"Whoa, Orion. What are you doing? You're not a murderer, my dude. Chill!"

The action draws the attention of the other two Blackham, and they immediately hop onto the back of their two wiretails. Once they're on, they start moving toward me, Khalil, Kline, and the captured wiretail. The saddled wiretails are still ornery, so the Blackham are struggling to keep them from lunging this way or that, which slows their progression down on backing up Kline.

"Listen to your friend, Orion. Don't do something stupid."

"Maybe the only stupid thing here is you trying to tell the guy–who could shoot you in the heart before you could move an inch–to do anything at all. You're not in fucking control here, Kline. You haven't done anything this whole time except run your mouth. Jorge was right to dislike your worthless ass at the beginning."

My hand tenses, drawing the bow back with a creak, and even though I'm angry, I realize that Khalil's right. I'm not a murderer. And yet still, I hold the arrow pointed at Kline's heart with no wavering in my aim.

"Okay, Orion. What do you want us to do specifically?"

"Teach me how to control the wiretail and then piss off."

"You mean Khalil?"

"No, now I mean me. Khalil can talk to wiretails when he wants to, and I can't, so I need to know how you order yours and keep them from going feral."

"You want us to give you a crash course on keeping a wiretail? Do you know how long we study and train to handle them? Be realistic, Orion."

"Shut the fuck up, Kline. This isn't a discussion anymore. I want you to agree to it right now. I want you to blood oath it, too. No more of your little Blackham games. I've had a pretty terrible night, and I'm not in the mood to play anymore–especially not with you."

The two Blackham on the back of their wiretails draw closer to me; I can hear their ridden wiretails' low gurgling and grunting. I pull back the bow and openly threaten Kline with a shot to the heart once again. Kline raises his hands at his two people, and it makes them come to a stop. Khalil carefully walks over and places himself with his back to mine, directly facing the two riders on the wiretails.

"I got your back forever," Khalil murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.

"I know," I murmur in response.

"Okay, Orion. I'll teach you how to maintain control with words over a wiretail, but I'm only going to swear a blood oath to it if you also swear that you will never tell anyone how you managed to gain a wiretail mount."

"No, that's not the deal, Kline. You'll swear a blood oath right now, telling me you will teach me how to keep this guy properly. I don't need to swear to anything at all, and I'm not going to. And tell your people to piss off with the extra two wiretails right now."

"They have the supplies with them?"

"We'll survive," I growl in response.

Kline hesitates, clearly not wanting to agree to do anything of the sort.

"Tick, tock, Kline. My arm's starting to get tired, and it's been a long night of fighting and running."

Kline curses under his breath and then looks up at the sky.

"Alright, fine. I agree, alright? Hell, I agree. Put down your bow."

"No. Blood oath it, right now."

I hardly recognize my voice as it icily creeps out from my lips. Kline lowers his head and focuses on me. He noisily exhales air through his nose before carefully reaching down to his side and drawing out his kukri weapon. He moves it slowly so that I see every careful movement he takes.

He draws the long, machete-like, and bent kukri blade across his left hand and winces. With his blood bubbling up to the surface from the cut, he reaches up to his face and smears the blood from his hand down one side of his face and across his lips.

"I, Kline of the Blackham tribe, swear on my blood beneath this moon's ascendance that I will instruct Orion, a Wilder, on how to caretake and control the wiretail we captured tonight. I also agree to grant him official ownership over the wiretail in question, with the promise to update Blackham records officially to reflect that ownership once I return to the city."

The moment's magic is subtle, and it's the first time I've seen a blood oath being sworn in person. The vivid red of Kline's blood immediately shrivels to dry on his face, turning a darker rust shade. The dried blood doesn't flake away, though. Instead, it seems to seep back into the skin of Kline, and then that is the end of it.

"There. Happy? Can I wrap my hand now?"

"Almost. Send them away like you agreed."

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He looks past Khalil and me at the two mounted Blackham. He exhales and then nods in their direction.

"Take one of the saddles off the wiretails and leave it for us. Go ahead and go back to the city. I'll catch up with you in a few days."

They start to protest, but to his credit, Kline stops them and insists with an order. The pair give Khalil and me dirty looks, but they do as Kline commands them. They get the two extra wiretails, leaving Kline's mount and the wiretail still groggy and on the ground. As the pair move away, Khalil walks over to pick up the saddle left behind on the ground that used to belong to the now-dead viper-nosed fey. Finally, I relax my arm and lower the arrow from being menacingly aimed at Kline. I pointedly slide the arrow back into my quiver and sling my bow across my torn t-shirt and back again. Once he's no longer under threat of being used as a pincushion, Kline relaxes a little bit. After relaxing, he takes a few moments to wrap his hand in fabric. Once done with that, he looks at me and offers a sort of olive branch.

"We have a little food still left by the fire if you're hungry."

"Alright."

I walk over–feeling a bit like a nearly wholly drained emotional robot–and pick up the cold pan used for cooking what looks like grabbat stew with a few vegetables. I look slowly in the direction that Cassandra angrily rode off down the traveler's path–not so secretly wishing to see her riding back to us–but then lower my eyes to my arms, which still need attention. Setting the pan down, I mutter to Khalil to get the fire going once again. While he does that and Kline sits down to seemingly sulk, I open my larger pack that I'd left behind when we went out to track and remove some of the ointment for wounds. I sit next to Kline and the fire once Khalil gets it going and begin to clean the wounds with a little bit of water and ointment.

I only need to glance once at Kline, which prompts him to begin giving us the crash course on wiretail management. While he goes over the basic commands and how to maintain body language with the large felines, I carefully wrap each of my more significant wounds, ensuring they're done right. By the time he gets to instructing me on more advanced commands, the remainder of the stew in the pan on the fire is bubbling. I pour it out onto an already-used bowl and use whoever's spoon is in it to feed my face while listening to Kline's dutiful explanations. When he seemingly finishes, I gaze over at him.

"How good at tracking scents are they?"

"Good enough that other tribes often hire our trackers."

"There any specific times of the year that they do something instinctive or experience any changes I should know about?"

"No, I think they're neutral. I mean Blackham, in general, think they're not partial to either sun or moon ascendancy. It's never been proven or disproven for obvious reasons, but there isn't anything we've seen–or those that came before us have seen–to suggest any changes."

"I meant things like females going into heat, which makes the males more aggressive, Kline."

"Oh." There's a long pause. "Their breeding season is year-round. The female cats can go into heat twice a year, and the scent of one would probably trigger what you're asking about in a wiretail."

"So they gotta be close."

"Right, close enough to smell or hear the unending yowling that the female wiretails can get up to. There's a reason we keep the breeding female wiretails further away from our residences–for our damned sanity."

Normally, I might have laughed at that, but I feel nothing. Khalil does laugh but quickly tapers off when he sees I'm not laughing, too. I force a smile to my face, which seems to keep Khalil from asking any annoying questions, then drop it once the moment's passed. As I finish the stew in the bowl, I mull over the fact that the ball of anger in my gut seems to have disappeared, but it left an intense feeling of emotional numbness. Is this feeling the medical thing called shock, and is it finally kicking in from the swamp fighting earlier? I don't know. I feel different than I did only yesterday. Before now, I never understood what the old faeries would mean when they said that when your life is truly endangered the first time, you're changed forever. But now, I think I understand. How could anyone not be changed?

I look at my reflection in the silvery-colored metal bottom of the now-empty bowl. My face is filthy from the swamp muck, sweat, and dirt. My pale, moon-colored eyes peer at me through the grime covering my dark eyebrows. I gaze over my face as if seeing it for the first time. This must be what people say when they see themselves in a mirror for the first time and actually see themselves. I look at my strong jawline, which causes some amusement to creep into the back of my mind. It hasn't been enough days to grow that annoying stubble back. Some of my hair has unsurprisingly fallen out of the long braids my dark hair is pulled back into.

I realize that the face that stares back at me from the silvery bottom of that soup bowl is not my old wean self. I see my father staring back at me, save for the pale eyes–those came from my mother. The pale, moon-colored orbs are intelligent but hide a desire for darkness, just like my mother. Just like me, sometimes–Hannah was right. My thoughts drift momentarily to Aria but more quickly are drawn to the features of Cassandra. Both are creatures of violence and the moon, and both drew something from me that I didn't know I even had buried in me. A longing, maybe.

A grumble and rumble shake me out of my bowl-induced self-reflection. I blink away my sea of thoughts and look at the cause of the commotion. The wiretail, still ensnared by the netting, seems to be losing the tranquilized effect it was under. I set the bowl next to the fire and rise to my feet.

"Okay, Kline, what do we do here?"

"Oh, I don't know, Orion; someone sent away our supplies, which included the sleep poisons in them." Kline snarks at me.

I know I have my blowgun on my belt, with a dart already in it, but I also know it won't do anything on such a large creature. It's strong enough for small game, and a wiretail is not that.

"He got you there, Ori."

"Thanks, Khalil."

"No problem, brother."

The wiretail struggles a little against the netting, which is thankfully keeping it down on the ground. When the captured wiretail starts rustling about, Kline's saddled one begins to pace with a nervous and aggressive energy. I look between the two problems and huff.

"Alright, Kline, calm down your cat before it flips out and kills everyone. Khalil, try to talk to this guy. Tell him we don't want to hurt him; we want to help him get well-fed every night and be safer."

Khalil looks at me for a long moment while Kline approaches his pacing adult wiretail. I return Khalil's look so that he knows I'm serious. Something behind Khalil's eyes changes; it doesn't harden or soften; it's almost like he's acknowledging me as the older brother now. He moves so he's on the side of the wiretail. That way, Khalil won't be easy pickings if the cat frees one of his bowling-ball-sized claws. Khalil exhales, inhales, and then exhales once more. He places his hand against the side and back of the wiretail, which causes the cat to rustle about again. Khalil keeps his eyes closed for half a minute before he finally opens his eyes again. When his eyes open, the wiretail slowly comes to a stop in his attempt to resist the netting.

"Okay. I can talk with him now. I told him what you said."