Oryen returned to Kolraga cold, rain-soaked and feeling faint. Beau left him at the gate without a word, the hand-mirror tucked under his shirt just like the scabbard he'd stolen. Oryen's thoughts buzzed with too many things to wonder about Beau's kleptomania. Instead of returning straight to the barracks for fresh, dry clothes and his hammock, he went to the shower rooms. They were dark and empty, drips of water echoing like the ticks of a clock. Oryen went to the furthest shower in the corner and removed the scalpel from his sock.

He'd prepared a lie while walking. After faylan practice and training, he'd been tired and misplaced his step climbing up the ladder into the barracks. He'd fallen and half-transformed, enough to grow claws. He'd accidentally sliced himself open. He'd never transformed before, wasn't used to the change. Just a clumsy newborn pup.

It wasn't a good lie, but he couldn't come up with anything better. Besides, he only needed it in the event someone walked in. He'd been able to shower here without being seen for the past two weeks on account of the acoustics and his acute hearing; he'd know if anyone was coming. The scalpel was simple, stainless steel. Not silver. If this went well, he'd heal too quickly for anyone to notice the wound. It would scar, but everyone in quarantine had scars. What was one more?

He removed his shirt and pants to avoid getting blood on them. He found a spot where the moonlight coming through the oculi above was bright, though he could see the tattoo clearly in the dark anyway. His sweaty, rain-damp fingers slid along the scalpel's handle. He held it against his skin, his pulse jumping to kiss the blade's edge.

Each breath came ragged. His chest rose and fell under the knife.

He couldn't continue living in Kolraga like this, under constant threat of detection. Beau still knew, could continue to hold that over him, but it would not be an instant death sentence. They'd have to confirm it. He wouldn't have the proof written on his skin.

But as he pressed the scalpel enough to cut, it wasn't the bite of blade parting flesh that held him back. He'd endured plenty of pain since the attack that turned him. Plenty of fear, too. What he hadn't spent much time with were memories. When a bit of remembrance hit him, he'd stuff it into the numb places he reserved for 'things he could do nothing about.'

There was something about being alone in the dark with a knife that freed all those locked away things.

The leaves on the trees were gilded gold the day his brother disappeared. His first year of high school, and Oryen had thought of nothing else. He'd skipped classes to visit the places they used to hang around. The abandoned car lot. The drive-in theatre. The dusty park benches on the cliffs overlooking town.

His grades played a game of chicken between pass and fail. He'd never been very good in school anyway. Only difference was his parents no longer scolding him, too busy searching for their favourite son. And Oryen didn't mind. He wanted Ezra back more than he wanted good grades or even the attention of his parents.

His hands trembled. His eyes burned. His vision of the scalpel turned to liquid mercury but he held tightly to the instrument. You can do this. You have to.

While he'd been obsessed with finding his brother, the news talked about growing case numbers of lycanthropy. In the cities at first, but bleeding into the suburbs, then rural towns. Oryen sometimes feared, deep down, that a werewolf had gotten Ezra, but Oryen had a way of boxing up those fears alongside all the other feelings over which he had little control.

Come June, Oryen's parents, abruptly and without warning, cut off the search. They organized a funeral. Eight months had passed, they said. Ezra's gone, they said. It's healthier to grieve.

But Oryen wasn't ready to grieve. He opened up the bulging, cardboard boxes in the basement of his heart and took all that grief and stuffed it in, right next to his paralyzing fear and loneliness. He felt he'd fall apart if he didn't keep those things trapped. He taped the boxes shut. He got very good at pretending the boxes weren't splitting open, their contents too heavy to carry.

He passed highschool by the skin of his teeth and the sympathy of his teachers. Not with grades that would get him into university, though. A recruiter had been at their job fair, had picked Oryen out of the crowd like he knew just what to look for. The Fens need bravery like yours. With us, you'll belong to a family. We protect each other and keep the world safe.

Oryen enlisted instead of going to convocation. His parents had been too busy to attend his graduation anyway.

He'd met Edrik on his first day in basic training, alongside a number of new recruits, and he remembered thinking—suppose this is my family now. He'd liked the idea. A band of misfits, none of whom had a place in the world. He thought he'd found his place. And if he dared to dream that, one day, he'd find his brother too, well...

I did that to Beau. The thought came to him unbidden. I cut him off from his family.

The scalpel clattered to the floor from his hand. His fingers ached as he flexed them, stiff from how tightly he held the blade. Each knuckle popped and, as a shiver walked up his spine, he watched talons elongate from his fingernails as his hand passed through the moonlight. He shuddered, recoiled a bit, and the claws shrank back to normal.

He was so close to changing. Two weeks until the full moon.

Oryen could picture Beau's contemptuous glare. His judgment. The threat of execution and discovery looming over him, and Oryen still couldn't do what needed to be done. Just a few cuts. It should have been simple.

But it wasn't simple. Not to Oryen. He could score the ink out of his skin, but it didn't change who he was. Who he'd been. Or who he was becoming. He didn't know which version scared him more.

Getting to his feet, he put his shirt and pants back on. He retrieved the scalpel and washed the tiny smear of blood from its edge. He took it with him all the way back to the arena, which was vacant after all the rain. Puddles reflected the vast archways, rippling with the last spitting raindrops. Oryen traced a finger along the rocks and mortar that formed the arches until he found a wiggly stone. He pried it free, dust sprinkling onto his hands as he tucked the scalpel into the groove behind it. He replaced the stone, giving it a twist to ensure it was secure enough to stay. It was a good spot, and the steel had no detectable scent.

He'd need it again. When he was ready.

He took up one of the faylan sticks, still leaning against the wall from practice earlier, and took aim at the goals.