Bezel thought he was done babysitting over a dozen centuries ago when Mayvalt's nubby antlers had begun to sprout and develop their first layer of springtime velvet. Apparently, he wasn't. Not where the Heimrian was concerned. At least this time, Bezel was numb to the depths of frustration that he'd discovered when trying to feed a stubborn Mayvalt a plateful of vegetables and tall grass. What he felt now was paler. A ghostly fragment of intuition that whispered when it was time to play up his fake anger, time to lean into the mannerisms of boredom, time to sigh and groan and roll his golden eyes. 

Usually, that intuition was all that was required to ease Bezel through his day and duties. But, for some impossible to understand reason, it wasn't working. The Heimrian was difficult, to say the least. He had an incessant need to throw himself into reckless danger--like it was his life calling, in fact. Which made keeping him alive difficult. And he was impossible to reason with. Each and every single one of Bezel's expressions seemed to only anger him. If he conjured up a laugh to ease the tension, Ira narrowed his eyes suspiciously. If he shrugged his shoulders to offer his absolution from disagreement, Ira just squared his own and doubled down. If he breathed Ira flinched, and if he exhaled Ira glared. Bezel had no idea which way was up anymore. 

In fact, it seemed the only thing Bezel knew anymore was that their current course of action was only going to lead to one dead Heimrian and one slightly scuffed up Prince of Hell--but when he gave voice to that particular concern, Ira scoffed and tossed his head like an annoyed pony. He didn't even stop his marching steps to shoot back snarky commentary. He just kept walking. His golden hair was the only brightness in the gloomy trees that surrounded them so Bezel watched it as he followed, like a moth drawn in by the warmth of exposed flame. 

Bezel didn't know where things had gone wrong. Lunch had been pleasant? He thought? Well, it had been silent, really. Ira had sat, still and gray as a stone carving, and sipped at the rim of his rafun-kun soup. Something Bezel was sure he would not have done if he had ever read a recipe for rafun-kun, so he stayed quiet and forced himself to eat enough to kill the time. It had been fine, hadn't it? Or was it one of those unpleasant quiets? Not that their meal had endured in silence. It had been interrupted by the other guests in the upstairs apartments, devils likely summoned by the scent of boiled meats. 

Mahan Raj's crew had descended like flies to a corpse, circling the bar and making petty sniping comments at each other with boisterous laughs that shook the air. Mahan himself had been missing--his crowish woman seemed to take up the mantle of resident brooder in his place. She had perched at the furthest stool, refusing any drinks to focus solely on polishing her silver daggers. Her's was the only name Bezel hadn't eavesdropped yet--but he corrected it then. The redheaded boy, Eisen the insane, had called to her in his reedy high voice. 

"Wallowin' like that won' make this wolf any easier to gut, Wray." The foxish boy giggled into his foamy rootwater. "Enjoy yerself." 

Bezel ignored the startled choking cough Ira sputtered into his hands. Because it wasn't the most subtle on its own, and Bezel stopping to pat his back would have only made them stick out further. 

"You mean catch." Suggested the hawk-eyed girl licking green remnants of rafun-kun from a spoon. 

"Oh?" Eisen mimed offense, pressing his fingertips to his thin lips as if scandalized. "Do I?" 

"You're not cute, Eisen." She shuddered, dropping her spoon back into the dish with a gloopy splash. 

"Wasn' tryin' ta be, Ashok." Eisen countered in his thick Avernian dialogue. "It comes natural." 

"Sure." Ashok scoffed lamely before placing more soup on her tongue. "You know what he said. If we don't turn the wolf over to the Wolfking--we don't get paid." 

"That was before Zylin's tail got crushed-" 

"Zylin's an idiot." The beefy ox-horned Faun huffed in his deep rumbling tone. 

"-and before Sacara left!" 

"Sacara left because he's got an ego the size of Mount Mojaere and snapping up a few Faun contracts in Heneth gives him that kick he needs to fuel it." The ox countered again. 

"G'wur!" Eisen snapped, slamming his fist against the bar's greasy surface. For half a second, Bezel thought he might have been sneezing, choking on rafun-kun, or reciting some ancient curse--until the mystery passed and he realized that was some unfortunate devil's name. "What about G'wur? She went insane after tha' wolf did--ugh, whatever it did." 

"We don't know what happened to G'wur, Eisen. That's why it's important to stick together during a hunt--she let the prey split her away. Her mistake, her consequences." The Faun dismissed coldly. 

Bezel risked a glance across the table then, at Ira's bowed yellow head. Something about that seemed important. He just didn't know why. The words drifted through the air where Bezel could inhale them, holding them in his lungs until he became them. Stick together. They seemed at home in the back of his throat--like he'd said them himself. A wash of vertigo rinsed them away, leaving Bezel's mind as happily blank as it usually was. 

"Don' you care at all tha' our crew is crumblin', Betok?" Eisen snarled, fierce enough to hitch Ira's breath. Bezel cast him the slightest glance, watching as the Heimrian disguised the lack of breath with a deep drink from his glass of rootwater. 

"If they break, they're not crew material." Ashok answered for him. 

"Wonder if Raj would agree." Eisen sneered. "He didn' speak to any of us for days after we left G'wur behind. Face it, Featherface, the big man is in charge--not the coin. Soon as he summons us tonight, it'll be ta spear us a little puppy." 

"Mahan wouldn't-" 

"Mahan is not a patient man." Wray interrupted. Her voice sliced through the bickering, halving all the dissent at the knees. The silence that followed was weighted. "He doesn't care to keep up pleasantries with the Wolfking, either. Maybe we were set up all along, chasing this prey that's been chasing us. Soon, the game ends. The wolf dies." 

Ira's chair scraped against the wooden floorboards as he shoved himself away from the table. Bezel's golden eyes flew to him, wide and imploring but all he could catch with his gaze was his own kris where it glinted across Ira's back. And then not even that as Ira slammed the front door of the tavern behind him. 

In Bezel's weak recollection of the day they had been having--that part stuck out like a lantern in the depths of night. The vision of Ira disappearing was familiar. He just couldn't exactly place why. So, he followed the trail of his loosely winding memories as they fluttered along the actions of hours past. What had happened after Ira had stormed off? Well, what else? Bezel had sprung up from his own stool and given chase. 

Bezel's least favorite part of babysitting was chasing after the ward under his charge--especially when with only a few stomping steps it became awfully clear where Ira was headed, and not just because it had already happened. But because the Heimrian was awfully predictable. Bezel lengthened his stride until he was shoulder to shoulder with the Bishop, head angled back casually to watch fluffy gray clouds roll across the evening sky. Clouds, and skies, and the warmth of the sun would become a distant haze--so he took solace in them while he could. Even if only through the window of his own evocation. A ghostly souvenir. 

"You aren't going to find that wolf until it wants to be found." 

"I might." Ira growled animalistically. 

"It's probably just some wolf." Bezel tried. 

"I'm not taking that chance." He snapped back. Bezel angled his head, sneaking a glimpse of the blunt white teeth gritted together behind Ira's pale pink lips. Not fangs. Which meant between the two of them--Bezel had the worse bite. In this case though, that left Ira with the bark. 

"I'm not keen on spending more time than necessary in the Sikker Woods." Bezel said. "It's dangerous." 

Stick together, it's dangerous. He pushed the thought back down into the cold depths of his psyche. He hadn't said that--or maybe he just hadn't said it yet. 

"No one asked you to come, Princess." Ira muttered sourly. 

"Right." Bezel chirped, shrugging casually. "So, I'll head back to our room then. Just give me my sword first." 

"It's worthless, right?" Ira questioned in a voice too sweet to be genuine. "So I see no reason for you to want it back." 

"I'm sentimental?" Bezel suggested lamely. 

"I don't believe you." Ira snorted, shaking his blond locks. 

"Then I'm spoiled and it's mine and I want it back." Bezel lamented childishly. 

"Give me my Vestige." Ira said over his shoulder as he steered them towards the dark trees looming on the horizon. 

"You know I can't." Bezel whined. He would have crossed his arms and pouted his lips too but it felt a touch further than necessary. 

Ira said nothing, just shook his head again and walked them towards the shadows pooling at the edge of Kett, where rolling sprawls of soft green hill and yellow fields became harsh walls of brownish-gray bark and twisted branches. Where Kett became the Sikker. 

"Ira, you have no idea what you're tempting right now." Bezel warned. The use of his name seemed to catch his attention--but only momentarily and did nothing to stop the speed of his advance. "The Sikker Woods have long been the realm of the Woodland Folk. They're. . . dangerous. Tricksters, thieves, dishonorable." 

Stick together, it's dangerous. It's a trick-

Bezel rubbed at his skull, at the temples where it gave an uncharacteristic throb. That pain wasn't real, right? No, of course not. How could it be? Bezel felt nothing. Well, mostly. He had felt the blessed waters of Lake Seneca as it had ripped his flesh from his bones--but that had been magic and this was-

"Good thing there's no more Woodland Folk here." Ira said victoriously. 

"What?" Bezel blinked. What had they been discussing? Something about which way to go, he was sure. No, not that. Ira wasn't open to negotiations. He was headed to the Sikker--and of course Bezel was going to follow. He was famous for his poor decisions. 

"It was something the Fifth Prince mentioned, though clearly you don't remember or weren't paying attention." Ira said. 

"Remind me." Bezel said dryly. 

Remember. Remember. Reme-

"She said that the Woodland Folk had been chased out. Well, I thought 'what's the worth of a Prince's word,' but I asked that bartender girl while you were out. Some years ago now the Woodland Folk left the forest." Ira nodded, sunlight sparkled off the top of his blond head from the swift gesture.

"First," Bezel scowled, "I'm a Prince too, so ouch. Secondly, if the Folk left it's not a good thing. It means something scared them out--and now that you've reminded me, that is exactly what my sister said. Or do you not believe that either?" 

"I wouldn't place much trust in that particular devil, no." Ira chuffed. 

"Well," Bezel rolled his catish eyes. "We'll see for ourselves when whatever is in there kills you." 

"You mean us?" Ira twisted as he walked, spinning to face Bezel so that he was hopping along backwards towards the looming edge. Maybe because Bezel had started to lag the closer they got to the Sikker's doorstep. Bezel surged forward until their steps were aligned again. Seemingly satisfied with that, Ira began walking in the right direction again and Bezel exhaled in relief that he wouldn't be witnessing any ankles breaking. Not for the first time, Bezel cursed how glass-fragile Heimrians were. Some loose gravel could put Ira out of walking condition for months--and then Bezel would be by himself and that didn't seem like the best alternative. Not when saving the world was at the top of the to do list. 

"No, I don't." Bezel finally answered. "I'm made of tougher stuff." 

"Great," Ira grinned like they had just made some great alliance. "That means you can keep me from getting dead." 

The Prince scoffed in slightly played up astonishment. "I won't. I'm not your caretaker--or guardian Ely." Ira just rolled his eyes like the Prince had been joking--and the joke had been lame. Bezel bristled at that, not unlike a cornered cat. "I mean it." 

"Okay." Ira acquiesced with a small smirk. 

"I really mean it." The Prince said again. He forced his emotionless tone to harden. He gave it stiff edges so it could become a container for his sincerity. All of which seemed to go right over Ira's blond head. Which, in all fairness, was not hard at all. Ira's head hardly came to Bezel's chin and Bezel had always been short by Ely standards. Likely due to his Heimrian birth and impoverished upbringing--but that was all water under a very old bridge. 

"Angels," Ira muttered in that stubborn way Bezel was becoming much too used to. "I said okay."

"Exactly," Bezel grumbled sourly. "You never agree with me unless you're just agreeing with me to keep me quiet while you do what you want. And right now that means traipsing through the woods while I keep all the starving critters off your back." 

If Ira had replied to that, Bezel could no longer recall what had been said. More than likely though, he hadn't. 

"Well, look at that!" Ira cheered with fluffed up optimism. "We've made it. Any last words?" 

Bezel shivered in the shade cast by the thick gray trunks. The trees were bigger than he'd thought--but he hadn't been so close before. He thought so, anyway, until he was tilting his head back and staring into the endless sea of gray. It was. . . familiar. He shook his head until it settled. Of course it was! He was standing right there, right on the edge. The bottom of his boots rested half in the curled green grass sprouting from the rich farming dirt of Kett, and half in the barren dirt marking the beginning of the rotted forest. An acrid scent tangled in the air--it had a sting as sharp as ice and a warmth as inviting as a crematory. Bezel slanted his gaze towards his Heimrian companion but if he was nervous, he was doing an awfully convincing job of hiding it behind the iron reinforcement in his sky-blue eyes. 

"I hope you know what you're getting yourself into, darling." Bezel said. 

"You and me both." Ira agreed. He stepped forward, sinking into shadow and that fear-soaked scent. The sunlight glinted off the white iron of his stolen kris--and then Ira was gone from the light. Too far for even the Avernian sun to reach. Bezel plunged forward before his yellow hair became too shrouded in shadows to follow. 

The chill of the forest was too present of a thing to ignore, even to Bezel's corpse-cold skin. With only a handful of steps, each of which cracked underfoot from the dense layering of the forest's carpet, the warmth of the sun became a faded memory. There was only Ira's flaxen hair as it bobbed ahead down the overgrown maze. 

For some reason it felt an awful idea to take his eyes off of his guiding light. For another reason, one he couldn't name, he did just that. His head twisted, angling so his adjusted eyes could chase the grooves of the gray trunks up into the sky--or where the sky should have been. The ceiling was knitted tightly, no trembling leaf could shift enough to allow in the light. He wondered how Ira was faring with his average Heimrian eyesight but by the time he worked himself up to spare him a glance to check, it was too late. 

Bezel's boots came to a sudden halting stop. The forest was silent. If crickets existed in his part of Avernus, they didn't dare enter the dense thicket. No one should have. 

Stick together. 

It's dangerous. 

It's a trick. 

No. Bezel pressed his palms to his spinning head. Not a trick, no. He hadn't said that. 

"It's a trap." 

The path ahead was empty. Ira was gone. 

"Ira?" Bezel shouted. How was that even possible? He'd been right behind him. He'd taken his eyes off him for only a second--or had he? He couldn't remember anymore. Bezel spun around, seeking the way back to Kett--which was gone, too. He blinked in the sight of gray trees and yellowing leaves. As far as his keen eyes could gleam, there was nothing but an ocean of oaks. This had been the way back to Kett, hadn't it? He'd only walked a couple feet at most. 

Bezel's head swooned, pitching a fit like it dared to protest. He lifted his palms to his eyelids and pressed down to keep his skull from splitting apart. 

"I think we're going in circles," 

Bezel flung himself left, chasing the sound of Ira's voice through the trees--or, that was the idea. But when he crashed through the snarled roots and the thick branches, he found himself alone with only more trees for company. "Darling! Can you hear me?" Bezel shouted. His voice echoed through the palid wood, bouncing off his ears like thrown stones. 

"What makes you say that?" 

Bezel froze, turning stiff and still as the trees. That voice--it was his own. Something not quite an echo. 

"All of these trees look the same." Ira replied in that same distance warble. 

"They're trees, darling. Only so many ways they can look." 

Bezel's head snapped right. "Ira!" He called into the nothingness. 

"No, look," Bezel began to run--in no direction. In all directions. He chased the sound of the voice inside of his skull, leaping over fallen logs and ripping his way through grabbing bushes. "I remember this knot--it looks like Salamis Cedar. Y'know, when he's scowling like I just kicked his shins. Not that I have, well, not that I don't want to." 

Twigs tore at Bezel's legs, roots snapped at his boots, but still he ran. 

"Then let's make a trail," Bezel-not-Bezel suggested, "carve some markers or something," 

"Isn't that, like, defacing of a national park? Or something?" 

"Just do what I say for once," 

"Yeah, no, where's the fun in that?" 

The voices in Bezel's head came to abrupt silence--which likely had something to do with the giant tree he ran face first into. His body cracked into the bark before he fell across his back. The Vestige strapped to his spine pressed firmly into the appendaged he kept hidden under his tied cloak. They kicked up a fit, squirming in protest as Bezel ground them into the thick mossy rug beneath him. Bezel laid in the dirt, blinking up at the canopy high above. His skull spun with vertigo. If he hadn't been intimately close with the earth, he might have confused the two. The gray trunks run from thick yellow carpet up to thick yellow ceiling. 

Prodding from his squirming spine helped refocus Bezel's swimming mind. He blinked a few more times before navigating his way to his boots. He pet his face experimentally--for no reason, of course. Avernian wood was about as harmful to him as cotton candy or battery acid but it soothed his play embarrassment to brush away the incident. For one second, he was glad Ira was somewhere far away. He wouldn't have lived that one down--not for the rest of his nearly immortal life, he was sure. 

As the Prince collected himself, one scattered fragment at a time, the tree he had kissed caught his attention. He stepped forward, placing his fingertips over the grooves in the gray bark. In the center of the tree, gouged deep enough to expose tender white wood, was a familiar carving. A simple arrow, slashed deep into the body of the conifer. 

Bezel's head pulsed--not from the collision--but from the flooding crash of memories surging into the forefront of his brain. Trees on endless display, the sounds of Ira's sharp bickering as their route become more and more entangled, the music of the wind dancing through the branches in low howls, the heavy skull-invading stench of ice, rot, and fear. 

"Brothers," he cursed in a whispered rush, "how long have we been in here?" 

But more importantly--how long had it been since Bezel had seen him? 

Bezel clenched his fists, curling them until his nails bit into the flesh of his palms. A sense of clarity radiated out from the divots carved into his skin. It thrummed up his arms and soaked into his head. He followed the point of the arrow and began to walk--one careful step at a time. As the fog ebbed, a new sense crept forward to eagerly replace it. Bearing down on him, heavier than the earth and universe itself, was the scent of a predator. Bezel sucked in greedy gasps of the ice-tinged air. It stung at his lungs and turned bitter behind his ribcage. 

Bezel chased it. He ran towards the spots between the tree where the darkness snarled at him. He gradually worked himself back into a run, his eyes wide for branches and trunks. His confidence increased with each leap, as sure as a bird that the winds would guide him. His mind had cleared--until it became nearly laughable that he'd fallen for the trick. Bezel knew the coldness in the air like he knew trouble. A familiar old friend, even. It was Fetor. And where there was Fetor, there was a wolf. And where there was a wolf--there would be Ira Rule. Hopefully, still in one piece.