#lortober

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.