Bezel hadn't been lying when he said some wolves could talk. Only, now Ira certainly wished he had been. Or, at least joking. Out of all the wolves in the world, why did they have to get the one who barked like waterfalls churned out water? It was awfully friendly for a creature that had disposed of a Beast with brutal certainty. The inside-out throat left behind painted a red-stained picture--a picture that didn't match the flippant way the Ze'ev leapt over logs on his three good legs, yapping over his shoulder as he went. He had been talking for much of their walk but none of it enough to answer Ira's burning questions. 

"-has been after me since Seaport, but heard rumor they took the hunt as far back as Talak'toma," the wolf was saying in that choked speech of his. He seemed to be narrating his journey since Mahan Raj's crew had picked up his scent. Or he had been the last time Ira had paid attention. Maybe he should have put more effort into learning his enemy but he couldn't submerge into his thoughts with all the low-pitched yelping. "-hired hound hunters are not rare these days but,"

Ira had lived a lot of lives. Learned a lot of life lessons. One was this: if the seat is empty, look for the puddle. Father Pine had given him that little wisdom to hold onto once upon a time. When a much younger Ira had nearly made a critical error while trying to find a place for them to sit on the rush hour train. In less New Yorker terms, in a way that involved less mysterious bodily fluids, if it's too good to be true--well, that's because it is. After days of near scrapes, trick-filled deals, devils, and pointless side quests, finding a Ze'ev willing to take them right to the Wolfking sounded an awful lot like an empty seat on a crowded train. 

"easy enough to split them up," he barked, "crumbled under small amounts of pressure." 

Ira was scouring his mind trying to work out the twist before it could get to him first. At least his mind was running quicker than before, less gooey catches in the gears. It had something to do with the wolf releasing them from his Fetor--Bezel said, anyway. Which only raised more questions. If what had been scrambling their sense of direction and time earlier was Fetor, then it was effective. The wolf could have kept them lost for days, months, or even years. But it had let them go? More than that, it was leading them to the other wolves? 

"I expect they will drop our trail as we near the border. Must have a guide to cross the thick Fetor there." The Ze'ev said. 

Was Mahan really such a threat? Ira had been mostly lying earlier. Sure, an injured wolf would be at a natural disadvantage but this wolf had been doing fine on his own. If he tossed up a few thicker walls of Fetor, he would have been uncatchable. So, how had Ira caught him? How had the Prince found them? So little of it made sense, Ira almost thought he was still submerged in the familiar confusion Fetor seemed to infuse into him. Ira wanted to believe that. It was easier than the most likely answer. If this wolf, who was so uncatchable, had been caught then the easier answer was that he had allowed himself to be caught. And since Ira was blindly following him deeper into the dark trees, he was probably walking right into the Ze'ev's trap.

"This border--it's nearby?" The Prince asked. He chatted with a certain nonchalance that Ira knew he would never be able to match. So he didn't try. He let the Prince talk for them both and sunk further into his spinning thoughts. "The other wolves live just beyond it? They really left the Tachtadh?"

"Nearby." The wolf answered, his tone a haunting echo. "Was headed home when. . . do not know word for hunted thing . . . became hunted thing and now we are a pack. All headed home now." 

But knowing and acting were two different sides of the coin. And with little other options, Ira knew this was the best he could do. He trailed along behind the Ze'ev, his fingers twitching towards his dagger handles each time the wolf's keen yellow-green eyes darted back towards them. The wolf wasn't stupid, either. He had an intelligence behind his gleaming fangs that made Ira's skin grow cold with sweat. He swiveled his head back towards the shadows and limped along, tail swishing like he was happy to be there. 

"They live in the Sikker?" The Prince snorted in disbelief. He offered a small shake of his head. "It makes so much sense. No wonder the Folk all left. The Fetor must have chased them out. And what better place than the Endless Forest for a bunch of wolves?" 

The wolves were in the Sikker? How was it possible that Melchior could be this close? If--if he was with the other wolves. A guarantee Ira couldn't even hold dear anymore. The wolves had stuck together when they had been forced into banishment, but that was then. Although, it didn't seem like Avernus was too accepting of them. So maybe they still did stick together but inside of a new prison. Then again, if the Wolfking still held them under his guard it made sense they were all contained. Which was the idea Ira gravitated towards, despite their furry guide who proved quite the opposite. 

The wolf grunted a noise of disagreement. "Challengers chased out many weaker things." 

"Challengers?" Bezel asked. 

"For the Wolfking." The Ze'ev nodded. His chest puffed pridefully. "No one has ever bested the Wolfking. There is reward to be found in his defeat." 

"What sort of reward?" Bezel questioned. 

"Whatever the challenger wishes, I would assume. No one has ever found their prize. No one had ever survived the Wolfking." The Ze'ev smirked over his jagged fangs. 

Ira's ears perked at that. "What if I wanted to ask the Wolfking to find someone for me? Or to, like, give me one of his wolves? Could I take him away then?" 

"Ira." Bezel warned softly at the same time the Ze'ev barked a harsh laugh and shook his fuzzy head. 

"I would not advise such a course, companion." The wolf huffed doggishly. "Wolfking does not lose." 

Ira glanced at the Prince. The Prince caught his gaze and rolled his eyes, he even added a dramatic sigh. "You want me to fight the Wolfking, don't you?" 

Ira scoffed, pinked cheeks, like he had been caught with all his hands in the cookie jar. "It makes sense strategically! Even if you're not skilled enough to take him down, he can't hurt you since he's not a thing of Heaven. You would just have to exhaust him. Win by draw." 

"Firstly," the Prince groaned and dragged the heels of his palms across his eyelids, "who says I can't win with my skills? Secondly, how do you even know that? Never mind, it was Mayvalt wasn't it? Leave it to that girl to go on blabbing about my weaknesses to the enemy." 

"Angels," Ira cursed in a voice lacking all ill will. "I know I'm a little green sometimes but I'm not so helpless. Ossein works on demons because it's demonic. Vestiges work on angels because it's angelic. It's pretty simple stuff." The Prince quirked one oil-black brow. Ira scowled, crossed his arms, and grumbled, "and fine. Mayvalt told me last summer." 

"Uh huh," Bezel smirked playfully. 

Ira rolled his eyes with as much venom as he could summon--which was just about as much as he had channeled into his weak curse. 

"Companions not understanding," the wolf hissed in a low snarl, "Wolfking is not to be defeated. For mercy on your minds, I shall pretend he can be, but then not even upon that victory would your reward be fulfilled." 

Ira's fingers curled towards his Ossein, stroking the heads of the hilts like they needed his assurance. "What are you saying, wolf?" Ira asked sharply. "The Wolfking will go back on his word?" 

The snarl that ripped up from the wolf's throat was real, and bitter, and animalistic. He spun on his tilted paws and lowered his head, teeth gleaming. Ira had never been looked down upon by a dog before--it wasn't a pleasant feeling. "Do not speak ill of my king. The Wolfking will need not need to renege. You will not win. But should you, again I speak only to play along like pups who bite with no real sharpness, wolves--do not--leave." 

Ira stared into the glowing yellow of the wolf's eyes--his shoulders pinched and his fingers wrapped on his hilts. The wolf didn't advance, but didn't retreat either. They remained locked in a battle of brooding for many moments until it was shattered.

"So," the first person to break the tension-soaked silence was, of course, the one least likely to acknowledge it, "how did you end up on your own then? Unusual for your kind, isn't it?" 

The Prince's question hung in the air, speared and nailed in place by the sharp agitation hovering between them. The wolf's brown ears fluttered backwards and pinned to his skull. 

"Your ears haven't been torn." Bezel noted, eyes tracing the flutter of them. "So not an exile? Was it voluntary? No, that seems unlikely after all your tough talk of no one getting to leave." 

Ira, who had never much cared to dabble in American politics, understood even less about Hellish ones. He had truthfully never stopped to consider all the different ways in which societies had formed and molded in the underworld. Certain words fluttered past his ears, quick as a whip and just as jarring, Fauns, He-Goats, Satyrian, Faunish, Fae-Iron, gates, contracts, Halflings, Ze'ev, Princes--how all these things fit together like an intricate tapestry was far beyond his Heimrian understanding. He had noticed the shy and artistic temperament of He-Goats, just as he had seen the sharp and shameful cowardice in them. He had seen the stitched together animalistic parts of Halflings, feathers, tails, pointed ears, jagged teeth, curled tusks, just as he had seen their quick anger and brutal strength. He had seen Beasts as big and mindless as busses, churning along on a given path until brought down. 

And wolves, he knew very little about beyond that they seemed the vermin on the ship. The creatures who were fair game to hunt, who had belonged inside of the pit for their transgressions of centuries past. He ignored the pang of familiarity twitching just behind his ribs.

The wolf, who Ira almost began to forget could talk--even after all his enjoyment of it earlier, snarled. "Do not speak of things you do not understand. We do not exile Torn anymore. We do not. . . tear." 

"Then you are an exile?" The Prince surmised. "An un-Torn one." 

"No!" The Ze'ev howled raggedly. "I am returning. I will return home. I will take whatever punishment the Wolfking deems fit for me--and I will take it as a-" he stuttered to a halt, seemingly because there was no word in their shared understanding to convey his meaning. Eventually, he filled the silence with a deep barking growl, and continued, "under my new rank I will accept any punishment the Wolfking has to offer, but it is my right after my task to be treated as such rank." 

"Wait," Ira said, pressing his palms to his spinning head. "You left for a. . . promotion?" 

The wolf seemed proud enough to grin over his jagged teeth. "It is our way. I was to remain as a pup until I fell my first hunted thing-" his eyes fluttered pleadingly to Bezel. 

The Prince dipped his head and filled in, "Basilisk. That's what you killed--in shared tongue. Though, I assume Beast would fit if you could kill any prize." 

Ira filed that wisdom away, too. Giant radioactive chicken things: basilisks.

The wolf's tail thudded once, pleasantly. "Until I fell my first Beast." 

"Oh my angels," Ira whispered, "that's not a promotion--it's a. . . it's a pilgrimage." 

The wolf and Prince fit him with identical confusion filled golden gazes, so Ira swallowed the knot in his throat and continued, "we did them, too. In the Progeny--uh, in my pack? Sure, pack. You're not considered a knight until you've pilgrimaged. Only after passing your task can you become a Bishop. Well, technically speaking it's not so much about growing up as it is about proving yourself but most deacons petition for pilgrimage at a young age so they can ditch the stuffy mentors and begin solo work. You, uh, you can't hunt without your mentor until Bishophood. . .so," Ira was suddenly nervous to explain his childhood, his life, to them. His words came as sputtered as they did beneath the tight ceremonial robes of his rank, when stiff collars dug into his tender throat. He felt suddenly bare--and embarrassed. What did demons care for his ways? He should have said nothing. 

"You know, I always sort of wondered how it worked." The Prince said with a thoughtful nod. "I'd always guessed--but it's still nice to have an answer."

Ira flinched--more out of surprised than anything--and fit him with a wonderstruck look. The Ze'ev puffed up his chest like Ira had something of great import and barked, "that is your way." 

Ira smiled softly down at his hands and shrugged. Bashfulness needed to be ignored, he forced the attention back towards the more agreeable Ze'ev. "If this was all your right, why do you fear punishment from the Wolfking?" 

The Ze'ev groaned--a sound much to human and childish to be anything but unnerving--and began his advance through the trees once more. The sour mood between them all had begun to smooth at the edges. A change of pace Ira was surprisingly glad for. He picked up his speed and followed behind, with Bezel coming in behind him. He seemed keen to keep Ira in sights after they had been split up before. 

"The Wolfking is meant to issue us our pi-. . .pilgrimage," the word was hesitant and thick with his barking tones, but Ira nodded encouragement anyways, "our pilgrimages come from the Wolfking, but he would not sentence me to mine. Impatient I grew, older I became. . . I am, very shamefully, much older than my pilgrimaging season." 

Ira winced sympathetically. "I was much older than most when I took mine. So was Mel-" the humor drained from his voice. The casual warmth in which he had remembered him became poisonous with pain. Ira cleared his throat, shaking away the memories of why they had been forced to wait--to wait for each other. Until the time came when Ira Rule slaughtering the Cursed Boy was the only option. "Why wouldn't he let you go?" 

The wolf pausing his limping and turned his yellow-green eyes back to his weakest leg. With a bitter scoff, he tilted his teeth at the limb. Ira turned his attentions to it for perhaps the first time. He had assumed the wolf had hurt it in the scuffle with the Beast--when he had been tossed against the rocks, maybe something inside had broken--but Ira looked more carefully now. The leg was straight, just a bit lifted so it only dragged across the ground when the wolf needed the balance. The fur was free of blood, making the scarred lines in his fur easier to see. The injury was old--and it's origin unknown, whatever had happened had left the wolf three-legged for a long time. 

"I am. . . weak." The wolf snarled with distaste. "Broken. He had no faith in me." 

"I know weakness." Ira said. "What you did to that Beast--that was not weakness. Whatever happened to your leg--surviving that--was no weakness either." 

The wolf curled his teeth, a rasping growl lifted from his throat. "The Wolfking." 

Maybe Ira's confusion was clear in his eyes, because the wolf snorted an unamused huff and extended his scarred leg so that it held a fraction of his weight against the forest floor. "This mark was delivered upon me by the Wolfking, back when our skies were ash and our rivers made of venom. I do not remember much of the world as it changed for us. I do not recall the way the wind first tasted when finally free of smoke--I spent much time clinging to the life he tried to take from me. When the pain faded, so too did the scent of the pit from my fur. I awoke, broken, in our new world. Although, now I can not determine which suspect took my memories of the time from me. Pain, grief, or just by being small."

Ira's throat ran dry, his tongue worked to free itself from the glue trap behind his teeth. "You. . . you were little? The Wolfking tried to kill a child?"

"The life inside the pit was unkind for all." The wolf murmured. "I am the last of my family--the only one to climb into the sky." His features pinched, his head shook, and he added, "of similar blood. A pup as half-dead as I was would have perished if not for the one who saved me. He is my family now. I hope my. . . actions have not dishonored him too greatly." 

Ira didn't know what to say. It was a small mercy that the Prince spoke instead. "What changed? What driving force finally saw the wolves banishment lifted? I thought the Wolfking meant to keep your kind in the pit forever--where his control was uncontested."

"His control became tested." The wolf answered simply. 

"You said the Wolfking doesn't lose." Bezel pointed. 

"He does not." The wolf agreed, adding only confusion to what Ira already struggled to understand. 

"Bezel," Ira whispered wearily. He slowed his steps to put distance between the wolf and to give the Prince a chance to come closer, which he did. "I have a bad feeling about all of this. It's. . . confusing me, to be honest. I feel like I'm walking in blind." 

"Not blind." The Prince murmured. He had taken up a position so near Ira that the rasp of his whispers became physical touches across the shell of his ear. Ira might have flinched and fled like a blushing schoolboy, but given they were traveling with a keen-eared hound, it at least seemed justifiable if not warranted. "We know plenty about the Wolfking and all of it would suggest we should tuck our tails and turn back before it becomes too late but-" 

"No!" Ira hissed. "I'm not giving up this chance at finding Melchior! If the Wolfking keeps all the wolves he must have Melchior, too." 

"-but exactly that." The Prince finished with a tired sigh. His breath was perfectly room temperature as it ghosted past Ira's nape. An unfortunate fact, given Ira couldn't blame the chill of it for the resulting shiver. "So, we'll just have to keep going forward and hope the ground stays solid under our boots." 

Ira twitched at that. "You think the wolf is tricking us?" 

Bezel shrugged agreeably. "I think he took us up on our deal because he was hurt and needed escorting--only now that limp he has is something he's well adapted to. So, I see no reason for us to escort him." 

Ira shivered again--but this time, at the chill the truth sent up his spine. "I agree," he admitted. "So, what are you thinking?" 

"I think that if my king did that to me, I wouldn't stick around waiting for him to do it again. I think I wouldn't go back--but if I did, I'd do it with assurance." Bezel breathed into Ira's ear. 

"We're bait? Or, what, a distraction?" Ira surmised. 

"A brand new squeaky toy for the Wolfking to chew on." The Prince said. "I wouldn't panic yet, darling. It seems like I'm going to fight that dog for you one way or another. The least we can hope for is getting something out of it in return." 

"Melchior." Ira nodded. 

"I was thinking, like, a milkbone--but sure, yeah. Melchior." Bezel teased lightly. 

"You're dog enough to want one." Ira grumbled in return. The huffed sound of amusement the Prince manufactured had enough kick to ruffle Ira's blond hair. 

The wolf stopped walking. Ira froze on instinct. Bezel took one more step before he closed the distance between them and bumped into Ira's back, stilling himself. The Ze'ev lifted his head high, exposing the yellowish fur of his throat, as his nose tilted up towards the swaying leaves. "Companions, something. . . approaches."

"Something?" Ira called. "Someone? Mahan Raj's crew? A Beast?"

The wolf's nose gave another hesitant twitch. 

"It is unfamiliar to me." The Ze'ev grumbled finally, voice rough and husky at the volume he had set it. "Or has been made to appear as such." 

"A scent disguise?" Ira echoed, eyebrows furrowed. "How? Like rolling around in mud or something?" Like he had done to fool the King of the Forest--not that he mentioned it. Rolling around, slathering his limbs with rotting leaves and other unmentionables, was somewhat of a low point. A story only Mayvalt knew--and would stay their secret. 

The wolf rumbled low at the base of his throat before supplying in a way human ears--or, human enough ears in the case of Bezel--could understand, "Fetor." 

"Other wolves?" Ira swallowed, throat tensing over the knot the thought put in it. "We're getting close?" 

"Not so much us getting close to them as they are getting close to us." The Ze'ev said, dipping his head to sniff at the yellowing vegetation around his steady paws. "They should not be out this far. We are beyond both the patrol borders and the hunting lands." 

"Could they be. . . pilgrimaging?" Bezel asked in a tone that conveyed just how bleak a guess that was. 

"No," was the quick reply, "not even pilgrimages are allowed beyond the hunting lands. I was. . . put out further by mistake. It is not the tradition." 

"By mistake," Bezel repeated slowly, "or because you were running?" 

Their guide growled but didn't bother denying it. "I had to outpace the Wolfking. He wanted my pilgrimage stopped." 

"Why?" The Prince demanded. 

If wolves could look sheepish, this one did. He dipped his head and twitched his tail nervously. "He may have been under the impression that I was not, in good faith, pilgrimaging. . . and instead that I may have been seeking. . . gates. Although, I do have reason to suspect he would have had me stopped regardless of my true intent." 

"Gates?" Ira interrupted. "Why gates?"

The Ze'ev huffed childishly and shrugged on his next step. "It does not matter. They have all been closed." 

"Yeah," Bezel said between knowingly glances spared Ira's way. "We heard." 

The wolf grumbled. "I had not been aware. Information does not so easily come to us where we have stashed ourselves."

"So, that's what this is all about?" Bezel asked. "He's trying to stop you from going to Heimr?" 

"He wishes to stop me from going anywhere that is not within howl-hear distance of him." The wolf snapped with sudden aggravated yips. He reminded Ira more of a rebellious teenager protested his bedtime than any lock-and-key prisoner. Not that Ira dared to say that aloud. Whatever complexity existed between this Ze'ev and the Wolfking, it was largely inconsequential to finding Melchior. Bezel, apparently, didn't share in that concern. 

"What makes you so different? What would have the Wolfking himself chasing you? Someone hired Mahan Raj to find you, too. Was that your king? How desperate must he be to consort with wolf hunters?" The Prince rattled off, eyes narrowed to convey his suspicion. 

"It is," the Ze'ev barked angrily, "not any need to know." 

"I disagree." Bezel countered coolly. "If we're walking into a trap, I'd like to know my odds of making it back out." 

"Depends," was the rasping answer, "on if you still intend to fight the Wolfking." 

Bezel's golden eyes fluttered to Ira in asking. Ira winced somewhat apologetically before he nodded. "Yes, we still intend to challenge him. I know what you said but-" he groaned in frustration and shook his head, "but we don't really have a choice. We have to take Melchior with us or all of Hel--uh, Avernus suffers." 

"You are on a pilgrimage." The wolf nodded, molding his understanding to meet Ira's words. That he was right on the mark seemed to be more of a coincidence than anything. "Melch-" he coughed in a wolfish way and finished the name in a reverent-filled howl. The acoustic murmur of it chased a chill across Ira's flesh. If that was how Melchior's name sounded in Ze'ev tongue, maybe Ira would have to take up barking. "-is going to help you save Avernus?" 

"Yes." Ira answered. 

The wolf fit Ira with a sad look. "I do not think so." 

Ira's stomach twirled painfully, like it did more often than not these days. "Why do you say that? Do you. . . do you know Melchior?" 

The wolf sighed and turned his eyes back to the dark trees ahead. "The Wolfking will not allow it." 

"Do you know Melchior?" Ira asked again. 

The Ze'ev's ears flinched and twisted but his only reply was the gentle sounds of his limp as he began weaving through the brush again. Bezel filled in the space behind Ira's back and prodded his movements forward with a steady hand to his shoulder. Ira allowed himself to be guided, it made the action of sinking into his despair so much easier if someone else navigated the physical world for him. 

"How close is that Fetor?" Bezel called from the spot behind Ira's pinched shoulders. 

"I am keeping distance between us," the wolf answered. 

"Let's keep it that way." Bezel said somewhat unnecessarily. 

"Yes," the Ze'ev huffed. "Distance is a need for us both, companion."

"Bezel," Bezel finally corrected, "if we're to trust one another, perhaps we should at least know what to call each other."

The wolf flicked his ear dismissively but rumbled warmly at the center of his throat. "Be-sel," he barked, shook his head, and said, "Bezel." His tail gave a punctuating wag at the success. Bezel squeezed Ira's shoulder lightly, just enough to shake him from his fog. 

"Ira." Ira answered. "Ira Rule--uh, wait. Just Ira is fine. Last names are probably--wait, do you do last names in Hell?" 

The wolf made a chittering bark that Ira was beginning to easily identify as laughter and leapt over a fallen gray log. His three good paws landed steadily, his weakest fluttered down and kicked against the ground before returning to the hold against his stomach he usually anchored it in. "Clan names are common in my kind, Ira Rule." The wolf answered first. "I took that of my mother clan." His voice was sadly affectionate, as if her memories were grief-stained. Ira winced--they probably were. If the wolf was the last of his line, she had fallen somewhere along the way. 

The Ze'ev grinned to display his gleaming white fangs and bowed until his chest was brushing against the tangled yellow fauna. "I am called Jaeha T'kor by close ones. You companions may also call me by my name."

Ira glanced at Bezel, who seemed to also be sharing in the same curious question. "What do the not close ones call you?" Bezel voiced. "My enemies tend to call me Prince." 

Jaeha chittered up a laugh and turned on his paws, bouncing away like there was a squirrel ahead to chase. Bezel sighed a single long-suffering note and rolled his golden eyes. "I hope we find your Melchior soon, I don't know how many more side quests the two of us can survive." 

"Yeah," Ira laughed, surprising them both at how genuinely he meant it, "'cause killing the Second Prince is going to be so much easier than this." 

Bezel smirked softly. "That's the spirit."