual translation needs to be done. I’m lucky in that regard; I was never a particularly good poet.”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, and Achilles watched the flick of Honor’s ear as his eyes flitted lazily across Achilles’ form before he became tense again. 

“There was a story I read growing up,” Honor began, “a Goldsea story, I believe — about a wolf who stole the sun?”

Achilles lit up. “I do know it.”

The story was a rather simple fairytale. A pauper, and long time friend, fell in love with the pack’s crown prince. However, when the prince was to choose a suitor, the pauper knew he stood no chance against the others. They had money, acclaim, beauty, and all he could offer the prince was his love. 

Determined to prove his devotion, he enlisted the help of a sorcerer and pulled the very sun from the sky and trapped it in a necklace of amber so that his prince’s radiance would always be seen far and wide, and the world would get a glimpse at what the pauper saw every time he looked at him. He presented it to the prince, who laughed and took the amber, placing it back in the now pure blue sky. 

I admire your devotion, my dear, but I do not need the sun. I just need your love. That’s all. I would choose you above all the others, always, he told the pauper before kissing him senseless and marrying him the next day. 

At least, that’s how Achilles always heard it. 

“What was the hero’s name, in the story? The sun stealer?” Honor asked. 

That had Achilles thinking for a moment. It had been a long while since he’d heard the tale, and the two wolves’ names never seemed very important before. “It’s Patroclus.” Yes, that was it. He did know the Old Goldsea meaning of that name: blinding devotion.

Honor nodded, thinking for a moment. He turned his head away from Achilles, his ears going flat. 

“Patroclus,” he said softly. “That’s my name.”

Achilles sat up, his tail swishing. He flashed Honor— Patroclus his most blinding grin. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Patroclus,” he said, but he casted him a sly look. “But is there anything you’d like to confess, dear pauper?”

Patroclus groaned, throwing a wing over his face and thudding his head against the ground. “You are insufferable!”

“Apparently, not too insufferable— you took an arrow for me,” he teased back, testing the waters. Patroclus only flicked his ear and grumbled profanities about the prince’s annoyance. 

Achilles wiggled closer, placing his head on his paws. “Seriously, though,” he said gently. “Patroclus suits you.”

He pulled his head out from under his wing enough to meet Achilles’ eyes. “Thank you, Achilles.”

Patroclus said his name with such tenderness, such gentility, that it made his heart crack. It kind of made him want to burst into tears, the care in his voice. 

Patroclus. Devotion. One and the same. 

Achilles couldn’t take it. 

He made to stand. “I’ll let you get some rest, Pat.” He tested out the nickname to no response. “It’s getting late.”

He made for the door, when he heard softly. “You don’t have to go.”

He turned, and Patroclus had lifted his head and was looking at him nervously. “It’s, uh, still hard for me to get up and about, especially after laying for so long. I would appreciate someone being here just… just in case.”

Achilles heard what he didn’t say more: I don’t want to be alone. 

And who was he to deny that? 

“Yeah,” Achilles said. “Yeah, of course.” 

He made quick work of pulling off all the sharp bits of his clothing and carefully placing his paper crown on a shelf, before settling onto a plush rug placed in a patch of moonlight by the window. He could smell the night blooming flowers of the adjacent garden wafting in through the window. 

Soothing as it was, it was also freezing. 

He tried to ignore it, repressing his shivers and closing his eyes, tucking his nose close to his body and damning his short tail for being unable to reach to cover his ears. 

Achilles heard Patroclus clear his throat from his nest of very soft and definitely warm bedding. 

He looked up, and Patroclus had shifted over to clear a spot beside him and had lifted his wing— a clear invitation. 

“If— if you would rather not,” he added when Achilles stared, “then you’re welcome to just steal some of my blankets. I don’t need nearly—“

Achilles wriggled into the spot as fast as he was able to without fear of hurting Patroclus. 

His fur was just as soft and warm as Achilles remembered from their sparring match. He smelled greatly of the herbal paste that they’d spread on his wound to prevent infection, but underneath it all, Achilles made out the scent that was distinctly his— damp earth, nightblooms, and warm, clean fabric. 

As Patroclus settled himself again, Achilles spoke. “Patroclus?”

“Mm?” he said sleepily. Achilles could feel it more than feel it. He almost felt bad for disturbing him; he was clearly exhausted. 

Almost. 

“Would you tell me a story?”

Patroclus huffed. “I share my nest with you, and now you want a bedtime story? Spoiled.”

“You know what they say. You give a prince a blanket, and he’ll ask for a bedtime story,” he ribbed lightly. 

When Patroclus didn’t respond, Achilles assumed he’d dozed off, which was fine. He didn’t need a bedtime story. It was just… he wasn’t ready to hear him stop talking in that wind-in-the-pines, snake-in-the-leaves voice: light and airy, yet still somehow grounded and earthy. He laid his head down to attempt to sleep, when Patroclus surprised him. 

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a wolf named Patroclus, and he was fiercely in love with his closest childhood friend: a shining prince who lived in a marble tower that stretched towards the heavens, just shy of the sun and clouds…”

Achilles knew the ending, but he didn’t get to hear it this time. He fell asleep to the dusky timbre of Patroclus’ voice, and the beating of his poor, devoted heart. 

——

Achilles awoke to a distinct lack of Patroclus. 

He shot up, flailing around in the tangle of blankets and his robe, which had somehow wrapped themselves like serpents around his legs. He let out a startled, half asleep yelp that might’ve been trying to be the Volmyr’s name. 

“I’m right here, Achilles.”

Achilles turned towards the voice. Patroclus was perched near the closet, picking through the clothes inside. All of his weight was still on his right leg and wing, but his bandages looked fresh. He must’ve changed them while Achilles was sleeping. Out of the closet, he pulled out a long, solid black cloak — one of the ones that he had brought with him from Murkwood, Achilles recognized. 

“When did you get up? Why didn’t you wake me?” Achilles asked, shaking himself awake. The sun was well into the sky, and he was honestly quite embarrassed that he’d slept that deeply in someone else’s bed. 

“Not long ago. A messenger came to fetch me. The assassin said they will speak, but only if I am present. They want an exchange. Of what, I don’t know,” Patroclus said. He was arranging the long cloak carefully, concealing the still very tender wound. He began limping over to the side table, where someone had left a pitcher of water. Achilles beat him to it, pouring him a glass. 

“Then I’m coming with you,” he said.

Patroclus took a long drink before he said, “I would ask that you don’t, but something tells me you’re just going to do it anyways.”

“You know me so well. I’m the one they were trying to shoot, anyways. I wanna know why.”Achilles went to the table where the Weaver kept his jewelry, bringing him the onyx pendant he’d never seen him without. He noticed that Patroclus had neatly folded his paper crown and tucked it amongst the fine jewels. 

He gratefully lowered his head, allowing Achilles to tie it around his neck. His paws brushed the sensitive backs of his downy ears, and they twitched. “I just worry the assassin won’t speak if it’s not only me.”

The way Patroclus had roared, at once in pain and fury. The blood staining his paws and the carriage. The smell of iron choking him. His eyes fluttering shut in pain and exhaustion. The way the muscles of his flanks had shuddered, like they were giving out. The infirmary doors shutting. 

“I’ll make them talk.”

Patroclus hadn’t said much to that, but Achilles might’ve saw him shudder. 

The walk to the holding cell was long, silent, and full of stairs. 

Even though Patroclus wouldn’t say anything, Achilles could tell that it was hurting him. Nevertheless, Patroclus continued to trudge along, following Achilles through the corridors. He slowed his pace, sticking a little closer to the Volmyr’s side, in case he stumbled. He never did, but Achilles was still acutely aware of the warmth of him against his flank. 

The guard at the top of the tower fidgeted a little when he saw the prince. “I’ve been informed not to let you—“

“Wrong. Step aside.”

“Sir, your father—“

“— isn’t here,” Achilles snapped, baring his teeth. Even without his crown (his real one, not the paper one), they knew who he was. “But your prince is. Step aside before I move you myself.”

The guard was smart enough not to argue. He simply unbolted the door, locking it back behind them once the pair was inside. 

“You didn’t have to be cruel to him,” Patroclus said softly in his ear. Achilles liked the way the words felt when he spoke to him this closely, low and warm. 

“He wasn’t going to let me in,” he said back, just as soft. 

Patroclus looked like he wanted to argue, but he froze, his head swinging forward at the sound of rattling chains. 

There, in the corner, muzzled and shackled to the wall by their paws and neck, was the assassin. 

She glared at them both weakly from her corner, her purplish fur turned ashen in the dim, dusty light of the prison, but her eyes blazed like fire. 

“I asked for the Volmyr,” she said, voice laced with annoyance. 

“We’re a two-for-one special. You shot him, but were aiming for me, so we both have questions,” Achilles said, raising himself up to full height, and looking down at the failed assassin with disdain. 

“Maybe I don’t wanna talk to you,” she snarled behind the bars of the muzzle. 

“Then I will leave you to rot here, as well,” Patroclus said, his voice flat and cold. “I know that you want something of me, Hawkmoth.”

The assassin — Hawkmoth’s — mouth dropped open, tail drooping, but she recovered. “See! You’re one of those— those Seer freaks! I’ll answer what you wanna know, if you help me.”

Achilles stared at Patroclus, dumbfounded, but it was as if something had come over him, like a sharp chill. His body had gone still, drawn to full height. The line of his mouth was drawn in a grim frown, and his big, expressive ears stood directly upright and forward. Even his eyes were dull, flat as stagnant pools. 

“And you think that I can help you?” It was only by his voice alone that Achilles still knew Patroclus. 

“I know you can. You’re standing here with the prince. You were standing with him then. I don’t know if you’re just his advisor or what, but he came with you, so he cares what you say. I want exile, not death for what I’ve done. Then, I’ll tell you everything,” Hawkmoth said in a rush. 

Achilles opened his mouth to object, to laugh that this Jocol thought she was ever seeing the light of day again, but he was stopped by Patroclus’ wing gently nudging his side. 

“If you tell us everything,” he said, “then we will discuss with the alphas about your release.” When Hawkmoth looked like they were about to argue, Patroclus continued. “I have seen your future, assassin, and it is not bright if you do not take my deal here. The prince wishes to have you executed, and not quickly. The king and queen don’t often deny him anything.”

“If you have seen my future, then why do I even need to tell you anything?” Hawkmoth said, but she sounded defeated. 

“You don’t, but you don’t have much of a case for freedom without cooperating,” he said back matter-of-factly. 

The Jocol let out a long breath. 

“I don’t know much,” she began, and Achilles sat down, suddenly very interested. “They didn’t tell me much, admittedly, and I didn’t care. The amount of moonstones they offered me would make anyone turn a blind eye. All I knew is that I was to kill you,” she jerked her head at Achilles, “and then our deal was over. It wasn’t like… like I was their contract killer. It was supposed to be one and done.”

“But did they say why?” Achilles asked. 

Hawkmoth thought for a moment. “… sort of? They said you were in the way, that you’d cause trouble for their plans. Like I said, they didn’t exactly include me in their meetings. I was just a lackey. I can tell you what the main guy looked like, though.”

She turned towards Patroclus, then. “He was a Lupin, but kinda slight lookin’ for one. Thin. He was silvery, and he talked like he was a ringmaster in a circus— all this ridiculous showy nonsense. But he wore a necklace like yours.” She jerked her chin at Patroclus’ pendant, making the chains rattle. “Actually… everyone I talked to did. I couldn’t see the symbols on ‘em though. I think they were all different.”

Achilles saw a muscle in Patroclus’ jaw jump. The Volmyr let out a long breath. “And I suppose he talked an awful lot about a future of his own commanding.”

Hawkmoth nodded. “You know him then?”

Patroclus shook his head. “No, but I’ve known countless like him. Is there anything else that might be relevant?”

She shook her head. “Not that I can think of, no.” She looked relieved that it was over. 

A curt nod. “If you remember anything else, then you can summon after me again.”

When he stood, Achilles stood with him, frankly dumbfounded over what had just transpired. 

Who was this guy, and where did Patroclus go?

“Wait!” Hawkmoth called. “Remember our deal!!!”

Patroclus paused, halfway looking over his shoulder while Achilles banged on the door for the guard. “I am a wolf of my word.”

As soon as they were out of earshot of the guard, Achilles whirled on Pat. 

“Dude, what the hell was that?!”

Now, his Patroclus was back, leaning comfortingly into Achilles’ side and hunching down, just a bit. His ears twitched this way and that, and when he looked Achilles in the eyes again, they were gentle, if still solemn. 

When had he started thinking of ‘his’ Patroclus?

“One of the first things you learn as a Weaver is how to play into someone’s expectations. If they expect someone cold and all knowing, then I’ll be just that,” he said as they walked slowly down the corridors. Achilles could feel the tremors in the Weaver’s side; he needed to get off his paws. 

“How did you know her name? Did you really look?” he asked. 

“It was a lucky guess. I haven’t had time to access my loom, with… with everything that has transpired. But she appeared as a moth in my tapestry, and ‘Hawkmoth’ is the most common name with ‘moth’ in it,” Patroclus replied. 

“And the rest of it?” Achilles asked. 

“All lies. A lot of it was likely true, though. I know you wanted to do terrible things to her. I saw the look on your face.”

Fair enough, Achilles supposed. 

“How does… all of that even work, by the way? The whole Seeing thing.” It was kind of eating Achilles alive, how he knew all this stuff and didn’t go crazy. 

Patroclus wasn’t guiding them to his rooms, Achilles realized. He was walking towards the throne room. He must want to tell his parents now. 

“I… it’s hard to explain. But imagine if you could do something to focus your mind, and then magically in front of you, there were a million guitar strings, all touching different instruments. Each one plays a different note, but if you play that note, the entire melody changes, and some notes sound closer to you, so if you listen hard to those, you can even hear the lyrics. Others, are so far away that it’s just… vague vibrations. And even then, sometimes, you are handed a set of sheet music, but half of it is blank, so you have to write the song as you go along and pray it’s what the maestro wanted. That is what it is, just with the future: choices bleed into new events, with different likelihoods of happening. Some things are set into the future — prophecies — unless someone, like us Weavers, change something. Other times, we are sent by Fate to make sure things do happen as they would like. It’s… it’s a big juggling act, and the specifics are different for everyone. I… know that I am unique, in how far I can accurately see,” Patroclus said, the words stumbling out of him. 

Achilles’ head hurt. “But what about your weaving loom thing?”

The Volmyr brightened. “That’s how we access what the Spinner wants us to see. If I was seeing all of those futures all the time, as they actively change every time you or I take a step, or as a butterfly flaps its wings in Murkwood, I’d go mad. We can only see that web of futures when we’re focused in on the Spinner, and even then, we can only see what they wish. Sometimes, they withhold things on purpose.”

Achilles winced. “No wonder your childhood sucked.”

Patroclus barked a sharp laugh. “Hey! Not all of us can be born handsome princes.”

At that, Achilles nuzzled his face into Patroclus’ neck, teasing. “You think I’m handsome?“

He just rolled his eyes, nipping at Achilles’ ears playfully. 

They walked on in silence again for a long while, with only the echo of their claws across the marble. Finally, Achilles voiced the one thing that had been eating at him. “How many of the strings have me in them?”

They were in front of the throne room doors now, and Achilles felt as a shiver ran through Patroclus’ entire body, like a rabbit had run over his grave. He looked stricken. 

Honestly, being Achilles’ bodyguard was quite easy. 

No one dared to approach the prince, who strode about with his snout raised and his chest puffed; this was his kingdom, his people, the stance attested. He dared anyone to take it from him. 

Achilles expected nothing from Honor, not really. The prince simply fetched him when he wanted to go somewhere — despite all of his bluster before, Achilles really seemed to be determined to follow his parents’ order — and he would scowl and make some loud proclamation about how he would rather eat dirt than have Honor limping along after him. But then, the prince would take any opportunity to sidle closer to him in crowded streets or busy shops. 

He did that strangely often, Honor thought. It wasn’t good for his heart— or his head. 

But truly, the job seemed to boil down to following Achilles around with his eyes low, looking intimidating, and answering the bored prince’s seemingly endless, increasingly bizarre volley of hypothetical questions. 

“In a fight between you and thirty chicken-sized Enderlings, who’s winning?”

Despite himself, Honor grinned, caught off guard. “I don’t know. How combat skilled are the Enderlings, and am I armed?”

Achilles tapped his chin, thinking hard. “You get your weapon of choice, but the Enderlings also get their weapons of choice.”

“Oh, then the Enderlings, no contest. My weapon of choice is a bow staff. Not very effective against tiny, militarized lizards. We all know they have an affinity for war crimes.”

Really, the worst part was Achilles never thought to give him an itinerary of any kind. So today, when Achilles had barged into his room — right on time, and unsubtle as always — he’d looked Honor up and down with as much disdain as he would’ve had someone placed a rotting slug on his dinner plate. 

“Are you seriously planning to wear that?” 

Honor looked at himself. He wore a robe of deep emerald green, much nicer than his own from home, with a set of bracelets and a few small rings. Sure, it was simpler than Achilles’ still, but, well—

He was simpler than Achilles, wasn’t he?

“I dress like this every day, prince,” Honor replied, cocking his head. 

“You cannot wear regalia to go sparring,” Achilles said with a haughty sniff. 

Taking him in, Honor realized that Achilles was indeed dressed down, in a tight black chest piece, and tied to his hip appeared to be a training sword. 

Honor just blinked, momentarily stunned. “… sparring? Why do I need to wear gear to watch you spar?”

Achilles looked at him like he was out of his mind. “Because you’ll be sparring with me, and if you want to wear robes, that’s fine, I guess, but don’t come crying to me when you’ve got bruises.”

This made Honor scramble to attention. “I didn’t agree to spar with you.”

Achilles stuck out his tongue, and whipped a spare tunic at Honor, slinging it over the Volmyr’s wing. “You agreed when you decided you needed to play the hero and say I was gonna die in seven days, or whatever. So c’mon, we’re meeting in the west courtyard. It’s only practice swords, so don’t be a baby about it.”

And with that, he turned on his heels, trotting away and leaving Honor sputtering. 

The nerve! Well, Honor would show him. Perhaps he wasn’t the fastest, but he was bigger than Achilles was, and he was certain that the prince had never fought someone with wings. 

As he went to put on the tunic, he realized it was very much not built for a Volmyr. He ended up cutting long rips down the side to allow his wings room to move. It was less protection, but like Achilles had said, they were just practice swords. It was much more valuable to him to be able to move freely. 

As he trekked towards the courtyard, claws tapping lightly against the marble, he took in the sweet light of early morning. He could smell the salt scent of the sea, intermingling with the tall, warm grasses of Goldsea, whose gentle rustling was inescapable even here, by the ocean. The wind was picking up, blowing a pleasant breeze through the open halls, ruffling his ears and tail. 

As he stepped out into the courtyard, tentative, he spotted Achilles immediately. The prince hadn’t noticed Honor yet, as he made practiced, careful swings with the weapon, seemingly counting out some rhythm in his head. 

One— on the ground, sword gripped in his paw. 

Two— up, quick as a rattlesnake bite, lunging forward, bringing the sword up in an arc. 

Three— following it through, spinning on his back paws like a dancer. 

Four— landing another hit on the back swing, before crouching down, waiting for a retaliation. 

It was like he was dancing with himself. 

Honor watched, entranced, until Achilles turned and finally spotted him. He jumped, hard, stumbling away from the Weaver and placing a paw over his chest. 

“Elius, you scared me! Do you creep around everywhere like that?” he gasped. 

Honor ignored him. “You fight like a dancer,” he told him. Truly, it had been incredible to watch. Honor thought, perhaps, that he could’ve watched forever. 

Achilles perked up at that, his ears flicking upward, and his tail wagged ever so slightly. He puffed his chest. “I’m not called the best for nothing. And you’re about to find out why.”

With that, he tossed the sword he’d been practicing with towards Honor. The wooden weapon skittered to a stop at his wings. He didn’t pick it up, even as Achilles retrieved a new one for himself. 

When he noticed, Achilles cocked his head. “Have you never fought before?”

“No, no,” Honor said, frowning down at the sword. He was suddenly embarrassed. “I just… I…” He held up a wing in lieu of saying anything, flexing the singular claw at the end. 

Suddenly, what he was saying clicked with Achilles, and he faltered. “Oh, oh that’s okay! We can find you something different, maybe. Uh… what do you normally use?”

Honor shook his head. “It’s alright. I’ll fight with nothing.” In an attempt to lighten the mood, he lifted his head and grinned. “I already have the advantage anyhow; it just would not be fair to you, my prince.”

Oh, now that lit something up under Achilles’ skin. Honor saw a spark of competition light in his eyes. “Cocky now, are we? Alright, then this is how it’s gonna go. Each round is decided by the first to knock the other off his feet, and when I win, I get to ask you a question.”

“And if I win?” Honor asked. 

“Then I don’t get to ask you any questions.”

Honor smiled, showing his teeth. He began circling Achilles, showboating. Maybe he had a little bit of a competitive streak, too. “I don’t think that’s very fair, Achilles.”

Achilles turned circles with him, eyes never straying from Honor’s stalking movements, the twist of his body, the lash of his tail. He hefted his sword. “It’s not very fair that you already know so much about me, Weaver Honor.”

And with that, he sprung, taking Honor completely off guard. Nothing about his attack had been telegraphed. It was as if Achilles had been completely still one moment and a blur of motion the next. Honor barely dodged the swing of his sword, immediately getting put on the defensive, but Achilles never let up. 

He arced his sword, cracking it against the circle of Honor’s wings. 

“Good reaction time,” Achilles quipped through gritted teeth, going in for another swing. 

“Or maybe you’re just slow—“

Honor didn’t see Achilles move when he kicked Honor’s right leg out from beneath him, shoving hard into his side and slamming the flat of the sword into his nose with a stinging snap. 

He hit the ground hard, and Achilles pointed the sword at him as he gasped for breath. 

“Guess you couldn’t predict that one, huh?”

Honor was tempted to be snarky, answer and insist that was Achilles’ question, but frankly, he was winded. He made a choked wheeze in response, and hoped it sounded sarcastic. 

After Honor caught his breath, he choked out, “Your question, then.”

Achilles tapped his chin and thumped his tail, thinking obnoxiously loudly. 

“What’s your favorite color, and why?”

Honor laughed. “You had to beat me up to ask that, of all things?”

Achilles, sniffed, offended. “Well you already know mine! Because of your freaky mind thing!“

He did. It was blue. But that was irrelevant. 

Honor shook his head. “You could’ve just asked me. I would’ve answered.”

“Then answer now.”

“Green,” Honor said instantly. It was the ‘why’ that made him hesitate. 

Because when I was a very lonely, very sad little pup outcast by his peers and ignored by his mother, I could always look into my visions and see green eyes who loved me.

But he couldn’t say that. Not exactly. 

“Because one of my very first friends had very green eyes, and it was the first time I felt that someone cared about me,” he finished instead. 

“Oh,” Achilles said, for once at a loss for words. He looked at Honor then with something in his eyes, something akin to pity. 

Honor didn’t like the warm shock it sent pulsing under his skin. 

“We go again, yes? Or did you only want to go through these intricate rituals to ask me inane questions once?” 

Achilles snapped out of his lull immediately, raising the sword. 

He swept Honor three more times. 

“What’s your favorite animal?”

“Spiders— misunderstood little creatures. They’re very afraid of us, you know. They can’t help being scary.”

“What’s your favorite story?”

“Ones with happy endings, where princes slay dragons and ride off into the sunset. We have too much sadness here, in the real world, for me to spend time escaping to more tragedy.”

“Favorite season?”

“Summer, when you can smell the heat radiating off the ground, and cool water is at its sweetest.”

In their next match, Achilles smiled at him with the utmost confidence of someone who had won enough times to feel their victory was certain. But you see, what Honor lacked in speed and prowess, he made up for his bulk and observation. 

Achilles would always strike first, forcing Honor immediately on the defensive, and focus his attacks onto Honor’s face and wings, hoping to disorient Honor enough into breaking guard and knocking him off kilter. This had the added bonus of making it nearly impossible for Honor to take off. 

This time, though, when Achilles rushed him, Honor was ready. 

Immediately, he leapt from the ground, using his wings to swing his back paws forward, connecting hard with Achilles’ face before the prince could bring his sword up in an arc. Achilles spluttered, caught off guard, but Honor didn’t waste the chance. He launched into the air, bearing down on Achilles with massive gusts of hot, dusty air, kicking it into his eyes and making the prince cough. Still, he lunged for Honor, attempting to cut at his wings, but instead, Honor used his momentum against him, grabbing him by the collar of his tunic with his claws and slinging them both, end over end on the hard stone, rolling with Achilles until he stuck out a foot to stop them in place. 

He had Achilles pinned firmly under him, wrapped in his wings with a claw over his throat, belly to belly, and thoroughly knocked off his feet. Honor felt Achilles swallow. 

“Yield,” was all Honor said, licking his lips. Only then did he notice that he was snarling. 

Achilles looked up at him, huffing from the fall. Something bright — like sunrise, like the first spark of a forest fire — burned in his eyes. “What was your first vision?” Achilles asked, uncharacteristically soft. 

Deadly soft. 

“You didn’t win that round,” Honor retorted, just as quietly. 

“Mm, but you cheated. I can’t fly.”

“That’s the way it goes, darling. Life isn’t very fair.”

“Then tell me anyways. Tell me because I want to know,” Achilles said. 

So Honor leaned in closer, running his snout along the fluff of Achilles’ cheek, until he could whisper in his ear. 

“I saw a green lion who dreamed of eating the sun,” Honor told Achilles. “He chased the sun, getting ever closer, no matter that the earth begged him to stop. And one day, the lion finally sunk his teeth into what he had been chasing, and burst into flames, burning up his beautiful mane and brilliant green eyes, and he fell back to the earth, who wept and buried his body in silt and young mountains, and swore to never again love anything else.”

Someone snickered from the shadows. 

They both jumped nearly out of their skins, and Honor’s head snapped towards the entryway. 

Thetis, Achilles’ sister, with her halfmask face, leered at them from the hall. 

“Mother is asking after you, brother. She asked me to bring you to her,” she said lightly, but with a glint in her eye that belied her absolute joy at catching her brother in such a scene. 

Honor and Achilles scrambled apart like each other’s touch burned. 

“It’s not—“ Honor began, as Achilles cut him off. 

“Weaver, you’re dismissed for the day. And— and the night!!!” he said with a pointed, panicked look towards Thetis, who looked like she was just barely choking down full-bellied laughter. “I shall see you in the morning, at a reasonable hour, for the festival tomorrow. Good day.”

And Achilles scurried out of the door, tail literally between his legs, and Honor heard Thetis’ howling, jeering laughter all the way down the halls, and Achilles pitifully begging her to stop. 

Honor retreated to his room, gently closed the door behind him, and promptly screamed into the softest pillow he had. 

They hadn’t spoken since the incident, and now Honor was standing in front of his weaving loom, the first strand of thread in his claws. Today, the Festival of Light would begin at high noon, and it was his last chance to change Achilles’ mind on going. It was the safest path, surely, the most likely to end in everyone still being alive. 

Still, he was nervous. 

Achilles’ behavior yesterday had been… certainly something, but Honor knew he still wouldn’t take well to being told to stay home. He knew that that future was unlikely, so instead, he’d have to account for his own presence at the festival. 

Honor took a deep breath, and gently let the first thread spin. 

He felt the hook immediately, as the white thread began to be pulled into the loom, pulled up and around, twisted in on itself. He watched the loom, feeling that creeping darkness, feeling the way the thread felt like it was pulling out his own organs and soul — jarring, but no longer painful, no longer panic inducing — and let that shimmering darkness pull him in. 

The creaking clicking of the old loom ticked like a timer in his head, counting down how long he had in his Web. In the darkness, he saw the silver threads, interconnecting with each other, an infinite, incomprehensible plane of anything that would or could ever be. 

This vision would, at least, be easy. Close events — sure events, like the assassination attempt today — put little strain on Honor’s psyche, and he had long since learned how to push them. In times like these, he could gather the strings in his wings, pull together every Honor a few hours from now, and find out what they knew. 

It wasn’t always like this. Often, far futures were shrouded in that ephemeral darkness that hid the inner workings of Fate to Honor: all things — futures, events, wolves — that he was not yet meant to know, protected fiercely by the Spinner themself. Other times, he only got vague feelings and images, like something out of a dream, leaving only the tapestry he’d woven in his physical body as clues. 

Today was as simple as a head tilt. 

He let his instincts guide him, gliding the edge of his wing over his gathered futures until one pulled sharp against the edges of his mind. There. 

He is sitting beside Achilles, to his right, high up in a seat of royalty, reserved for the alpha family and their closest. They’re all watching the parade, as dancers and performers come by. There is loud music, but that isn’t what’s holding Honor’s attention. 

Achilles is saying something in his ear, but he’s distracted by the sun. It reflects off a nearby structure, glinting directly into his sensitive eyes, bouncing off of Achilles’ crown. The prince’s tail thumps excitedly on the ground — he’s happy here, telling Honor about the importance of the tune they’re playing, what each costume means. Achilles sidles closer as a loud horn is blown; the biggest, most important event of the parade — an ancient Vespen, one of the heralds of the Spiritwolf Elius, is being guided down the street, and it scatters its molted feathers from last season; it is an honor to receive one, blessing one with wisdom—

Thunk.

Achilles abruptly stops, too stunned to even make a sound as he lands against Honor’s side, heavy with dead weight. The arrow has hit home. He will be gone in seconds, and this Honor — the one whose future must not happen — gathers Achilles in his wings, trying to wipe the blood from his nose —

Pay attention, that formless voice that he knew better than his own whispers. They are Honor’s guide. They are his god. 

Honor forces his eyes away from Achilles, misses the moment his lovely eyes lose their light, in favor of looking directly up. The crowd is in a panic; their prince is dead. But someone catches Honor’s eye in the stands opposite theirs: a Jocol, with reddish purple fur, wine dark and full. They are looking around in a panic, just like everyone else, but…

There, says the voice. 

It’s all Honor needs to know. 

Honor came to with a gasp, falling backwards away from the loom. Only many, many years of this exact feeling kept him from falling flat on his butt on the ground. 

On his loom was an image, as always. A giant bat held a moth pinned under its wings. An arrow was lodged in the bat’s side, but the moth’s wings were tattered beyond repair. The background was navy blue, and hanging above the two creatures was the sun, turning russet orange with sunset. 

Honor shivered, pulling it free of the loom. 

Instantly, the loom shrunk with a loud groan and a comical puff of smoke. Recluse, instead, sat where it had been, skittering up Honor’s leg to perch on his shoulder. 

Honor held out the small tapestry where the spider could see. “What do you think?”

Recluse tapped its wooden chin, seemingly deep in thought. Then, with a chitter, hopped excitedly and ran down Honor’s wing. It reached out to tap the bat with a leg before pointing at Honor excitedly. 

“Yeah, I figured it was me, too. But what about the arrow? That’s the worrying part, bud.”

At this, Recluse seemed to lose its steam, creaking uncomfortably. It moved down Honor’s wing, hopping across the floor to his closet. It laboriously pulled out a first aid kit, sitting atop it, pleased. 

Honor rolled his eyes, fond. “Thanks, Recluse. That certainly will stop me from bleeding out—“

A knock at the door made Honor jump, making him knock over a stack of loose books. 

“Come in!” He called, trying to gather himself. 

Achilles poked his head through the doorframe. He was dressed rather simply, with only his crown and a few tight hoop earrings to adorn his head. His eyes were lined with a fine golden powder, and he was bedecked with a matching necklace and bangle set of tiny, golden teardrop tourmaline jewels. He took in the mess and the fabric in Honor’s claws. 

“… who were you talking to?” he started. 

“Oh!” Honor exclaimed, flustered. “I was talking to Recluse.” He gestured to the closet—

Where Recluse had flipped over onto its back, like a broken toy. 

Achilles just stared at him, unimpressed and frankly, baffled. 

“Uh. Well, now it’s just trying to make me look crazy,” Honor said with an awkward laugh. “It’s shy.”

“…Sure,” Achilles said, absolutely not convinced. His attention was quickly taken elsewhere, though. He stepped forward, trying to peer at the weaving in Honor’s claws. 

He jerked it away, which was, in hindsight, the worst possible move, as Achilles only took it as a challenge. He danced around Honor’s attempts to wheel away from him, making his jewels jingle, handily plucking the fabric from Honor’s claws. 

He studied it, look very serious as he ran his paws across the surface. Honor fidgeted, shifting uncomfortably as Achilles stared, and stared, and stared—

“Do Volmyr eat moths? Seems like more trouble than they’re worth,” he said finally, jerking his chin at the moth. 

“I— what?” Honor asked, dumbfounded. 

“Well, I mean, I don’t know how all of this doom and gloom prophecy nonsense works, but that’s you, right? Like, I don’t really know anyone else who would be a bat. That arrow sucks, though,” he continued, shrugging. He handed the tapestry back to Honor, and began restacking the fallen tomes. 

Honor closed his eyes. “Yeah, that worries me, too.” This was as good a time as any. “Is there truly nothing I can say to make you miss the festival?”

Achilles wheeled around with a huff. “This again! Really, I like you a whole lot better when you aren’t sniffing up some Creator’s ass—“

“— you got shot! In my vision! There is an assassin coming for you, Achilles. I’m not lying. I— I can prove it. I’ll weave you another—“

“Then I should go!” He snapped back. “If I’m not there, what’s stopping the assassin from trying to shoot my parents, or spirits forbid, my sisters? At least if I’m there, then they won’t shoot someone you haven’t planned for, if you’re even telling the truth about this whole fortune-telling shtick — which I’m still not sold that you are.” 

Honor snapped his jaws shut. Unfortunately, he had a point. Honor hadn’t planned for if Achilles didn’t show, and he genuinely thought Achilles might rip out his throat if his family died because of him. 

“Okay,” Honor acquiesced. “But I want to ask one thing of you. Let me stand to your left, not behind you, or your right. I know it isn’t proper, but I can watch better.” He didn’t tell Achilles that he knew the assassin would fire from the left, and he’d rather the arrow strike him dead than the prince.

Achilles considered it, but didn’t look convinced. 

“Please,” Honor pressed. “In repayment, if nothing else. I answered a question freely yesterday. I didn’t have to.”

Achilles looked supremely embarrassed at the mention of the incident, his ears drooping as he shifted uncomfortably. 

“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “But come on, we’re going to miss the carriages, and if we have to walk to the square because of your paranoia, I’m gonna make a prophecy out of you.”

Achilles turned to walk out, and Honor turned back to the closet. “Recluse,” he hissed. The little spider popped right side up, and jauntily skittered up his shoulder to hide in the high collar of his royal robes. He followed behind Achilles, eyes downcast. 

Remember what you saw, he told himself. You’ve planned for this. He won’t die today. 

He and Achilles ended up sharing a carriage, and the ride was spent in uncomfortable silence. Every time Honor tried to strike a conversation, he would look up to see Achilles frowning out the window, emerald eyes stormy, and the words would dry up in his throat. 

When they arrived, it was to blinding fanfare. 

The spectacle was almost comical. 

Trumpets sounded, someone announced the arrival of the royal family and their esteemed guest. The whispers began immediately as they noticed how Honor trailed behind Achilles. He refused to bow his head in shame, even as the whispers reached his ears. 

A Volmyr! I’ve never seen one so out in the open before. 

He’s following the prince! A new advisor, maybe?

No, he’s too handsome for that. I bet it’s a betrothal. 

At the last one, Honor felt his face heat in embarrassment, and he walked a little quicker than strictly necessary. He glimpsed Achilles’ face, and he wore a matching grimace. He must’ve heard the not-so-quiet whispers, as well. 

As they reached the stands where the nobles of the Anthills perch to watch the festivities, Honor was immediately dazzled. From where they sat, he could see out across the entirety of the main city as the early morning light glanced off the magnificent windows of the high towers of the libraries and temples. The streets below were awash in warm oranges and ambers, and every house, shop, and street corner was bedecked in ribbons and baubles depicting Vespens — the sacred creatures of Elius — the Spiritwolves, various Goldsea heroes and legends, and heavenly bodies. Around them, in the crowd, wolves were dressed in bright yellows and burnished bronzes, wearing bells around their ankles or streamers wrapped around their legs and tails. Pups wore paper crowns scribbled with pink and blue jewels (Honor couldn’t help but notice they shared a resemblance to the crown Achilles wore now) and batted at each other with toy swords, screeching as their parents grabbed at them to make them sit and watch the proceedings. Those not in the stands lined the streets, craning their heads to get a look at the various performers who stood at the entrance of the massive stadium-like square, waiting for their queue to begin the procession. 

Honor had never seen anything like it. 

As King Phoenix gave the opening speech, offering praise to Elius and his chosen, Achilles leaned in. “Don’t have this in Murkwood, huh?” 

Honor had expected malice in his voice, or at least snark, but he detected none. When he looked over, the prince was wearing a soft, amused smile on his face. 

“Murkwood does not celebrate with parades, and besides, I… I was never allowed to attend Murkian celebrations. Weavers are meant to be apart,” he replied. 

To Honor, that was simply a fact. He had never been to a party or festival, though he had overheard his groupmates at the den proudly boast how they had snuck out and stolen sweet honey treats to share, but they’d never much cared for Honor, so he never asked for any. 

Achilles, though, looked like Honor had told him that he had been beaten and forced to sleep in freezing cold rain every day of his life. “You’ve never been to a festival? Of any kind?! You haven’t had any festival food? Never worn a stupid paper crown??? Played rigged games?! Oh, as soon as the parade is over, we’re fixing that.”

As they talked, the parade had started, and with it, the music had risen. Achilles was leaning close, explaining to him why the procession order was what it was, why this or that song was being played, or why that float was pink instead of orange. As he spoke, his tail would wag faster and faster, and he began tripping over his words in excitement. It was… 

It was cute. Yeah, that’s what it was. Achilles was cute like this, delighted at getting to regale Honor with stories of Goldsea, happy to get to indulge someone. 

Suddenly, though, the sun had risen high enough to begin shining into Honor’s eyes, and he squinted against the harshness that blurred the festivities down below. 

“Honor, look! This is the most important part,” Achilles chattered excitedly. 

Honor could make out an imposing, massive figure flocked by a group of armored guards, but the figure was not a wolf, no. 

It was a Vespen. 

A horn sounded. 

Honor’s blood ran cold. 

In slow motion, Honor turned his head, and from high, high in the stands to their left, he made out the glint of an arrowhead, bathed in light like it had been blessed. 

He acted before he could think. 

Honor snapped his jaws around Achilles’ scruff, slinging him hard to the ground, which the prince hit with an indignant gasp. Honor stepped sideways into where Achilles had stood, blocking him as the arrow flew. 

Searing pain erupted in his side as he roared, suddenly blindingly furious. The crowd jolted at the disruption, and seeing the arrow jutting out from the pouring wound in Honor’s leg — darkening his already dark fur and clumping it together with blood — panic began to set in. 

But Honor could see them, high up, on the walkway behind the seats.

This was his only chance. Otherwise, they would use the pandemonium and escape, and they may never find them again. He was going to kill them for what they had tried to do. 

Ignoring Achilles’ startled yell, he shoved himself into the air, and with a speed he didn’t know he possessed, hurtled himself towards the assassin. 

—————————

Damn it, Hawkmoth thought. That was it. She had blown their only chance to take the prince out of the equation. How had that blasted Volmyr known? Was there a mole in their ranks, someone who had leaked the information to the royal guard, and set the other wolf as Achilles’ guard? 

Angry as she was, she needed to move quickly, act the scared citizen, and get the hell out before anyone started asking questions. She slung the crossbow to the ground. No way she would make it out with the thing. It was fine, let them find it. It wouldn’t answer any questions. 

As she turned away to run, a crushing weight slammed into her ribs, and she hit the stone hard, choking with the impact. 

She flailed onto her back in a desperate attempt to right herself. Her ribs screamed with every movement — she was certain some were broken — but Hawkmoth was immediately pinned further by a crushing weight. 

Above her, the Volmyr leered down, his eyes blazing with… with hate, an all consuming loathing that made Hawkmoth’s blood run sluggish with icy fear. His jagged back claws dug painfully into her soft, unguarded underbelly. 

She was going to die. He was going to kill her. 

The Volymr lunged for her throat, and she braced for the pain. Instead, she felt as the chain of her necklace, hidden beneath her robes, snapped. 

The other wolf slung her pendant, marked with her true loyalties, and a… a spider caught it, holding the pendant up victoriously in two of its wooden legs. 

The Volmyr looked around, and by now the guards had swarmed in, surrounding them. Hawkmoth watched as the prince — faster than lightning, charged through them. 

Her attacker jerked his chin at the necklace. “That symbol mean anything to anyone?” he snarled, failing to keep the pain out of his voice. It had been a good shot, on her part, even if it had missed its true target. He’d probably be lame his entire life, with the way it appeared to have shredded through the tissues. 

“Honor!” the prince called. “You need medical attention, now! C’mon, leave this—“ Achilles sneered haughtily at Hawkmoth — still pinned — as if she hadn’t been one meddling wolf away from shooting him dead. “— to the guards. I’ll have them handled.”

She didn’t like the implications behind “handled.”

The guards grabbed for Hawkmoth, pinning her to the ground by her neck, as the Volmyr — Honor — begrudgingly let her go, leaning heavily on the prince. The other guards not holding her rushed to help support him. 

She could hear that damned Volmyr being swamped with questions as they half-carried him away. 

When the guards returned and clamped her in a muzzle and chains, Hawkmoth couldn’t help but wish that the Volmyr would’ve just killed her after all. 

True to his word, Achilles came to retrieve Honor as soon as the sun began to paint the world pink and orange with the dawn of a new day. 

Honor, for his part, hurt like hell — physically and emotionally. He ached with fever and was stiff from his time out cold. His head throbbed painfully with each heartbeat, and it was bandaged in a thick cloth that was extremely unflattering; he had taken a piece of debris to the back of the skull on his desperate flight over after receiving the new vision. 

He didn’t know what had possessed him to stop at the division between Goldsea and Murkwood to check his Web. He’d known the storm would be there soon; he needed to keep moving. But sure enough, he’d landed, asked Recluse to once again become a weaving loom, and the vision had slammed into him like a raging bull. 

Achilles, sitting proudly on a dais, waving to a passing parade of performers below. He is adorned decadently — not that he wasn’t always, but more so than usual — clearly overseeing some important event. To his left is his twin sister, Thetis, as imposing as ever. His parents sit behind him, just a little further up. The siblings were supposed to be there, required by tradition, but to Achilles it was certainly no burden; he had always loved his people, loved their attention. He had to be closer to them. 

Something pulls at the hem of his rich, purple robe, and he looks down. It’s Amalthea, his littlest sister. Honor had seen her in his visions before, but only rarely. She is much younger than the twins and adores them, but rarely sees much of her beloved older brother. She holds up her paws to be picked up to better see the festivities. 

Achilles grins and lowers his head, intent on scooping her up by the scruff and swinging her up on his back to make her squeal. 

He never gets the chance. The smile falls from his face with a strangled gurgle. Blood spots his perfectly white teeth, darkens his carnation pink nose. His crown slips from his ears and clatters against the ground, and he lurches to the side. Only then does anyone notice the arrow that has pierced his back and straight through into his heart and lungs. 

He’s gone before his head ever hits the ground. 

“Once upon a time, there lived a prince who loved his kingdom,” said that timeless, toneless voice that Honor knew so well, feared so greatly. 

“But while his kingdom loved him, many others did not. 

“The prince thought himself invincible, and a heartbreaker. 

But arrows pierce iron skin and will, and break the unbroken heart.”

Honor had come out of the vision unable to breathe, terrified that he wouldn’t make it. He could guess what celebration that was — the solstice was very close, and the wolves of Goldsea practically worshipped the sun — and that meant he had two weeks. Two weeks to make it, or everything would be lost before he could even begin to try and change it. 

So he’d done what any logical wolf would. He flew through a hurricane. 

He was starting to regret it now, though. The Achilles in his visions and the Achilles he had met last night were not the same wolf. He hadn’t expected fireworks and love at first sight, or anything so ridiculous, but he figured… he didn’t know… that the wolf he was destined to love into ruin would at least be tolerable and not a raging stuck up twit. 

But when had anything ever gone Honor’s way?

Achilles was wearing the crown from the vision when he entered the infirmary. He was decked out in fine jewelry and even wore a fine gold powder under his eyes. He sported a long, black-green chiton — not unlike Honor’s own, just of a far higher quality — and he stood with his head high, chest puffed out. 

Honor merely rolled his eyes. Total show off. Achilles was worse than a peacock. 

At least that was the same as his visions. 

“My Father wishes to speak with you. He apparently believes you have something of worth to say,” Achilles said with a great show of bravado. “I don’t agree, as you know.”

“You made that abundantly obvious last night, Achilles,” Honor said evenly. He watched the prince twitch at the use of his name, but Honor didn’t know what to tell him. That was his damn name, and he may not know it yet, but he might as well get used to Honor using it. They were stuck together, for better or worse. 

Honor just hoped they could get to the “better” sooner rather than later. Right now, he could barely stand this wolf. 

Besides, Achilles was a crown prince of one of the most well regarded, rich packs in all of Goldsea. Many, many wolves who he hadn’t met knew his name. He only had it out for Honor because he had it out for Weavers. That, or Honor had severely underestimated Achilles’ intelligence. 

He prayed to any Creator that would listen that it was the former. 

“But the message I come bearing regards you, Achilles,” Honor said, letting just a little bit of that desperation from before bleed into his voice. 

The blood on his teeth, the arrow in his heart, little Amalthea’s cries for a brother who was gone and would never be back again. 

“You are in grave danger. An assassin is coming to the Festival of Light. Someone wants you dead,” he said. Even at the mention, some deep panic clawed at his chest, but he couldn’t lose his composure. He would never be able to convince Achilles if he thought he was mad. 

Well, madder than he already thought he was. That line about “being as beautiful as the day he lost him” was absolutely insane of him. Why, why had his sleep-addled brain come up with that?

For a moment, something akin to fear flickered across Achilles’ eyes, and Honor had a moment of hope that he’d gotten through to him. 

Then the prince flattened his ears and lifted his snout, not so much as looking at Honor. He turned away back towards the door with a flourish and a flick of his short, fluffy tail. 

“We’ll see about that, you charlotte.” Achilles turned the corner. 

Honor just squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “… charlatan,” he sighed on the exhale before he began to follow. 

He had to follow Achilles a lot closer than he expected. He, for starters, kept a fast clip that was difficult to keep up with for Honor — wings were not built to keep up with a Bracchus with a chip on his shoulder — but other than that, he just couldn’t stop staring at the palace around him. 

It was just so… open. Everywhere, there were windows to let in sunlight, with massive hallways so wide that Honor was certain he could stretch his wings all the way across and still have room on either side. As they continued on, presumably to the outer layers of the palace, the walls ended, leading to beautiful open air passageways that turned off into courtyards and other covered hallways. The warm, still-damp air misted against his fur and he slowed, just staring out as they passed a small garden. Plants spilled from massive vases, hung from bronze planters suspended by chains, climbed up the marble columns. The smell of green was so intense it permeated into the passages beyond it. 

It was nothing like the Weaver Warren, with its stone walls and stone floors and thick with the smells of dust and dread. 

Honor hadn’t even noticed that he’d lost Achilles until he came trotting back up beside him with an annoyed look on his face. 

“It’s further down,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “What’s the hold up? Another fake vision?”

Honor ignored the dig and just continued to stare out into the courtyard, trying to take it all in. He didn’t think he’d be able to make his way back, but maybe he’d be able to convince Achilles to show him again. “It’s so open here.”

Achilles cocked his head, and one of his ears flopped. Honor hated to admit that it was cute. “What?” he asked. His voice had lost all of its snideness, like he was too caught off guard to be rude. 

Honor glanced over at him. “I hail from Murkwood, and many packs there live mostly underground, mine included. I know some wolves don’t mind it, especially Zerda and Kit and the like, but I’m a Wyvern. We’re built for treetops and open spaces, not tunnels. I — I don’t like being underground.” He said the last part quietly. It was something he’d never actually admitted out loud at home, knowing what his mother would say. 

But he was a winged thing, and the underground had simply always felt like a punishment. 

“I would’ve thought bats liked caves,” Achilles said. 

Honor scowled at him. “Well, I’m certain they do, but they also aren’t nearly my size. Besides, I’m not a bat.”

Achilles looked like he wanted to argue, seemed to think better of it, and then simply shrugged and continued down the hall. This time, his gait was noticeably slower. 

Finally, Achilles led him to a massive room. In the center was a finely carved table with bright pillows as cushions against the cool stone floor. Like everything in this place, the room allowed in plenty of light, and against one wall was a fireplace. The room was decorated in paintings and statues of old wolves; this was undoubtedly a council room. 

Already seated at the table were Phoenix and Nereid — Achilles’ parents, he remembered instantly — along with Thetis (who eyed him critically as he circled the table), as well as a few scattered wolves that Honor had never seen in his visions. He assumed them to be Phoenix’s advisors. 

Achilles took a seat beside his sister. Honor, however, continued to stand. He didn’t quite know the etiquette here, and at least at home, it was always safer to defer to humility and submission. 

“Ah, Achilles!” Phoenix said jovially. “Nice of you to join us, and you’ve brought our guest.”

“As you asked, yes,” Achilles said demurely, but there was a biting edge under those words. As you commanded, he really said. 

Phoenix turned to Honor next, who drew himself up to his full height, chin high, letting the intricately carved  Weaver medallion catch the light. “You must be our guest, then. I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to greet you before now, but I suppose you already know who I am, if you are what you say,” the old king said jovially, but not without the underlying threat. You better be who you say you are.

At this, Honor lowered himself into a bow, averting his eyes. “Of course, King Phoenix. Even without my sight, your reputation for kindness and cleverness outpaces you.”

At this, the old wolf laughed heartily. “And he’s a flatterer! What is your name, noble Weaver?”

“My name is Honor, sir.”

He hazarded to raise his eyes, and the room watched him with great interest. Phoenix calling him a Weaver had gotten their attention. He tried to ignore Achilles’ hawk-sharp eyes on him. 

This was a game. That’s all. Honor could play games. 

“I have traveled from Murkwood, through a hurricane, to bring you a warning. Though, I suppose it isn’t really a warning for you, but for your son,” he continued gravely. 

He turned to Achilles, who matched his stare. 

“I have foreseen your death.” More times than I can count. Achilles, you have no idea what awaits you. It haunts my every dream. “An assassin waits at the Festival of Light to put an arrow in your heart.” It is not just then, my dear. You are fated. I have seen it a thousand ways at a thousand points. You have died in my arms. I’ve tasted your blood in my mouth. “I beg of you not to go, for it is certain if something does not change. I have flown through a storm to tell you this; please, heed me now.”

The room was silent for a long, long moment, shocked into stillness. Honor’s heart continued to race. 

Of course, it was Achilles who broke it. 

“And what if you’re lying? How do you know about such an attempt, unless you’re a part of it?” he snapped. 

“I swear on my connection to Fate and Time memorial that I tell you the truth, prince. Your life is at stake. If you’d like, I can spin you another vision to prove it, but until this thread is resolved, I’ll be able to see nothing else,” Honor said, pleadingly. No one else in the room mattered. If he couldn’t convince Achilles, then everything was lost. 

Maybe it was the vow, or maybe it was the tears starting to mist his eyes, but something broke in Achilles’ eyes. 

“I cannot miss the Festival of Light, Weaver,” Achilles said. It was the closest he’d come to using his name. “My people would worry.”

Nereid cut in. “If what the Weaver says is true, darling, then we can simply make up an excuse. We’ll say you caught a fever.”

Achilles shook his head, hard, that fierce stubbornness in his eyes. “I’m going to the festival. I’ll be careful.”

“Then take me with you,” Honor said. It was a desperate last plan, but something felt like it clicked into place. “I’m trained in combat, and I can have an aerial view from the stands. I can locate the assassin before they can shoot.” Yes, this… this could work. 

“You think the Bull of Goldsea needs a bodyguard—“ Achilles started, but Phoenix cut him off. 

“If you speak the truth, Weaver Honor,” he said slowly, “then it would be a, well, honor for you to attend. We’ll have to spin a story of who you are, though.” His snout pinched into a tight lipped smile. “We are having, ah… troubles, with our neighboring pack, see, and they wouldn’t take well to knowing we’ve taken a Weaver into our midst willingly.”

Interesting. 

Phoenix turned to Achilles. “For the time being, the Weaver is to be your public bodyguard. He’ll travel in your carriages and stand with you at the Festival and any other reason you have to be out and about.”

Achilles didn’t respond, only stared out the window. He blew out a long breath. 

“You better not be lying to me,” he said before standing and leaving. 

The rest of the meeting was full of Phoenix going through the motions, telling Honor that he’ll have him taken to his own rooms, and no, he doesn’t need to worry about his things, a servant will get them, that he’ll ave him more presentable robes by the morning, that it’s a pleasure and not a burden at all to have him. 

Honor’s stomach churned. He needed to find Achilles. 

As it turned out, Achilles found him first. 

It was as he was being led by a timid servant to his guest rooms that Achilles cut them off and dismissed the other wolf. 

“I’ll take him personally. I’ve assigned him somewhere else,” he said. The servant merely bowed and walked away. 

Honor cleared his throat. “Achilles, I—“

“Three days. It’s three days until the Festival of Light. You have three days to prove you aren’t lying to me,” he said. 

“I swear to you that I’m not.”

“Then swear harder.”

Honor blinked. He didn’t know what that meant. By the look on Achilles’ face, he didn’t either. 

Neither of them had time to figure it out because as soon as Achilles said it, they fetched up at a door. Achilles jerked his chin at the room. “These are yours. I’ll have all your stuff sent here instead, and a new robe, and some jewelry. If you’re going to follow me around, then you’ll need to look the part. I’m leaving in a few hours to go for a walk through the park in the public districts. We’ll find you some sparkly things then.”

“My ears aren’t pierced,” Honor said distractedly, staring in awe as he peered into his rooms. 

He had expected Achilles to have him put in an underground room, out of spite. Instead, it seemed, he’d put him in the largest, brightest guest room they had. 

The room was large enough for him to glide across, with multiple levels and a nest perched high in a loft. He had his own stocked bookshelf, a fireplace, and a lowered area to the side that was stocked full of cushions to lounge in. 

But best of all, through an open doorway at the back, he saw the garden he and Achilles had seen before. The sunlight cast glittering patterns across the floor as he stepped in. 

“It’s fine,” Achilles said. “I’ll pierce ‘em for you.”

Honor turned and just stared at him. “Thank you.” He was genuinely touched.

Achilles cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s, uh, really not that hard to do. I just need a needle—“

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

He shuffled. Was the great, arrogant Achilles embarrassed? “Yeah, well. No one stays here anymore. It’s not a big deal. A-anyways, I’ll come get you at noon to leave. You can do whatever you want until then. I don’t care.”

And then he was gone, the fastest wolf in the world. Honor heard his claws scrabbling as he scampered down the hallway and around a corner. 

Honor touched a claw to his medallion. He knew the carving better than his own face: a lion with the sun as its mane, after his first vision. It was customary, for a Weaver to take their sigil from the first thing the Spinner deemed them worthy of seeing. 

He laughed softly to himself. 

Achilles, ever so lionhearted, turned to an embarrassed mess over his own kindnesses.