Word seemed to get around that Lysanor was "under the weather," according to Ria, and the others went out of their way to avoid her in the next few days. Lysanor wasn't sure if she should blame Aela or Farkas for the rumor. She couldn't complain, though—she needed the few days to herself. The morning after she and Aela got back, she wandered down to the market to see if Fralia Gray-mane did, in fact, have an amulet of Talos for sale. She didn't. It didn't matter anyway—the thought of replacing her amulet so callously, as if it was nothing more than a meaningless trinket, hurt her heart. The empty granite eyes of Talos seemed to burn into her as she walked back up the steps to Jorrvaskr.

The days crept past without much notice. Aela didn't seek her out for another job, and Lysanor didn't bother to ask. After the slaughter at Uttering Hills Cavern, it felt like they'd earned a break. She busied herself with chores and paperwork while her wounds healed.

When the letters and requests were all sorted and there was nothing else to do but set out to deliver them, Lysanor headed down the hallway with her arms full of folded papers. When was the last time she'd done this? It seemed a lifetime ago. She kicked Aela's door a few times in lieu of knocking. When the door creaked open, she slipped inside and dropped half the papers on Aela's desk as her Shield-Sister watched.

"Is this what you've been up to?" she muttered, walking over to her and picking up one of the papers. She gave it a distasteful look and let it flutter from her fingers back onto the desk.

"We can't always be out looking for the Silver Hand, Aela."

Aela sighed, dropped into her chair. "You're probably right," she conceded. "It's good that you've kept things under wraps, anyway. We wouldn't want anyone to bring it up during tomorrow's meeting."

"Meeting? What meeting?"

She glanced up at her, brows aloft. "Didn't you hear? Kodlak's called a meeting tomorrow night in the Underforge."

"Oh." It had been a long while since the Circle's last conference. They used to hold regular meetings just to discuss the state of the guild, but they hadn't met in months, not since before Lysanor left for the Throat of the World. She supposed it just hadn't felt right convening without Skjor. "What for? Just a general meeting?"

"I don't know. Vilkas seems to think it's about Skjor's room, but I don't know why Kodlak would call a whole meeting over something like that."

Lysanor glanced over her shoulder through the still half-open door. Skjor's room was just across the way, the door firmly shut. She didn't think anyone had been in there since he had died—save, perhaps, for Aela. "What about his room?"

"Giving it to you."

Her eyes snapped back to Aela, who was still flicking through the papers. "What? Wh—Why am I—why?"

Aela sighed quietly. "I suppose they just think it's silly for you to still be sleeping with the whelps." She shrugged, eyes down. The corners of her mouth were tense with something more than disinterest. "It's good, I guess. This way it's easier for you to sneak out without being noticed."

"Right." Lysanor cleared her throat. "Well, I—I should go deliver the rest of these," she said, holding up the papers in her arms. Aela nodded. "Good night."

"Good night," Aela muttered. As she stepped out of the room, Lysanor couldn't help but glance over at the room opposite Aela's one more time. It horrified her, but she found herself wandering over to it, shifting the letters in her hand to reach for the doorknob. It was unlocked. The door swung open silently, leaving her staring into a heavy, imposing mass of darkness. Her throat tightened. The air seemed to shiver with the flavor of death.

She stumbled back, her heels catching in the rough carpet and her breath seizing in her chest. Her ears were ringing. The once-comforting warmth of the living quarters suddenly seemed suffocating, like heavy furs weighing over her head and her face. She staggered up the stairs and out the doors, doubling over and breathing hard in the icy night air.

She could breathe now, but her head was still spinning. She lowered herself onto the first cold stone step and put her head between her knees. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. Skjor's room…she was going to be sick. How was she supposed to work, to sleep with a constant reminder that her Shield-Brother was dead, dead, dead? She shivered.

Without really knowing what she was doing, she rose to her feet and stumbled down the cobblestone path. Somewhere along the way a Whiterun guard murmured a greeting to her, but she couldn't bring herself to respond. In hardly a few moments she found herself in the Plains District, pushing open the door to the Bannered Mare.

Whiterun's biggest tavern was as loud and boisterous as ever, despite the hour—or perhaps because of it. She pushed through the throng of sweaty bodies and slumped down into a spare barstool by the counter, ignoring the crooning melody of Mikael, the bard. A few moments later a large woman in a honey-scented green dress bustled by, arms full of filthy flagons. She dumped them behind the counter and was in the process of cleaning one with an even filthier rag when she noticed Lysanor there. She smiled, leaning forward.

"Lysanor! How nice to see you, lass. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Hulda." Hulda was a sweet Nord woman with a broad, ruddy face, wispy auburn hair, and the brightest smile in all of Whiterun. She was like a bottle of spiced mead herself—warm, comforting. Even her presence couldn't ease the knot in Lysanor's stomach.

Hulda leaned over the counter, bracing her elbows against the wood. "So, what are you looking for? Food, drink?" She raised her brow, a smile curving her lips. "Not board, I hope?"

Lysanor managed a weak smile. Years ago, when she first arrived in Whiterun, she had stayed at the Bannered Mare for quite a while before Hulda suggested she look for board with the Companions. "Just a drink."

"Fair enough." Hulda turned, reaching for a fresh bottle of mead.

"Wait—Hulda. Do you have anything…stronger?"

She could see surprise etched in Hulda's brow and the lines of her mouth—Lysanor had never been much of a drinker—but she put the mead back without a question. Instead, she opened an unmarked bottle at the bottom of the shelf, sliding it across the counter. Lysanor lifted it in a silent toast and took a quick gulp. It was so bitter it made her cough and her throat burn, but she relished the sting that mead could never really offer. Mikael's music paused, and a pair of gruff, drunk men on the other end of the tavern set to pummeling one another. Lysanor closed her eyes, sufficiently distracted by the noise and the burn of the alcohol. She downed the rest of the bottle and gestured to Hulda for another.

As she drank, her mind wandered back to that room. Was it really right for her to be taking Skjor's room as if he'd never even been there? As far as she knew, most of his things were still in there, untouched. She didn't think Aela had been in the mood for organizing her dead lover's belongings. It felt wrong—like she was replacing him. Skjor had been Kodlak's right hand man. She couldn't be him.

But then again, every room in Jorrvaskr had once belonged to someone that was now dead. When the other members of the Circle moved into their rooms, however long ago that must have been, they must have been replacing someone who had been lost, hadn't they? No matter how she tried to rationalize it, the thought still put a sour taste in her mouth and an ache in her heart. It wasn't right.

She sighed, rubbing her temple. Gods, did her head hurt—almost as much as the rest of her. She took another drag from the bottle in her hands, emptying it and grimacing at the taste for what must have been the fortieth time. As she set it down, her eyes were drawn to the empty bottles in front of her. Two, three, four…four bottles of whatever Hulda had given her that made her eyes water and her mouth burn, but she didn't feel any different. Nothing hurt any less, not her head nor her heart. Her vision seemed perfectly normal. She wasn't even tipsy.

Lysanor's stomach sank as the gears in her mind began to turn. There was always plenty of mead at Jorrvaskr, and the twins drank enough for all of Whiterun combined, but she had never, ever seen either of them drunk, even as Athis or Torvar made utter fools of themselves after a long night of drinking. She had long since learned that the beast blood killed off any disease weaker than itself, and that it kept them from ever having a decent night's sleep. Perhaps that wasn't all that it kept them from doing. Her heart began to strum a panicked rhythm against her ribs. What was she supposed to do if she couldn't even let the drink take away her thoughts for a night?

Her breathing was shallow and unsteady as she walked back to Jorrvaskr, utterly sober but somehow not quite in her right mind. She thought she'd put a few coins on the counter as she left, but she couldn't really remember, somehow. She'd just needed to leave. But where was she to go? It was as overwhelming to be inside Jorrvaskr as it was to be outside it. For once, her home was of no comfort to her.

She was already out of breath by the time she reached the living quarters, even though she certainly hadn't run there—at least, she didn't think she had. The walk back to Jorrvaskr already seemed wholly forgettable compared to the turmoil in her mind.

"Lysa?"

Her eyes fluttered open, focused on the figure at the base of the stairs. Had he been upstairs? She hadn't even noticed him coming down. "Farkas."

He strode toward her, for once without the clunk of metal armor—he was in plain clothes. She could see the concern in his eyes as he came to a stop before her. She took a deep, shuddering breath. He smelled like copper and honey.

"Lysa?" he said again, hesitation in his voice and his eyes. "Are you okay?"

The tattoo of her heart still drummed in her ears, barely there and deafening at the same time. It seemed to urge her on. She reached up, just barely taking in the shock on his face as she twined his long, dark hair around her fingers, and pressed her lips flush against his. A rush of sensation flooded her, and the roar in her mind went silent. The scrape of his beard against her lip, the hot puff of his breath on her cheek, the ashy, honey-sweet taste of his mouth—oh, it felt good. Nothing had felt good in a long time.

She drew back, slow and measured, and touched her lip with the tips of her fingers. Her skin tingled pleasantly. When she looked back up, Farkas's eyes were wide and his face was flushed.

"What are you doing?" he whispered, his brows drawn together in something between confusion and anguish. She took his hand in hers and placed it above her heart, curling her fingers firmly around his knuckles. For a moment, she trusted him with every inch of her being.

"I need you," she said, the words strange and unfamiliar on her tongue. He stared at her. "Farkas, take me to your bed."

His eyes flickered frantically over her face as if searching for any hint that she might be joking. The bulge in the heavy column of his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Okay."

"Coming upstairs, Lysa?"

Lysanor turned her head enough so that she could see Ria out of the corner of her eye, hovering in the doorway of their quarters in her jittery way. Her helmet was tucked under one arm, the other grasping the hilt of her broadsword. She added, "I thought maybe we could train for a little while, at least until Vilkas wakes up."

"Maybe," she agreed softly. "I'll be up in a minute."

"Alright. Don't be too long," Ria said, shooting her a bright smile before she whirled off. It took a few moments' effort before she could pull herself to her feet. A fresh washbasin waited for her in the corner of the room, the water long since cooled. She braced her hands on either side of the washbasin and leaned forward. The water wasn't clear enough to reveal the spots along her mouth and her throat that had been scraped raw, but she could feel the sting. She drew her fingertips over her lips, her neck, remembering the way his teeth had felt there.

Suddenly, as if jerking awake from sleep, she realized what she was doing and let her hands drop. What was she thinking? What had she done? She cupped the cold water in her palms and splashed it, almost angrily, over her face. Her reflection shattered like glass.

As she fastened her armor, though, her mind drifted back to him, over and over. Every time her fingers brushed against her skin she remembered how his hands had felt there, bigger and warmer and rougher than hers. The shouting in her mind quieted as her thoughts wandered. She swallowed. If she closed her eyes and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, she could still taste him on her lips.

She was beginning to dread that training session with Ria. It couldn't have been long before Vilkas woke up, but she couldn't focus. How could she let Ria down now, though? She hadn't even spoken to her, let alone trained, in a long time.

It took her a few moments to work up the courage to step out into the living quarters. Farkas had still been in his bed when she left his room a few hours ago, but he was a notoriously early riser. He was her best friend—her only friend. What if she bumped into him in the hallway and they couldn't look each other in the eye and nothing was ever the same between them again? No more secret smiles over supper, no more trinkets empty of any worth other than sentiment, no more distant jobs where they got distracted halfway there and ended up getting lost. The best thing to do would just be to forget about everything. But, oh, how could she think that now that she knew how his fingers, his tongue felt on her skin? It was easier before she knew. Her breath puffed out in a heavy sigh that sent a few loose tendrils of her hair fluttering.

Ria was already slicing at one of the battered training dummies, dim sunlight glinting off of her sword, when Lysanor wandered into the training yard. She stood in silence, shifting her axe in her hands. Absorbed in her training as she was, it took Ria a little while to notice that Lysanor was standing behind her. When the gleam of her wolf armor caught her eye, she dropped the sword and turned around. The tense, almost-angry expression that had twisted her face faded away.

"Hey! You came up after all," she said, beaming. Lysanor smiled back.

"I said I would, didn't I?"

"You looked so tired," Ria shrugged. "I thought you were going to go back to bed."

"Well, I'm here," she said simply. "Now, do you want to train, or not? The sun is coming up. Vilkas will be up here before you know it."

The smile dropped from Ria's face at Vilkas's name. "Right, right," she said. She grabbed her helmet from where she'd propped it up on the table and set it over her head. "Let's go."

They stood at either end of the training yard, broad, empty space between them. Lysanor had never really learned to use the greatsword—she just wasn't strong, or big, enough—but even then she could tell something was off with Ria's stance. No wonder she was struggling. "Move your feet farther apart," she called, gesturing with her free hand. Ria glanced down and quickly obeyed. At Lysanor's wave of approval, she raised her weapon and charged.

Ria had clearly spent a little too much time training with dummies—her strikes were far too slow to even nick Lysanor, and she still moved as though she was holding a weapon far lighter than the one in her hands. That sword was dragging her down. Lysanor let her get a few blows in, deflecting each with her shield, before she lashed out and knocked the sword out of her hands. Ria cursed.

"Gods damn it," she huffed, ripping off her helmet. "You're worse than Vilkas."

"Vilkas is slower than me," Lysanor muttered. Vilkas's quick, elegant footwork was to be admired, but that didn't change the fact that he was larger than her and his weapon was thrice the size of hers. "You need to block faster if you want to use a weapon that size, Ria." She didn't bother offering her own opinion on her weapon—that Ria should toss that gargantuan hunk of metal and use a mace or a shortsword instead.

"Okay. Let's try again," Ria sighed. Her bright brown eyes disappeared behind the helmet again and she drew the sword, backing up into the yard. Lysanor focused on the scrape of metal against metal that she could feel in her bones, on the wet pain of Ria's sword against her skin, and found that her mind had gone pleasantly still. She didn't have the time to let her thoughts wander, not when she had to worry about timing her blows just right for Ria to block them.

She was so focused on the battle that she didn't even notice when the door to the training yard opened and someone stepped out. Heavy boots clunked against the stone and out of the corner of her eye, she caught broad shoulders, wolf armor and long, dark hair. Her stomach plummeted, as did her axe. Ria took advantage of her distraction to hook her blade in the curve of the axe and hurl it aside.

"Ha! You're dead," she said triumphantly, pointing her sword at Lysanor's throat. Lysanor's heart pounded as she turned her head.

"Off your game today, Lysanor," Vilkas remarked, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you knew better than to get distracted like that."

Lysanor swallowed hard. Her heart was still in her throat. "I…guess I'm just tired," she whispered. Ria lowered her sword, her eyes gleaming with pride. She picked up Lysanor's axe from where she'd flung it and handed it back to her. Lysanor slipped it into its sheath without a word.

"That's probably it," Ria agreed, still grinning from ear to ear as she glanced at Vilkas. "You had a busy night, didn't you, Lysa?"

"What?"

"The letters?" Ria said, her voice now hesitant. "I saw all the notes that were on your desk last night. It must have taken you all night to go through them."

Oh. That was right—the letters. Now that she thought about it, she remembered stopping by her quarters to dump the rest of the letters on her desk before she swept off to the Bannered Mare. "Right," she muttered. "I was busy."

"Letters? Did you drop any off in my room?" Vilkas said, raising his brows. His voice took on that tone where it was clear that he knew the answer, but he was going to ask the question anyway, and none of the responses that came to her mind were right.

"I didn't finish," she replied. "I'll get them done by today."

Vilkas offered no response other than an incline of his head. He shot her one last hard, unreadable look before turning to Ria. "Shall we get started?"

"Yeah! Let's go," she said earnestly. That bright smile was back on her face. "Thanks, Lysa," she added as Lysanor began to back away. "I'll see you at suppertime?"

"Of course." Lysanor was already forgotten, though. Ria's brilliant eyes were focused on Vilkas, gleaming with a hint of challenge, and Lysanor faded into the background. Keeping to the walls, she crept back downstairs and into her own quarters. Sure enough, now that Ria had brought it up Lysanor could see the once-neat pile of parchments flung over her desk. She sank into her chair, eager to let the monotony of the work distract her.

The sorting had already been done the night before, though—all that was left was to make the letters look neat and deliver them, but she didn't have the courage to make her way down to the twins' end of the living quarters. Instead she paced in her room, her stomach twisting at every set of footsteps she heard echoing in the hall. She was loathe to admit she was nervous, but she was, and it was starting to make her stomach hurt.

She slipped past Athis and Njada, locked in another empty argument, and out to the open cobblestone of the Wind District. The sweet sting of the wind on her skin and the sun in her eyes soothed her. Other than an occasional greeting or nod of the head, no one bothered her as she wandered about Whiterun. When she'd left town the year prior to fulfill her duties as Dragonborn, she'd found herself back in Whiterun every few weeks, hiding possessions and destinies in the otherwise-abandoned Breezehome. The locals quickly learned not to ask questions when she was stalking about Whiterun with her head down. She wasn't up to anything that suspicious these days, but old habits died hard.

The day was only so long. Before she knew it the sun was beginning to creep past the horizon and she had wandered back to Jorrvaskr, her stomach twisting as she stood outside the door. Enough! She was a Companion. She was a Nord. She didn't stand outside doors fretting about what was behind them—she stormed in. Clenching her jaw, she did just that.

Despite her brave thoughts, she found herself scanning the living quarters for any sign of him. Ria, chattering with a bored-looking Torvar; Athis and Njada, still arguing; Vilkas, drinking alone, a few feet away from Aela. No Farkas. The momentary relief that she felt at his absence hardened into a heavy stone in the pit of her stomach. He always supped with his brother. Was he avoiding her? Gods, what was she going to—

"Lysa!"

Ria waved her over to the table. She grinned when Lysanor took the seat beside her, oblivious to her internal panicking.

"I thought you'd never arrive. Guess what I did today?" She didn't give Lysanor the time to ask what she'd done today before she barreled on. "I felled Vilkas! Knocked the sword right out of his hands! He said he was proud of me, but I think he's still salty about it." She pointed over at Vilkas in his dark corner of the room. "I was just telling Torvar about it."

Torvar grunted, ripping the meat off of the drumstick he was eating with his teeth. His bloodshot blue eyes remained trained on her as he chewed. "So where's the Dragonborn been today? Haven't seen you around much."

"I had some business around town."

"I'd kill to get out of here. Just for a little while," Torvar muttered. "Farkas thinks I always need to be around for training." He mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "oaf."

"It's just because you're new. I have to train all day, too, you know. The Circle just wants us to be prepared for when we go out on jobs."

Torvar rolled his eyes and stood, grabbing his mead on the way out. Ria seemed unfazed. "He's mean when he drinks," she remarked. She leaned over and stole a slice of rich bread from his plate. "Anyway, like I was saying. I knew I could get him if I could just get that sword out of his hands for a second…"

Lysanor nodded, only half-listening to Ria's story. Eventually Ria seemed to wrap up the tale and, still beaming with pride, stood and stretched. "Well, I think I've trained enough for the rest of the month. I'm going to bed," she announced. "Coming?"

"Yeah. Sure." She left behind her barely-touched plate of food and wandered behind Ria, her mind still somewhere else. Aela delicately cleared her throat as they passed her.

"Lysa?"

She glanced back at Aela, shrouded in shadows that made her look sinister where Vilkas just looked sullen. Aela waited for Ria to disappear down the stairs before murmuring, "The meeting?"

The meeting. How had it slipped her mind when she'd spent all of the last night worrying about it? "Right. I'll just…go drop some of my things off downstairs."

Aela seemed satisfied with the response, leaning back into her shadows. Downstairs, Lysanor crept into her quarters but sat heavily on her bed instead of going to her chest. She took a few deep breaths, gathering her courage. Thank the Gods that Njada and Ria were already absorbed in an argument about the merits of hair combs—she couldn't explain herself to Ria one more time. She waited for the lights to be blown out before she quietly slipped out the door.

She hadn't been to the Underforge in a long while. The concealed chamber had an exit that led straight out into the wild plains of Whiterun, and she'd used it the few times she'd gone hunting with Aela or Skjor, but she hadn't been hunting in months—years. With the frequency of the Circle meetings trickling into nothing, there was no reason to be in the Underforge.

Though she tried to hurry, she wasn't the first person there. Aela already lounged by one of the empty altars nestled in the crevices of the stone wall, with Vilkas on the other end of the circular chamber. They nodded to her as she took her usual spot across from the entrance.

"What's taking your brother so long, Vilkas?" Aela said irritably. Her eyes followed the long, slender fingers of moonlight that shone through the gaps in the stone walls, and the light from the torch-fire flickered over her face. "Ice-brain."

As if on cue, the heavy stone slab that served as a door slid open, scraping against the ground. Kodlak entered first, his gait uneven despite the walking stick clenched in his fist. Farkas followed with one hand grasping Kodlak's arm.

"Thank you," Kodlak murmured. Farkas let his hand drop and wordlessly took his place next to his brother. Lysanor swallowed hard.

Kodlak nodded as he looked around. "Good. Everyone is present."

"One of us isn't," Aela muttered, unable to mask the bitterness in her voice. Kodlak's eyes flickered over to her.

"We all feel Skjor's absence, lass. More than you realize. But I think that we have postponed this meeting long enough."

Aela was silent.

Kodlak cleared his throat. "Let's begin," he announced. "Farkas. How is training coming along?"

"It's alright," Farkas said with a shrug. The sound of his voice sent shivers running up Lysanor's spine. She gritted her teeth and tightened her grip on her forearms until her nails bit into her flesh. "Torvar's been complaining about how he doesn't get to go on jobs, but he won't train when I tell him to. And Ria's still practicing with the greatsword."

"Is she any better at it yet?" Aela asked.

"No. And she won't listen to anyone that tells her to pick a different weapon." Farkas's gaze found hers for a moment over the heavy granite font in the center of the room. Clearly, he'd overheard her attempts to coax a shortsword into Ria's hands.

"If her heart is set on the greatsword, let her use it. She is still young. She has plenty of time to learn."

"Yes, Harbinger."

Kodlak shifted, leaning heavily on his cane. For a brief moment Lysanor wondered why no one had brought him a seat—surely it couldn't have been too difficult to carry a stool down to the Underforge. "If that's all, we can move on to the purpose of the meeting. We've been putting this off too long, I'm afraid." He turned to Lysanor with a faint smile. "Lysanor's been sleeping with the whelps for quite a while now."

A quiet chuckle rippled through the room. Still smiling, Kodlak limped to her. He pulled a heavy bronze key from his satchel and pressed it into her palm. The metal was cold clenched in her fingers. "You've more than earned your own quarters." She managed to smile back at him, but words of gratitude stuck in her throat, like flies in a spiderweb. "Skjor's spirit will be with you."

She bowed her head and mumbled a thank you that was lost somewhere in the cold, stale air. Aela leaned over and nudged her in the side as Kodlak turned away from her. "Congratulations," she said drily, a quirk to her brow. Her tone was familiar, teasing, but her eyes were still hard.

Among the quiet mutters and the sound of the wind whistling through cracks in the stone, Vilkas's voice rang out, surprisingly loud. "Harbinger, if I may, there was something I wanted to discuss."

Kodlak looked only mildly startled by Vilkas's outburst. "Alright. What is it?"

"Has there been any progress on the cure?"

Aela's head snapped up. Vilkas coolly met her glare before turning his attention to Kodlak.

"I'm still searching, lad," Kodlak said. "But I can't tell you how long it will be. I'm to travel to speak to an old friend about it tomorrow morning. Perhaps something will come of that journey."

The twins exchanged a glance. "Where are you traveling to?"

"Markarth."

"Are you mad?" Vilkas burst out. Kodlak's eyebrows rose, and Vilkas hastily composed himself. "My apologies, master. But… you can't think it's wise to make a journey like that alone. Perhaps one of us should accompany you."

"I can make the journey on my own. I'm not an invalid quite yet, Vilkas," Kodlak snapped. Lysanor felt suddenly nervous. She had never heard Kodlak raise his voice before. The others seemed to share her thoughts, for they all fell silent.

"Apologies," Vilkas muttered again. "It's just… we've already lost Skjor. We would be crippled if we lost you, too."

"Don't be so sure. You four could manage." After a moment Kodlak's expression, and his voice, gentled. "You worry too much. I will be cautious. I'm not eager to die just yet."

"Of course. I apologize." Vilkas slipped back into the shadows beside his brother, his eyes down. Kodlak watched him with a sort of affectionate annoyance.

"Actually, I agree with Vilkas." That was the first time Lysanor had heard those words come out of Aela's mouth. She straightened up, taking a step towards Kodlak. "Why do you need to go on this trip just now, Harbinger? Skyrim is in chaos. Dragons still rule the skies and those Stormcloaks aren't going to be at peace with the Empire for long. None of us travels alone anymore." She was incised now, her hair fiery in the biting orange light. "And what use do we have for a cure, either way? This isn't some disease that we need to rid ourselves of. This is a boon. It would be like tossing our finest blades into the sea because we're afraid we might cut ourselves."

"A boon?" Vilkas scoffed. "That's what you call it? We've been stripped of every last shred of honor and dignity we had left. You call that a boon?"

"What nonsense. Don't lecture me about what you don't understand, boy."

"That's enough. Back off," Farkas growled.

"You stay out of this, ice-brain."

"Aela, shut up." Aela whipped around to stare at Lysanor, her eyes narrowed with something between fury and betrayal.

"Enough!" Kodlak roared.

The room went silent.

"Enough. You are all bound by the blood whether you like it or not. Do not let it tear you apart." He turned to Aela. "Aela. Each of us controls his own fate. No one will force you to rid yourself of the blood if that's not what you want. And Vilkas," Kodlak continued, not waiting for a response, "You need to learn to hold your tongue. Your anger will only hurt you—you know that."

"I'm sorry, Aela," Vilkas said, injured. Clearly, it wasn't the first time he had been chastised like this. Kodlak drew a heavy sigh and straightened up.

"Sometimes you pups are too much for me," he muttered to himself. "If there's nothing else to discuss, you all ought to get some rest. Everything will be clearer in the morning." Farkas walked over to him, reaching for his arm again, but Kodlak held up a hand. "I'll be alright, son. Thank you."

"If you're sure," Farkas murmured. He pushed the door open for Kodlak nonetheless, and watched as the Harbinger limped off. The others followed, Aela pointedly ignoring Lysanor as she left. Lysanor wasn't too concerned. Aela had always been quick to anger and quick to forgive; she would be back to normal by morning. As she followed the cobblestone path back into Jorrvaskr, she heard Farkas call out, "Lysa. Wait."

She turned, her heart jumping into her throat. Farkas let the stone door slide shut and jogged up to her. "Hi," he said, breathless.

"Hi." She bit her lip and dared a glance behind her. The others had already disappeared into the mead hall—it was just the two of them. "How are you?"

"Good." Gods, she hated this. It was as though they were meeting for the first time. No—it hadn't been so painfully awkward then, had it?

Farkas cleared his throat, tipping his chin up so that he could look down at her with casual indifference. "I'm going to be alone tonight," he said. "If you don't have anywhere to be… you're welcome in my quarters."

For a moment, her breath seemed lost with the wind that rushed through her hair. She opened her mouth to stammer some semblance of a response, but he was already backing away. "Just something to think about," he said simply. The key still clenched in her fist grew colder with every step he took back into the hall. Alone in the darkness before Jorrvaskr, her feet led her back and forth in an aimless sort of dance, her boots click-clacking in a firm, steady rhythm. She bit down on the knuckle of her forefinger, hard, in the hopes that it would ground her. All she could taste was the metal of her tarnished gold ring.

When her feet began to ache she wandered inside, slipping through the shadows into the living quarters. It was quiet, still. She must have been out there longer than she'd thought. Her heartbeat quickened the closer she got to the end of the hall. She stood, hesitantly, in the centre of the corridor, glancing either way. To one side were Aela's and Skjor's rooms—no, her room. To the other were the twins. It was as though she was on the brink of something, standing on a ledge and peering down. She took a deep breath, turned and pushed open the first door.