Lazro continued to stare at Oryen with that open, vulnerable expression. Then his shoulders sagged and a breath of a laugh escaped him.

"Just like that?"

"Well, I'm not going to let some dudes off my brother, so... Yeah. Just like that. Don't know how much help I'll be, though. What do you need?"

"I need someone I can trust by my side," Lazro replied earnestly.

The word 'trust' made the tiny wound on Oryen's tattoo prick like an insect sting. He had to admit he wanted back the easy camaraderie of their youth, but how could they have it if he didn't tell Lazro about his history? For a moment, he considered it. Opening his mouth. Letting the confession 'I was a Fen,' fall between them. They could bury it here together. What would one more grave matter amongst a forest of them?

Looking at Lazro's face though, both recognizable and not, Oryen couldn't. There was far too much he didn't know, answers Lazro still withheld. How he'd been turned. How he came to be Alpha. How could they trust one another now, if not by baby steps and half-measures?

It would have to be enough.

"The other Alphas won't be popping open the champagne if I inherit your status," Oryen said. "You said so yourself. I'm an unproven runt, right?"

"True, they wouldn't be thrilled, but there are ways you could win them over."

"Like?"

Lazro turned and paced between two trees. He tapped his lower lip in thought. Before, shadows hung over his features, making his back bow under their weight. Now, some of his vibrance returned as he mulled over the question.

"Faylan tryouts are next week," he mused.

"Fa— Come again?"

"It's a werewolf sport," Lazro said. "Really popular. You're athletic. You'd be an asset to any team. It would be a great way to connect you with some of the other Alphas, and if you do well..."

Oryen scoffed. "Of course. Sport, a natural segue into politics. Why didn't I think of that?"

"They're not all that different, if you think about it," Lazro said with a sly smile. "Both involve rivalries and competition between the various teams and players. Everyone wants to root for the winner and slander the loser. People go nuts if a player switches sides. Sport is politics with less bloodshed."

"Wow, you're really selling me on this."

"It's a lot of fun." Lazro said with a laugh, slapping Oryen's shoulder. For a treacherous moment, Oryen felt his chest warm. "You'll see," Lazro continued. "The Fire Hawks and the Storm Crows both need new players. Reyz and Kalysto will be holding tryouts on Saturday and Sunday."

"The new husband and wife both captain rival teams?"

Lazro's smile sharpened. "Yeah. Makes things interesting, but it's doubly helpful for us. You'll get to know some of the other Alphas this way. They're far more likely to give you a spot at the table if they like you."

Remembering Kalysto's wedding, Oryen grimaced. She hadn't seemed to like anybody.

"Right." Oryen took a deep breath, shaking his head in disbelief. "Try out for werewolf sport. Ingratiate myself with the local powers that be. Help you avoid assassination, naturally." And navigate Beau's threats while keeping his identity a secret. "No big deal."

Lazro beamed. "You'll be brilliant."

Oryen returned to Kolraga by the barest sliver of sunlight along with the rest of the Kappas. He'd gone back to digging graves following his conversation with Lazro, head abuzz. Now, exhaustion and hunger dominated all, pushing out his worries about team tryouts, Beau, and the threats looming over he and his brother both.

Aryeta awaited him in the mess hall, a warm yet sympathetic smile on her face. She was polite enough not to wrinkle her nose as all the Kappas piled in smelling like unearthed cadavers.

"Long day?"

Oryen collapsed on the bench with his plate of food and tried not to devour it too quickly. "Understatement of the century."

He had to admit he was happy to see her. Aryeta had been the only one to check in on him regularly, to ask how he was adjusting.

"I'd ask how your day went, but, well—" Aryeta gestured around at all the other werewolves covered head to foot in dirt.

Luckily, Oryen did have something else to share. "I talked to my brother today."

She brightened immediately. "Oh good! How is he?"

"He wants me to try out for faylan."

The light in Aryeta's eyes extinguished in seconds. "Really?"

Her voice was so tinged with disappointment, Oryen almost laughed. "You're not a fan?"

"Well, it's a sport," she said. "A violent sport. Sweating. Bruising. Riots no matter who wins or loses. I usually stitch up half of Mardero after a match."

"Will it help if it's my pretty face you're stitching up?" He batted his eyelashes at her and she shoved him away.

"You know, I brought you a present, but now I'm debating whether or not you deserve it."

"A present?"

Rolling her eyes, Aryeta pulled a small parcel wrapped in wax paper from the pocket of her overalls and held it out for him. "Yeah, I made you something."

He accepted the parcel and peeled it open. A waft of chocolate hit his nose, sweet and mouthwatering. A square of brownie, slightly caught at the edges but still melty in the centre, sat in his palm.

His stomach expressed its gratitude with an embarrassingly loud growl. "Does this mean what I think it means? Werewolves aren't allergic to chocolate?"

"God forbid."

"Ary, you're a saint. This is the best news I've had all day."

She waved him off. "I had the day to myself and decided to see if I've still got the magic touch even when I'm using prehistoric clay ovens. Didn't go perfect, but they taste good."

Oryen took a bite and closed his eyes. Still warm, the slight crunch of the brownie's shell yielded layer upon layer of gooey, saccharine bliss. After a week of unseasoned, grilled meat and over-boiled vegetables, it was exquisite. More than a few people around him perked up at the smell, shooting him envious looks.

"After I heard what you were sent out for today, seemed like chocolate was in order," Aryeta said.

Oryen set the brownie aside with care, saving the rest for after his meal. "I'd do it all again for another brownie. Where do you get ingredients in here anyway? Do you get paid for recruiting, or..."

Aryeta puffed up with pride. "Things work a little differently here. Necessary commodities and food are available to everyone, within reason. Some are the LycanCorp rations imported based on our numbers, tracked by our tags. Some stuff we grow or cultivate ourselves. I did have to pull some strings for the chocolate though. That's considered an extravagance, so I had to trade for it. But yeah, we try to take care of our own in here."

Oryen was touched she'd thought to share. Nonetheless, he had another reason for asking. "So how do you go about trading for these extras?"

"Depends. What are you after?"

"Makeup." He had the truth and the lie both prepared. "I'm sweating so much, I'm breaking out where the sun don't shine. I have my image to uphold."

Aryeta rolled her eyes. "Fine, don't tell me! For stuff like that though? Non-food stuffs? You're going to need to talk to a smuggler."

Oryen's heart sank. "Oh."

The only smuggler he knew was Beau.

But there was no sign of Beau leading up to faylan tryouts. He only appeared in Oryen's nightmares, armed with sharp, pointy objects and vague threats. Oryen briefly considered approaching a different smuggler altogether before ruling it out. He didn't want anyone else to suspect what he needed to cover up. At least Beau already knew about his history as a Fen.

The day of faylan tryouts arrived, grey, overcast and unreasonably humid. Oryen went to the amphitheatre with a nervous bounce in his step. The noise from the arena could be heard long before he reached its cavernous stone walls. As he moved through the arches, though, a figure stepped out of the shadows to block his path.

Beau said, "Trying out for faylan?"

Oryen bristled. Of course, Beau would appear now. As well-timed as a bout of acne before a first date.

"I've been looking for you." Oryen kept his voice low. "I need you to smuggle something for me."

"It's a bad idea," Beau said.

"I haven't even told you what I need."

"I'm talking about faylan. It's a bad idea."

Oryen's heart skipped a beat. Lazro had made it clear, this was his chance to really get involved with the pack and win their favour. If Beau was here to blackmail him out of it... "Are you going to stop me?"

Giving him a surgically assessing look, Beau said, "No." Oryen let out the breath he'd been holding. "It will be a good way to get the measure of you."

"Okay. Weird thing to say. About that smuggling—"

"I won't help you." Beau lifted his chin. His look was both restrained and unbridled. Like a dog wearing a muzzle and a choke-chain, but which seemed more dangerous for those precautions.

Oryen had his argument prepared. "I need to cover my tattoo. You want to blackmail me for anything? Won't be much use if I'm a corpse."

Beau advanced on him. It was by training and habit alone that Oryen didn't give ground. Beau was smaller, but it hardly mattered. His proximity, even without a knife, felt dangerous.

"I don't know yet how useful you'll be, but let's be clear on one thing. I won't do anything to prevent you from rotting here. If someone gets wind of who you are, then the only thing I'd mourn is that I didn't kill you myself."

Oryen searched Beau's fathomless, dark eyes and found only loathing. He stood close enough Oryen could smell petrichor from the morning's rain on Beau's sweat-damp skin.

Over the years, Oryen had grown accustomed to the casual dismissal of his parents, the yawning distance across which people like Edrik, and now his brother, sometimes reached to touch him. Beau's words were intimate as a knife between the ribs, and Oryen found he had no response, no casual jibe to deflect the blow. He just looked at Beau and kept looking.

Beau broke away. Perversely, Oryen wanted to pull him back. With a cruel twist of his lips, Beau said, "Good luck at tryouts."

Finding his voice, Oryen answered, "Any advice for me?"

Beau said, "Don't fall off."

With that unsettling parting shot, he vanished through an arch. Oryen tried to shake out his nerves, tried to forget the casual threats and ominous last words. Don't fall off.

Fall off what?