#lore wolf

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.”

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. 

Achilles didn’t think he was the best. He knew he was.

It wasn’t arrogant when he said this. It was simply the truth. Achilles knew who he was: the favored son of the Spirits, golden prince of the Anthills and the shimmering, green-gold waters of the oasis beyond their cities, the lion-hearted warrior, as swift as the wind and merciless as the churning waves.

He was the kind of wolf legends were made of.

Already, the poets named him the Bull of Goldsea, the Swordbearer of Elius, the Spear of the Golden Sun. Wolves clamored after him wherever he went, asking how is your day, prince? Have you heard about the traveling band who wishes to play for the palace, prince? A new warrior has come seeking your training; would you see them, oh fine prince? He found it all to be quite good fun, if he were honest. And so what if he had a big head? Plenty of lesser folks had ones larger than himself, and they were far more insufferable about it. Achilles was an achiever, the kind who got things done when he wanted, and damn the consequences. It only occasionally turned out poorly for him.

Like right now, when he and his twin were stuck sprinting through the grounds meant for traveling merchants, trying to find somewhere sturdy enough to dodge a spirits-forsaken monsoon.

In his defense, the Icerun-crafted jewelry he had gotten from the traveling market was absolutely stunning. When he pointed this out to Thetis, calling loudly over the growl of thunder, she only glared daggers as she continued to whip her head from side to side, watching as merchants began to slam down the wooden awnings of their wagons, hunkering them down against the angry, biting wind that pulled at Achilles’ cloak and ruffled his meticulously groomed fur. The delicate chains at his throat clanged against one another, disturbed both by his fast pace and the wind threatening to toss him all the way to Murkwood.

They only needed to get out of the mercantile grounds, and into the actual merchant district. Then, they’d be at the permanent shops — carved from sturdy marble and partially underground in most cases — and they could wait out the worst of it before heading back to the palace. If Achilles was lucky, he might even get a good new trinket out of it; he did love the little oddities shops that tended to occupy the edges of the district, small and chipped and quietly out of place. If he was extra lucky, they’d reach a store before the rains started to fall.

He was not extra lucky. The torrent fell out directly on top of his and Thetis’ heads, instantly soaking him through with uncharacteristically cold droplets.

Strange, the summer rains were never this freezing.

The pair picked up the pace, bounding through the beaten dirt paths of the traveling grounds before finally bursting into the cobbled streets of the mercantile district, now shivering, cold, and muddy. To add insult to injury, the first few shops were dark and clearly empty. The keepers probably knew of the storms and cut their losses for the day, opting to stay at home — warm and settled against the rain — than try and get a few dinky sales.

When they finally ran upon a shop with a lantern in the front window, illuminating a paw-painted sign reading Open, Achilles immediately shoved open the door, allowing Thetis inside, before following hot on her tail. The store was small and unbelievably cramped, lined with small shelves full of candles, tarot cards, and crystals. On one shelf that stood just higher than his head, he caught a glimpse of a rabbit skull, leering at him with its empty eye sockets. Stars and other celestial bodies painted the walls between massive — admittedly beautiful — tapestries depicting the Spiritwolves, the different packlands, and classic Goldsea tales. It was just as he suspected: one of the oddities shops.

He shook out his fur violently, swearing at any higher being that dared to listen, as he pulled off his ruined chiton to wipe off his paws. He sighed, sticking out his tongue at the soggy fabric; it had been his favorite, too.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like that,” Thetis snapped. “It was your idea to come out in this. We could be at home right now, but nooo, you just had to buy more useless garbage, didn’t you?”

Achilles scoffed, bringing his paw to his chest in mock offense. “It’s not garbage. Just because you prefer to let others dictate your accessory choices doesn’t mean I have to. Besides, you didn’t even have to come. You very well could’ve stayed at home.”

“Yeah, and let your dumb ass get robbed? Unlikely.”

“You think that common thieves could rob me? Thetis, I’m hurt—“

“Hello, Suneater.”

They both whirled, startled at being interrupted. Standing in the doorway to a back room they hadn’t noticed was a Jocol. Their frame was thin, hunched slightly with age, with a sharp face and bright pink eyes set deep in their skull, rimmed in dark kohl. Their ears were pierced through with dangling earrings; in the half-dark, Achilles made out a spider, a sword, a card, the moon inset in the rays of the sun. Their nose was threaded through with a silver bar, offsetting the gold of their fur.

Thetis recovered first, bowing in deference. “I apologize for the intrusion. We got caught in the storm and just need a place to wait it out.”

The wolf didn’t look at Thetis, though. They just stared—

Stared at him.

The strange wolf laughed, sharp and high, like the cackle of a hyena. “Oh, you’re welcome to wait out the storm now, princess, but your brother has only just now seen the beginning of his own. It has only just started.”

He stiffened, hackles raised, though he didn’t know exactly at what. They weren’t threatening him, were they? Surely not.

Instead of acknowledging that, he asked, “Who are you?”

“Ah, of course. How rude of me to not introduce myself. I am Canary, you are in my shop, and it is an honor to meet the royal twins.”

Achilles glanced back at the window, and through the downpour, he could just make out the spidery lettering on a sign that rocked violently with the grating winds.

Caged Bird Fortunes, it read.

He snorted. Of course, they’d ended up in a scammer’s den.

It wasn’t that Achilles didn’t believe in Fate. He just knew that the Creator who controlled it was long gone, leaving it to spin its own out of control stories. He also knew of so-called Weavers, slimy little charlatans who spun pretty lies and even prettier misdirections, and lived off of the fear of those they preyed upon. They called themselves agents of the Fatespinner, who were the only living mouthpiece to the Spider who sat, tirelessly spooling and testing new threads of future and probability, but Achilles knew better. The future was determined by action, not by some conniving little conman, and certainly not by a long gone Creator, strangled under Chaos’ dark reign.

No, anyone who claimed to read the future was a liar.

But Achilles couldn’t exactly leave, could he? Not if he wanted to keep his beloved fur from being turned into a soggy, frizzy mess. It would be his greatest shame if anyone saw him in such a state.

So he played along, and plastered a forced smile to his face. He could do this; the court had made him very good at nodding along with liars.

He bowed his head. “A pleasure to meet you as well, Weaver.”

They laughed, shook their head. “I am no Weaver, Suneater. My days with them are long over. Now I can only give out what little pieces of information the Spinner grants me in my time left. They do not tell me the secrets of everyone.”

He huffed a laugh before he could suppress it, and Thetis elbowed him, hard. Still, he continued, “Not the best business model.”

Canary grinned, and one of their canine teeth was silver. “No, but I’d rather be truthful in my assessment and poor than make a mockery of my people’s talents by lying.”

As if you aren’t already, he thought scornfully. He held his tongue, however, and flashed them his most winning smile — the one that, as a pup, always got him his way, and usually did now, too. “Well then, do you have anything for us?”

At his words, Canary turned to Thetis for the first time. “Not for you, princess,” she said, “as your life will be everything you expect and more. Quiet, and long, and uncruel.”

Thetis bowed her head slightly at this, and Achilles wondered if she actually bought this swill. “I’m honored you see such, Weaver Canary.”

This time, they ignored her misuse of the title. “But you, boy, have much to read, and I have no time to pick it apart. But don’t you worry, there is another.”

Unexpectedly, Achilles felt something kick in his chest. Something… uneasy. Something apprehensive.

He didn’t like it.

They were just a run of the mill scam artist, he tried to tell himself. Why should he get knocked into a tizzy over it?

The thudding of his heart didn’t still though, knocking against his chest like a bird’s wing.

Or a bat’s, he thought suddenly.

Weird.

“How much for a reading? A quick one,” he found himself asking against his better judgement.

Canary shook their head. “I have no need to read for you, Suneater. I saw your fates today, but I will relay its warning to you, for a price.” They smiled slyly at this.

“What are you asking?”

They tossed their head to the side, tapping their chin with a crooked paw. “Hmm… for you… a cloak pin, and the first letter that comes into your mind as you hand it to me.”

Well then. Okay.

Canary really was running a terrible business model.

He rummaged through his ruined chiton, pulling the little silver pin out of the dark fabric. He reached out, and when he touched their paw, a flash cut through his mind.

A pink nose, a blizzard, the light of a fireplace, a bundle of green blankets.

“P,” he told them, blinking hard. Strange; what just happened to him? He tried to remember what he had seen, and the only thing he could conjure was a feeling of dread.

Canary nodded, like this made all the sense in the world. They pulled him into the back room, stopping Thetis when she tried to follow.

“A fate yet unwritten cannot be heard by other players, princess. I apologize.” They looked like they meant it.

Canary settled him amongst pillows stitched with mirrored panels, edged in velvet, and lit a foul smelling incense that made him sneeze. They settled across from him, in their own nest of mirrored cushions, took his outstretched paw, and looked into his eyes.

In that moment, they were not in the shop. He was not with his sister, waiting out a storm with a crazy old Jocol. Instead, he stood in blank white snow, but he was not cold. Around him, shapes that may have been wolves raged. When he looked down, he was coated so thoroughly in gore, it appeared his fur had no green at all, just black and black and more black, permanently dyed by all of the blood coating his forelegs and paws. He had no sense of smell or touch, but he retched anyway, horrified.

“First comes the storm, who blows in the bat,” Canary’s voice intoned from somewhere that was not Here. “The bat brings the Spider, who churns out the Web. The Web spins the rabbit to run over your early grave. Beware of the rising sun, and the eight jewel eyes.”

“Achilles!”

He fell back hard, gasping, as Thetis shook his shoulder. He was shaking, he realized distantly. Canary only blinked calmly at him.

“What did you—“ he began, but Thetis cut him off.

“We have to go home,” she said. “Father— Father sent someone to summon us. Someone’s at the palace.”

Achilles shook his head, confused. “The rain, Thetis—“

“— has stopped, young prince. You were gone for a long time,” Canary finished. “Go now. Your game begins.”

They turned, swishing through another side room that he had missed before. He had no desire to follow them. He didn’t think he wanted to be here anymore.

Thetis looked at him, suddenly concerned. “What happened? I was waiting for you to come out, and you never did, so when the messenger showed up, I came in and you— you were frozen. You looked like you were in pain.”

Achilles shook his head, sharply. He didn’t want to talk or think about this ever again. “Nothing. Nothing happened. I think I just need some sleep; it’s been a long day. We can go now.”

Yeah, yeah that was it. It must’ve been the incense. Whatever that old loon was burning must’ve addled his mind, made him hallucinate. He just needed to sleep it off.

He stood up, hating how shaky his legs were. Thetis stepped closer, allowing him to get his balance against her side.

“Why’s Father calling after us?” He asked when they stepped out onto the street. Canary had been right; the rain had stopped while he was… wherever he was. The sun was peeking shyly out from behind the remaining clouds, making the deep puddles glimmer with refracted light. “I know the storm was bad, but surely he wasn’t that worried over us.”

Thetis shook her head. “The messenger didn’t have details, but apparently the storm blew in a Wyvern who’s flown a long way. He’s sick and exhausted and passed out immediately at our doorstep.”

Achilles’ eyebrows rose. A Wyvern was a rare sight in Loria; rare already by their limited numbers, but even then, they usually kept to their own communities, and rarely took to visiting outsiders.

“But that’s not the alarming part,” Thetis continued. “He — Apparently he wears the marks of a Weaver—“

That same desperate bird in his chest slammed against his sternum, and he knew with sickening clarity what his twin was about to say. He closed his eyes, but it did not stop the words from coming.

When Achilles was barely a pup, his mother used to scold him for scowling. 

“A bright smile gets you far further than a frown, Achilles,” she had said. “It’s much easier to get your way when people think you’re happy no matter what.”

But here, in the dark, candlelit infirmary, he was absolutely all scowls. Why did these things always happen to him?

———

When he and Thetis had arrived to his father’s summons, Phoenix had only pinned him with a grave look and ushered the two of them into a study. There, his mother Nereid and their closest advisors were already sat, picking at a plate of refreshments. No one met Achilles’ eyes, just kept their ears and heads low. The fireplace roared in the corner, warming the room uncomfortably, and just outside the stained glass window — depicting some old alpha or another — rain continued to patter lightly against the panes. 

“We have a visitor,” he said. “A Volmyr, who is currently in the infirmary. He’s in a bad way.” Phoenix sounded desperately tired. 

“Where is he from? What business does he have?” Achilles asked, trying to keep his tone neutral. 

First comes the bat. 

Phoenix shook his head. “We do not know. He collapsed pretty much as soon as he was inside. He’s sick with fever, and it seems something must’ve cracked him across the head. Wherever he’s from, he’s come a long way, and fast.”

“— but we know he is a Weaver,” Nereid said, and her voice was sharp, almost fearful. An intangible shiver moved across the room, and Achilles felt his hackles rise on end. 

“Well, where is he now?” Thetis asked, cutting Achilles off, who was most definitely going to say something stupid. 

“As I said, the infirmary, but that’s why I called the two of you back.” For the first time, Phoenix turned to face his son. “ Achilles, I’m tasking you with watching over him until he awakes. I — he was calling after you, when he landed. He wears a Weaver’s medallion, though not of any sect we could recognize. Find out why he’s come. I suspect he wouldn’t speak to us, but he will to you.”

“And what if I will not?” Achilles retorted haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height. Who did they think he was?! Did they really think to send him to appease some… some storm-blown, raging lunatic? Spirits above, they were sending him into the lion’s den!

Well, the bat’s den. But still, the principle was the same. 

Phoenix fixed him with a glare. “You will. I have allowed you and your sisters every freedom you ask, but you will do what I say in this. You may think yourself invincible, but the Weavers have dominion over and protection from something far more frightening than a mortal enemy, Achilles. You do not wish to anger their Creator. At best, all you do is delay why they’ve come. At worst… well. I would rather you not learn that lesson.”

———

So yeah, maybe he did scowl at his reflection in the window. It was better than looking at… him. 

When they had said he was a Volmyr, Achilles thought he knew what to expect. He knew they were winged. He knew they were large. He knew they were reclusive and preferred the night to day. He knew that even amongst wolves, they were strange to behold. 

No one had ever told him that they were beautiful. 

The Volmyr had been nestled in their largest recovery nest, but even then, it was nearly too small for him. His massive, dark wings were wrapped around his body, almost as if in comfort, and occasionally in his rest he would rock inside of them and bury his face in their leathery folds. He had large, delicate ears that trembled and twitched at every little sound, and they were finely furred and came to gentle, rounded points. He had a long, rectangular snout that hung open while he slept, and every once in a while, he would murmur in his sleep. His fur was almost solidly black upon first glance, but when Achilles truly looked, it tapered to a gentle, forest green upon his back, tail, and snout, making it look like he wore a mask and cape of verdant moss. His eyes were large and round, and Achilles found himself — foolishly — wondering what color they were. 

Achilles shook his head, hard. What was he doing?

And why couldn’t he just stop staring at that stupid Volmyr? 

When he had arrived, apparently he had carried only one bag, and been accompanied by a Crane, of all creatures. They had moved the bird, which was soaked and shivering from the deluge, to their companion stables, where it was being cared for by their keepers. Everything in the bag spoke of someone who had either left in a hurry, had little to their name, or both. It was mostly spare clothing, loose currency, and interestingly enough, a collapsible bow staff. Achilles wondered if he knew how to use it. 

Beyond this, there were only two things of note. 

The first was a little wooden, mechanical wind-up spider (Achilles shivered as he thought of Canary’s words), but no one could find the little key to make it move. It just sat, all its legs curled inward like it was dead, and looked at them with glittery eyes. 

The second was a tapestry. It was small and messy, clearly made by an inexperienced hand, but when Achilles had pulled it from the bag — bored of all of his babysitting — his heart had stuttered. 

It depicted a copper-green lion with a fiery ball — the sun, maybe? — snagged in its claws. It had sunk its teeth into the surface, and the flames were licking back into the lion’s pained face, burning away its mane. Below it, the planet turned, seemingly unaware of the battle in the sky above. 

He felt awful, but Achilles had quietly folded the thick fabric and tucked it in his own bag. For whatever reason, he didn’t want to let it go.  

The Volmyr mumbled something again, and gasped. 

Achilles turned back to him, but his eyes were still squeezed shut. 

He padded back over to the stranger and quirked his head. 

“What’s going on in there?” he asked quietly. “Bad dream?”

The Weaver didn’t respond. Obviously. His ears twitched at Achilles’ voice. 

Achilles huffed a laugh, and turned back to the window. What was he even doing? Honestly, he should just go to bed. He’d speak to the Volmyr when he woke up, if his father wanted him to so badly. 

He turned to him one last time. 

And when he looked at the Volmyr, he was looking back. 

Achilles no longer had to wonder about his eyes. They were green. Not brilliantly, lime green like Achilles’ were, bright as spring. No, the Volmyrs were a deep, rich green, solemn and dark as night. 

When he met Achilles’ eyes, he only smiled weakly. Something in his expression was soft, dreamy. 

“You’re just as beautiful as the day I lose you.”

Achilles blinked. For a blissful moment, he didn’t process whatever was just said. And then, understanding crashed into him like a freight train. Or rather, not understanding. 

“What?” Achilles hissed, absolutely befuddled and frankly, appalled and vaguely offended. What in Elius’ name did he just say to him?! 

At his anger, the Volmyr seemed to realize what he’d just said, and Achilles watched as he blanched, scurrying back and away from him and slamming his massive head into the wall with a painful sounding thud.

“I— I don’t—“ he stammered, reaching up with a claw to his neck. This seemed to instill a new type of panic in him as he scrambled through the blankets, feeling around for something that wasn’t there. 

“Achilles—“ He hated that the Volmyr knew his name and had the audacity to use it. “I — Have you seen a spider? A little wooden one with black eyes. Recluse? Recluse, here!”

Achilles ignored his question. He had already had enough of this wolf, and he’d been awake for thirty seconds. All of that anger and fear he’d felt before came seeping back into his body, and he bristled, baring his teeth and flattening his ears. “Why are you here, Weaver? Why do you know my name?”

And what did you mean, “the day I lose you?”

The Volmyr opened his mouth, like he might have been inclined to answer, but before he could, something tan and solid shot across the room, smacking the Volmyr straight in the chest, knocking the breath out of him with a comical wheeze. The shape scuttled up his neck, hopping up on his head, pulling at his big ears and checking the bandages at his nape like a worried mother hen. Achilles noticed with a shock that it was the little wind-up toy from earlier, the one with no key. Yet here it was, moving and twitching about on its wooden, twiggy legs. 

Achilles, for a moment, was distracted from his more pressing questions, delighted. “How did you do that?”

The Volmyr looked up, sheepish. When he met Achilles’ eyes, he immediately glanced away. “It’s, um, enchanted. An old faerie trick. It’ll only activate for someone it trusts.”

At the mention of magic, Achilles sneered. Of course. He hadn’t forgotten who this Volmyr was. He was a Weaver, come to bring something terrible. At once, Achilles decided he disliked this newcomer, handsome and awkward as he was. It was probably all a lie, anyways. Everything about his kind was. 

He didn’t voice any of this, of course. He just scoffed. “Of course,” he said snidely. 

The Volmyr’s ears drooped, and he looked away. Achilles almost felt bad, like he had done something truly unforgivable to make him look like that, because of something Achilles had done.

Almost. 

The Volmyr recovered quickly. He reached out with a wing before seemingly thinking better, and pulling it back close to his body. “Achilles, listen, I—“

“Don’t call me that. You shouldn’t know my name. You’re just some… some freaky magic valet—“

“— do you mean ‘voyeur?’”

“— and I don’t know yours. So just… just stop.” He was breathing harshly, angrily, and he hated that he couldn’t keep his composure around this… this absolute freak of magic. 

“… it’s Honor.”

Achilles narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“My— my name. It’s Honor. And I’m sorry for scaring you, or freaking you out. I have known you — well, seen visions of you — since I was a pup so I…” he trailed off, and laughed softly. It was a nice sound, that laugh, dejected as it was. “Sometimes I get ahead of myself. But that’s my name. It’s Honor.”

What a strong name for such a quiet personality, Achilles thought. It doesn’t fit him at all. He had expected something quiet, maybe just a little too large for him, but full of graceful dignity. No, Achilles decided, that name didn’t suit him in the slightest. 

He didn’t fully let his guard down, but something about the tone of Honor’s voice felt like cool water down his back: at once soothing and shocking. He felt his muscles settle, just a bit. 

Achilles didn’t respond, just harrumphed and looked away, back at the window at the dark sky. 

“I know you don’t want to speak to me, but I beg you.” Achilles could practically hear him fighting to not say his name. “Please, please hear me. You’re in immediate danger. It’s why I flew through the storm.”

Achilles tensed. He didn’t look at the stranger again. Instead, he said, “It’s late. Everyone else is in bed, but in the morning, I will retrieve you and Father and the rest of the council — including myself — will hear your story. Then I’ll decide if what you say is worth my time.”

He rose swiftly then, swaggering out of the room. Against his better judgement, he looked back at Honor one last time. 

Breed: Wyvern

Birth Pack: Honor was born to the Tapestry of the Widow - one of the oldest (and most elusive) sect of Weavers - in Murkwood, where he spent his entire childhood and early adulthood.

Pack Allegiance: Like any Weaver, he holds no allegiance to any Spiritwolf. Instead, he serves the Creator Fate directly.

Family: Mother: Merit, Father: unknown (it is known who this wolf is, but Honor has never been allowed contact), Siblings: two sisters, both unknown

Personality: Honor is often described as being solemn and reclusive, often to the point of awkwardness - the “strong and silent” type, but he is also deeply anxious and worries constantly over any detail that does not align to his carefully constructed plan. This has made him an excellent Weaver, tactician, and advisor, but he struggles constantly with being able to live in the moment and not worry about that which even he cannot know. He is deeply driven and compassionate, but oftentimes short and extremely dry towards those he dislikes (which is many). However, he bizarrely seems to have a soft spot for one wolf in particular, who no matter the annoyances he causes him, Honor seems perfectly happy to turn his stoic cheek and allow for whatever nonsense this companion seems to want to put him through.

Skill Sets: His most obvious skill is his Weaving: the ability to turn a weaving loom into an instrument for him to see the future. He is, perhaps, the most skilled Weaver of his generation, and is capable of spinning countless threads together to manipulate future events to his - and by extension, the Fatespinner’s - will. Though he is much more skilled as a battle tactician, Honor is also fairly skilled in battle. Swords and such are difficult for him, due to having wings instead of dexterous front paws, but he is extremely capable with a bow staff or any weapon that has been retrofitted to accommodate his anatomy. Most of the time, though, he needs no weapons, as he is quite large and quite strong, so a mobbing from his wings is often enough to send most assailants fleeing. In the event that this isn’t enough, though, a speedy getaway flight is always an option. He is no great charmer, but his calm demeanor and somewhat powerful air is enough to command the attention of any council, and he has quite the intimidating stare.

Honor knew that he was Merit’s greatest disappointment.

He wasn’t belittling himself; it was simply the truth.

His earliest memory was of her scowling face snapping harshly at him as she scribbled furiously across her endless, bloodstained paperwork as he scrambled back apologetically (he’d only wanted to see— ). He remembered leaning against her massive, hearth-warmed side, snuggled under her wings, all the while trying to pretend that it was not only begrudging indifference that allowed him to doze there, but something akin to love. A distant, secluded kind of love. He recalled the great huff of her breath, the twitch of her irritated tail, and how he’d felt so small against her gargantuan side — like she would always tower over everything in his little, private world, would always be the great obstacle between him and the scary places beyond; that she was just a distant protector, like the sentries placed outside their dens — barely dots on the dark, murky horizon — and not so actively begrudging of his quiet presence in her cramped little study like the other pups said about how she felt about him.

But Merit was not so sentimental as to believe in love. No, to her, Honor was a nuisance who would one day, hopefully, bring her some kind of prestige amongst the Tapestry they called home. Maybe, some day, he’d grow up to be the same heartless, all seeing monster as his mother — stronger, even. Maybe, she’d see him become a true Acolyte of the Fatespinner, one who shunned all earthly emotions and spoke face to face with the Spinner themself. There had not been such a wolf in centuries. But her bloodline was strong, and Honor had been sworn by every eldest Spider in the Tapestry that he was something special. A Weaver who would be truly magnificent, a wolf meant to touch the stars.

Honor was never going to be that wolf. He knew that. He was perfectly okay with that, in fact. It simply wasn’t the path meant for him; he knew his fate was something far more treacherous, and infinitely more painful.

And that fate had stopped knocking at the door. Honor had slammed it shut, so it just crawled in through the window on skittering, terrible legs.

Merit still hadn’t deemed to so much as look at him. Her claws still scritch-scritch-scritched against the parchment, dragging and forming short, concise paragraphs, as was her way — ever practical, ever shrewd, the picture of a perfect Weaver, the perfect leader. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of trying to get her attention. He simply sat in silence, waiting on her to start the conversation; she could put it off for as long as she liked. Nothing would change the outcome, and the low setting of her ears, angry and so painfully obvious even as she tried to feign indifference, gave away everything Honor needed to know.

The Fatespinner had indeed intervened with her schemes.

It felt like ages before Merit seemed to realize that Honor was not going to speak first. She rolled up her scrolls and wiped the ink from her claws with a deep sigh.

“I don’t need to tell you why I summoned you. I’m certain you know,” she said, her voice hard and deadpan. Her icy blue eyes (every day he was thankful he had gotten his father’s green ones, even if he had never met the wolf in person) bore into him with feigned disinterest, but he had long since learned to find the barely contained disdain she had for him.

“If I am correct, you summoned me in order to berate me about how I better not ruin your reputation with my condemnable nonsense, so why don’t we just cut to the heart? Where is my Loom?” Honor had no time for this. A storm was brewing over the southern coast — where he would be flying in order to reach the elusive Anthills Oasis — and if he didn’t leave soon, he’d be tossed like a rag doll through it.

“Watch your words, boy,” she snapped. “I already have half the mind to disregard the Spinner’s instructions and send another in your place. Frankly, I don’t think you’re capable of the indifference needed, but we are all but servants to the Divine, even if I think they’ve made a mistake.”

“My loom, Mother.”

She looked, for a moment, as if she was going to argue over the semantics of whose loom it truly was, but she just glared and held out her wing.

“Right here.”

From across her wing membranes, a large brown… thing hopped across, landing on the table. It was approximately the shape of a spider, with eight legs and eight dark, glittering eyes, but it moved too stiffly, and its legs were thick and oddly jointed. It looked like a wooden wind up toy, and most importantly, it was most certainly not Honor’s loom.

Before he could protest, Merit explained, “You do not know every Weaver secret, son. Do not look surprised. This is the Faerie Loom, and every fae artifact has its tricks. This one can turn into a spider for transport, and it will follow its master’s every command. When it was created, it was meant to listen only to the instructions of the High Spider who struck the truce with Faerieland. However, it’s not good form to tie an entire magical object to one person, so they struck a caveat. The loom must have a name given to it by its master, and if it’s revoked, it’ll take the next name it is given, and follow the new wolf in thanks.”

Merit now stared down at the spider-loom. “You’ve been Widow long enough,” she intoned. “You have no name now, and thus no purpose. Leave my service.”

Instantly, the little creature froze, like its mechanics had suddenly locked up as if in disbelief. Then, in the next moment, it hid its gemstone eyes behind two legs, and made a mournful little clicking sound, like it was crying.

Honor immediately felt awful for it and reached out his wings, scooping it up. It only continued to cry, trembling in his grasp, unsoothed from its pain

Merit only watched the display with mild disgust. “Name it once more — anything but Widow — and it will be tied to you and follow any command you give it.”

Honor looked down at the spider-loom, still crying, and soothed, “It’s alright, my friend. You know me, and I’m sorry I haven’t named you before, Recluse. You are always welcome by my side.”

As quickly as it had come, the crying stopped, and Recluse hopped up happily, springing in place before skittering up his neck to perch happily between his ears. He felt it settle there heavily, and now it radiated just a little bit of warmth. It was… nice.

“No other will be able to command it. I have given its ownership to you.” Merit snorted a laugh, almost to herself. “Never say I didn’t do anything to help you succeed.”

“Why didn’t you show me this before?” he asked. “I’ve had the loom for years now. It would’ve been nice to be able to move it.”

Merit waved her wing dismissively. “Because I knew you would act on impulse and run with it. I’m no fool, Honor. You hate it here almost as much as everyone else dislikes your staying. That loom was the only thing keeping you rooted.”

That, and whatever the Fatespinner showed you that scared you. Merit didn’t say it, but Honor felt it.

“But now I’m leaving under the orders of the Spinner, so you’re letting it go,” he said.

“It’s not like anyone else has any use of it. I’d rather lose a useless display piece than have you embarrass me by being unable to Weave on the average loom,” she said, turning away from him and back to her papers. “It was merely practical. But other than that, you may take anything you can carry with you. I suggest you travel light. You intend to fly over the sea to avoid Mistvale and the rest of Murkwood, yes?”

Honor nodded. Weavers were not well received in Murkwood. It was safer to brave the water and stick close to the edges of the continent.

“Good, then you have listened once in your life. Travel lightly, then. I’m sure you have seen the storms, and Weavers are well received in Goldsea; you needn’t bring much that they cannot supply.” At Honor’s shocked expression, she laughed — harsh and grating as sandpaper. “Don’t look so surprised. The Spinner has given me some insight into your web. At least enough to know where you are headed. If you have no other questions, you are free to leave.”

Honor bowed, as was customary. Recluse scuttled down his neck to settle in his chiton, unhappy with being disturbed from its perch.

“And Honor?” Merit called.

He wondered what she was about to say. He knew this was likely the last time he’d ever see his mother in person; she probably knew that as well.

“Do not disappoint me.”

He should’ve known better than to hope. Hope was dangerous.

With Merit’s last words turning any doubt on his tongue to ash, he packed quickly. All he took was a small stash of pebbles and moonstones, some travel rations, a few cloaks, a quilt. Finally, he pulled out his first tapestry, and tucked it away in his packs as well. He knew he didn’t need it, but it felt wrong to leave it.

Honor said goodbye to no one. He knew no one would miss him or wish him well, so instead he surfaced from the Tapestry Warren, and called out softly.

“Filigree? You out here?”

His companion was a young Kickstart Crane who, supposedly, had chosen his cradle as a nest when he was tiny. She’d been his companion ever since, but the dark, cold hallways didn’t agree with her fiery warmth and bright metallic feathers, so she spent most of her time above ground.

Filigree lighted down next to him silently moments later, graceful feet touching down on soft moss. He wondered if Goldsea soil was as damp and squishy under his paws.

We are leaving, aren’t we? Filigree asked, speaking into his mind. It was the talent of the Kickstart Cranes; once bonded with a companion, they could communicate with them without speaking.

Honor nodded, and swallowed around the knot in his throat. Recluse seemed to notice his worry, and patted his neck soothingly with a wooden leg. He smiled wobbly.

“We’re gonna save him. We have to.”

Filigree didn’t respond. Instead shesimply spread her wings, waiting for him to take off, as if to say, after you.

With a final deep breath of damp, early morning air, a final feel of the lichens and soil beneath him, and a final silent goodbye to the only home he’d ever known, he took off with a running start, soaring up, up, up above the trees, until the wind roared loud enough in his ears to drown out the thundering of his heartbeat.

Again, the same story that his weavings always told him, in that voiceless singsong echoed in his head, growing louder as his wing beats took him closer and closer to his destiny. His Suneater.

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

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

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.

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.

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

He pumped his wings faster as the story concluded. By now he knew the words by heart.

Time, time, he was out of time.

Honor wove his way through the cold tunnels of the Tapestry’s den. Something had shifted. He could feel it in his bones, like the reverberations through the earth before it quakes, like the leftover hum of a finished note.

His web, so carefully watched and pruned, had twisted itself into something far more urgent. The Spinner had grown impatient with him.

He had been so meticulous, so careful, in every move he made. Every night, he had checked his loom, realigned his plans – all to keep that shimmering, iron sharp future away, maybe for forever. Hopefully for forever.

If he could keep it away, then he would be safe. Then, Honor could live with the loneliness of a future without him, if it meant he was safe.

He would have to. Honor would rather see him live a long and peaceful life than die because of Honor’s involvement.

But nothing ever went according to plan, did it?

The horrible ache of panic in his chest spurred him faster as he narrowly avoided skidding into the stone walls or other wolves, many of which glared and snapped at him as he came flailing by. He paid it no mind. No one here had ever liked him, and fixing all of this was far more important than salvaging any reputation he had left.

He burst into his rooms, turned the corner—

His loom was gone.

His loom was gone.

He turned, suddenly cold, when he realized it. There was a circle on the dusty stone floor from where it had sat since he was a pup, just barely beginning to be an apprentice. He’d discovered the art as his channel to the Fatespinner — to the thousands of possibilities for the future — far earlier than the rest in his year, and the elders had elected to give the loom to him.

It was a grand old machine, carved far more decoratively than the average weaving loom, with great arching webs and spiders scuttling up the legs. At the top gleamed a row of eight onyx eyes that always glittered, even in low light. It was enchanted by Fae Magic, and had supposedly been a gift of peace between the Weavers and the Faerie, who never had gotten along. It was enchanted to never run out of thread, and to spin out into any color the Weaver needed. It was a gorgeous testament, a physical representation of everything that the Weavers stood for.

Shining excellence, precision in their craft, and just a little bit of magic.

But as it turned out, weaving — the actual art of it, crafting silk into fabrics — was a very rare focus for a Weaver to have; so for decades, it had simply been used to teach apprentices a lesson: that finding a Loom — a focusing point to access the Land of Webs that the Fatespinner built — could take years, that it required constant experimentation.

Honor still remembered the awful beating he’d gotten from the others when he’d found his in an instant.

It didn’t matter. Either way, the loom was moved to his private rooms ever since for his personal readings.

And now, it had been moved out.

If they had gotten that, what if—

He dug frantically through the wooden chest he kept next to his nest of furs and pillows. It was mostly full of junk: old letters, trinkets, spare needles and threads, lumpy wool blankets he had woven for fun in his spare time, but it was all there to obscure—

He sighed in relief. At the bottom, the tapestry that had started it all sat neatly folded. It was worn from age, fragile, and the image on it was wonky and reflected his amateur skills, but the colors were still vibrant.

It depicted a green lion eating the sun, its mouth bursting with angry flames, licking at its mane, the sun bleeding where its massive teeth marred its golden surface. Forever at war to destroy each other.

His suneater.

When Honor had had his very first vision, plucking at that loom, he had to be pulled from it violently by the Elders. When he had come back to the waking world, he had cried, inconsolable, over what would come to pass. He hadn’t spoken for days afterwards and shook at the mere mention of what transpired.

Honor was not a loved child. No Weaver child ever is. It’s against their code. Love begets weakness and blind spots, and worst of all, hope. Hope that one can ever challenge the divine plans of the Great Spinner.

But in that vision, he had been so loved that he did not think he would ever be alright living in the present ever again. Not when he knew what warmth awaited him. And what sorrow.

What sorrow.

He had curled up in his bed that night and held his tapestry to his chest, safely tucked between his wings, buried his face in the scratchy fabric, and said the name that he was cursed to destroy for the very first time.

He did it again now, pressing the worn fabric to his nose. It smelled of oak, like the bottom of the chest, but it calmed him all the same, just like it did then.

“Achilles,” he said, “Achilles, Achilles, Achilles.”

He only ever said this name in the privacy of his rooms, where no prying ears could catch wind of it, could twist it against him. This was his; he would let no one take it from him.

How strange it was, to know that you would one day know someone like your own heartbeat, to know their face, their laugh, their quirks, and to have never truly laid eyes on them. What a curse it was to love someone and have to destroy them. To know that you will have a hand in their death, to know that they will love you regardless, will look at you like you hung the stars in the sky, even as they lay dying.

“It isn’t your fault, “ he says, his eyes bright and feverish, fading like a dying star. “I am glad that you were here, for the end.”

Honor didn’t think he much deserved that, any of it.

He was a Weaver, and Weavers did not love, and were not loved. They were resented, feared, worshiped. But never loved.

They did their sacred duty, and they were proud of it. That was all there was for them. All that ever would be, all that could ever hope to be accomplished. It was better to have their names written across a hundred threads of fate than written across the hearts of wolves.

Honor wondered how many of the Weavers before him cried themselves to sleep knowing what they had — or must — bring into being.

Achilles, Achilles, Achilles.

He could almost be there, could almost feel the warmth of that fire, feeling the wet nose pressed against the short shag of the dark fur at his jaw, could nearly make out the smell: dark, damp earth and something warm, like sunshine and dried fruit.

Achilles, Achilles, Achilles—

He should’ve known better than to think the Fatespinner would ever let him run from their plans. He should’ve known better than to think he could resist that glimpse of happiness, as short as his life may end up.

“Weaver Honor?”

Honor whipped his head towards the doorway. He hadn’t heard them come in, so lost in thought. He probably looked insane, sitting on the floor pressing a scrap of old cloth to his face.

When he didn’t immediately respond, the wolf in the doorway cleared their throat, shuffled their paws and refused to look him in the eyes. He glanced down at their chest. They wore a dark stone around their neck, smooth but utterly unremarkable. An apprentice, then. They looked young, perhaps only in their third summer, and had the lanky and uncomfortable build of a Jocol just hitting their first flush of growth, all long limbs and no grace. No longer a pup, but caught somewhere awkwardly in between.

He remembered being an apprentice, the thousand etiquette rules that he could never quite keep straight, but he did remember the most critical: never look a sworn Weaver in the eyes, and never speak unless addressed.

Ah, so they were waiting to be prompted.

He pitied them, he did, and hated when pups insisted on such formality with him. But after what they’ve walked into, he figured it best to just relieve them of their message. Besides, he knew what the rest of the den thought of him. Honor, the loner. Honor, the one who talks to no one. Honor, the disappointment.

They probably already thought him a right well loon. They were probably scared of him.

“Yes?” he said finally. Softly, as to hopefully sound less like a threat. His own voice was ragged and worn to his ears; it tended to be these days.

“High Weaver Merit has requested your presence in her study. She— she said to make it quick,” the apprentice said. They spat the words like they could not wait to be anywhere but here, and quickly scurried off down the hall into the darkness, the quick click-click-click of their claws against the rough stone fading as they disappeared into the warren-like den.

Honor couldn’t blame them. Merit was a cruel nightmare to deal with on a regular occasion. Dealing with Honor in any regard seemed to make her even more of a devil than usual.

He suddenly knew where his loom had disappeared to.

Honor knew Merit hoped to catch him off guard with her message, but it was pointless. Honor had known what mission the Fatespinner would send him on since he was barely tall enough to reach the tables in his mother’s study. He was simply being sent off at long last, and she was probably furious. Furious that the Spinner saw something in him, furious that she had been forced into action. Honor’s failure would spell disaster, and with it, would ruin her good name. Her pathetic son would not be the cause of her destruction, not if she had any say.

So the Fatespinner decided she had none.

But that didn’t matter.

Honor should probably have been more scared by the idea that he never really had a choice but to go to his and Achilles’ combined dooms, but he really wasn’t. There was a peace with the acceptance, and now, he could focus his energy on delaying their fate rather than avoiding it. That, at least, would be more productive than the game of chicken he’d been playing instead.

Deep down, he knew the other routes had been pointless. It was always meant to be the two of them, spiraling together in every facet and thread and timeline, crashing into each other like birds in freefall.

His life would be short, and painful, but at least he would be loved. It was more than he had ever had before, more than he could ever hope for, and if it was shameful for him to desire it, then he supposed he would live with it, and hope that love would soothe the sting of persecution.

He could feel the warmth tucked against his side, feel the heart beating in sync with his own, smell the sunlight that seemed to seep off of his fur, feel the weight of his face buried under his wings.

“Tell me a story,” he would rumble, for once content to be still and close and safe. “One that I’ve heard before.”

And Honor would laugh, because it was not the first time he had made the request, and he knew his reasons but would still snuff out every star in the sky just to hear him say it again in that melodic timbre of his. “Why would you want to hear a story you already know, when I have plenty more to tell?”

He would curl himself impossibly closer, tuck himself in so snugly that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began and sigh, “So I can just listen to how it sounds in your chest and not worry about missing anything.”

And Honor would oblige, like he always did, for he would sooner pull out his own bloody heart and present it to him than deny him anything.

His Achilles.

Oh, how they would destroy one another.

Honor’s paws tapped softly against the stone and soon, he knew, the first match would be struck, the sun would burst into being with fury and glory and all things wondrous and bright and so, so fleeting— desperately fragile.

He looked down the hallway and could almost see that thin, trembling silver line, pulling him closer and closer. He could feel it tug against his soul, like a fish hook, like a rabbit snare.

Soon, the great chase would begin, he knew.

His suneater.

Long ago, when the land was new, there were the Creators — Energy and Order — who set Loria into motion, who carved mountains with their claws, breathed winds for birds to soar on, coaxed life-bringing fire from nothing.

But they were not the only Creators to take a close interest in such a wondrously new and fertile land.

There existed two siblings, complete opposites in nature, yet inextricably bound. Their names were Fate and Magic, and each brought their gifts to Loria.

Fate, with their innumerable eyes and thousands of careful, weaving hands, gifted the land not one future, but an infinite amount: billions and billions of possibilities for the wolves — so beloved by the Creators — to harness and bend to their iron wills. Fate kept a close eye upon them, and with time, began to speak to their favorites.

These wolves became Fate’s champions, prophets with the capability to turn music and art and even the natural cycles of the world into visions of the future, those both unchanging and undecided. They deemed themselves the Weavers, and offered their services humbly to all of the wolves of Loria, as it pleased Fate to see their will done and so carefully pruned.

Magic, though, was the opposite of his sibling. Where Fate was all about predictability and probability, he was more concerned with the spontaneity and abundance of Loria. His gift was a broad one: to each of the breeds of Loria, he bestowed a unique gift, so that the blessed among them could protect and guide their packs.

To the Lupins, he gave the ability to summon and speak to their ancestors, no matter how long gone. To the Bracchus, he gave them unmatched speed and physical power. To the Kits, he bestowed power over the elements: over fire, nature, the winds, all things natural that shaped the world of Loria. To the Jocols, he gifted them the ability to weigh the hearts of others, to know one’s true intentions, and never be deceived. To the Zerda, he gave them the ability to peer into a wolf’s thoughts with sharp focus. And to the Wyverns, he gave them the ability to pour themselves into shadows, to shift and travel anywhere the light did not touch.

Though, even Magic, who gifted everyone equally, had his favorites. In the most northern reaches of Darkspine lived the Fair Folk, beings who were so closely connected to Magic himself that they ceased to be fully wolves anymore — instead becoming an extension of himself, living embodiments of the attachment of Magic and Loria. They formed immortal courts, endlessly tumultuous, but deeply devoted to keeping the whimsy and spirit of their Creator alive, and even their faults delighted Magic to no end.

But as it is known, all good becomes rotten with time.

Soon, Fate and Magic began to squabble, as even Creators are not infallible. Fate, you see, was deeply upset over how far their brother’s influence ran — citing all of the powerful gifts he had bestowed without care to the consequences — and how it had thrown their own careful plans into chaos. Magic argued that Fate had overstepped their boundary by giving their Weavers such great insights into the inner workings of the Creators, who now held deadly power over all of the sightless wolves — many of said Weavers had even became tyrants of secluded packs, using their power to enact their own cruel plans.

When Chaos began to reign, to pull on young Korvo’s heart, Magic and Fate had their worst argument yet.

Magic, who believed the inherent goodness of Loria’s wolves would trump Chaos’ control, argued that Korvo and his siblings’ wills would triumph, and Korvo would not succumb to the evil beast.

But Fate was no optimist. They had counted the futures, weighed them in their palms, and knew with a heavy heart that Korvo would not win this battle.

Magic, though, stubborn as he was, was determined to prove to his conniving, ever-calculating sibling that their precious futures could be rewritten, and struck a wager: if Korvo survived, then Fate would remove their Weavers from Loria, but if he was destroyed by Chaos, then Magic would pull all of his gifts from the wolves of Loria and only leave his influence with his Fair Folk.

Fate, within their brother’s foolhardy arrogance, saw their chance to tip the scales back into their favor, to restore the predictability of their predictions. They immediately took the deal.

And of course, just as Fate had seen, Korvo was lost to Chaos, and just like that, Magic’s gifts were gone from the world, with just a gaping wound left in the souls and memories of the wolves who remembered the great gifts of Magic.

But time passed, as time tends to do, and those wounds soothed over, and the unique magics of the breeds were chalked up to myth.

But as centuries passed and Magic watched as Fate continued to spin their will over Loria, and he slowly began to be forgotten to all except the elusive, secluded Fair Folk, he decided to strike one last gamble with his steel-hearted sibling: a final gambit, the very last thing he had to lose.

So he approached his sibling with a simple wager.

“Fate, I ask of you one thing. Give me one wolf as my Champion, with the powers I gave Loria before, and if I can beat a challenge you set, you allow me back my dominion. If I lose, I will hand over even my Fair Folk to your control, and you can do with my influence as you see fit,” he pleaded.

Fate is not infallible, and even they are prone to greediness, so when Magic approached them, they were instantly intrigued.

“I hear you, brother,” they said, “and I am interested. But I will make my own Champion, a Weaver stronger than any before him, who will answer to me, and try to stop your own creation. If this you can agree to, then I will accept your wager, but only if we make our Champions first, before I set your task.”

Magic, who knew of his sibling’s scheming but saw little choice, agreed. The two plucked from the greater universe a single dying star and spun its heart into a pair of wolves — created to be rivals, but always destined to be pulled together by a gravity that the two would never understand.

Each Creator perched with their star-born champion in paw, ready to send them down to Loria, when Magic finally asked what task his Champion must complete for him to win the wager.

Fate smiled, all fangs and pincers, and their eyes gleamed. “From a star our champions were made, so I have thought of a fitting enough requirement. Your champion must hold the sun in his teeth, and then you will have bested me.”

Magic almost cried out, indignant that his sibling had given him such an impossible task, but he held his tongue, as he was sly and wily, and the father of the Fair Folk. He would find a way to twist Fate’s impossible task. He was certain.

All he needed was a little time and a whole lot of luck.

So instead, Magic nodded gamely, and with a puff of his great breath, sent his star-child floating down to Loria, and Fate sent theirs down after on a shining silver thread.

Far below, deep in a silvery stone burrow, nestled in the hostile forests of Murkwood, a newborn Wyvern cried, shaking in his damp wings, still too new to know that something is missing from his cleaved soul.

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