Page 99 of The Wolf and Her Shadows

Small victory, I suppose.

Letting out a pained sigh, I grip Adaman’s reins a bit tighter and continue leading the horse toward the nearest seedy tavern. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms that Mariane at least put her hood up. She’d refused to shift into her wolf no matter how much I had practically begged her to. Claimed Old Greyva’s warning about needing to be seen away from the forest had likely applied here as well.

I of course disagree, but I also can’t exactly expect her to listen to me over a seer that she’s known her entire life. Unfortunately. At least this time we have a bit more assistance, the sound of Obsidian’s heavy steps behind me a constant reminder of her friends’ presences.

As we pass by a small group of beggars, I tug my own hood a bit lower as well. When I’d first taken control, I’d reactivated our glamour, keeping the appearance of a Nightshadow Elf, but with more masculine features than our true face. The details stolen from some distant memory of an androgynous guard who’d once served my father. Our father.

Before the pain from thinking of our past has time to settle in fully, I’m pulled from my wandering thoughts by sounds coming from what I assume must be a nearby alley. Familiar sounds. A fist colliding with flesh followed by a small grunt of pain. I instinctually quicken my steps, even knowing we shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves by attempting to interfere.

The noise grows louder and I quickly realize it’s coming from the end of the alley beside the tavern we’d been heading toward. Under the cover of darkness, most people likely wouldn’t have seen the three large orcs huddled around a much smaller devilkin. However, thanks to our shadowsight, I can.

And it infuriates me.

“Aren?” Mariane whispers as I lead Adaman into the alley. “What in the hells are you doing?”

“Our job,” I loudly reply, intentionally gathering the attention of the men. “Removing a bit of filth from the streets.”

“You have no idea what–”

“De fuck is dis?” the nearest man snarls. “Did de tiny man call for backup?”

Another orc steps around the kneeling devilkin, purposely kicking him as he does so. “Dis is your one chance ta piss off. Leave, or your blood will be splattering the dirt along with his.”

When I don’t immediately follow their advice, the final orc who’d been holding the smaller man up by one of his horns releases him. His body immediately falls limply to the ground, followed by a loud groan of pain. A sound I myself had made all too often in our childhood. On these very streets. When the much larger, older children at the orphanage had thought it would be fun to chase us throughout the city.

Beating us bloody if they caught us before we found a place to hide.

Like clockwork, Rayne and Vannaria join me in our mind, readying themselves for a fight.

“Perhaps we should do as they say,” Stephan mutters, stepping up behind me. “We don’t need to–”

“Best do as your little friend says,” the largest orc growls, moonlight reflecting off his broken tusks and bald head. “Before we lose our patience.”

He’d been the one doing the punching.

Ignoring the numerous warnings, I point to the man still crumpled on the ground and ask, “What did he do to deserve it?”

The man who’d first noticed our approach glances over his shoulder and shrugs. “What’s it ta you? He another friend o’ yours?”

“If he is, then maybe you’d like to pay his debt,” The smallest of the orcs sneers, taking a step toward me. “In blood or coin, don’t make no difference ta me.” This one has straggly shoulder length hair and gold caps on his tusk.

“How much does he owe you?” I feign as if I’m reaching for a coin purse. “I’m sure I have a few copper pieces I could spare.”

Based on their words and reactions, it seems as though this particular orc is actually the leader of the troupe. Which would mean the other two are possibly his hired muscle. Or at least lower on the food chain than he is.

*Oh my gods,* Vannaria whispers in our mind. *I’ve seen him before. He was of the men who…*

“Stand down, Milo.”

Our skin prickles at the sound of the familiar voice as Zorah, our former lover, leaps down off the roof of the tavern, landing in front of the trio with a loud thud. A stab of pain radiates out from our chest. She looks just the same as she did three years ago. Olive green skin adorned with all manner of gold jewelry. Black hair braided into neat rows along her scalp, ending just above her shoulders. Same blood-stained leather armor and large axe peeking over her shoulder.

Casually brushing a bit of dirt from her shoulder, Zorah roams her eyes over the group of people behind me.

*I just want the record to show that I didn’t start this fight,* Rayne mutters, inching closer to taking control. *But please lemme finish it.*

*We need to leave, Aren. Now.*

If the man on the ground hadn’t let out a pitiful whine at the same time as Vannaria’s warning, I might’ve heeded it. But instead, I call out, “Long time no see, Zorah.”