A week passed, and Oryen heard no word from his brother. Serove delighted in giving him tasks only reasonable for a fully turned werewolf to accomplish. Every day brought a new set of aching muscles, which only barely healed before additional pains were heaped on previous ones. He hardly slept, wary of another midnight hazing.

There were two silver linings to an otherwise brutal week. The first: Oryen could feel his body changing and growing stronger. Day by day, the wolfish fortitude he needed so badly continued to build and kept him on his feet.

The second: Aryeta visited him every day at lunch to see how he was doing. On one such visit, Oryen decided to ask what was keeping his brother so long.

"You wouldn't happen to know," he said after swallowing a bite of his chicken drumstick, "when my big brother's going to grace me with his presence again?"

Aryeta leaned forward and, with the back of her hand, wiped at the grease on his chin like a fussy mother. "You have a bit of chicken."

"Don't clean me up yet, I'm not finished eating."

"You'll still be hungry if half ends up on your forehead." She leaned back, tilting her head. "You mean he hasn't come to see you yet?"

"Nope. Figured he was busy."

The look Aryeta gave him wasn't pity. Not quite. But it was close enough that he had to avert his gaze. He didn't want pity. He just wanted answers. She sucked in her lower lip and nodded. "Well, he has been. There's trouble with the priests of Thenrir after that whole Kahleir attack, and the massacre at the Temple, plus there's the wedding between two of his allied packs: Nomoir and Zarkir. And I heard one of the rations shipments was raided by Kahleir too."

Oryen mimed a jet plane whizzing over his head. "Those are a lot of names I don't know."

Aryeta waved it off. "No big deal for us, but I bet it's keeping Lazro very busy."

She pursed her lips, watched him chew this over with a sympathetic tilt to her head. "You know, you could go to the wedding."

"What wedding?"

"The wedding I just told you about," she said impatiently. "The one between the two allied packs. It's tomorrow! The whole pack is allowed to attend, and it's a pretty big deal. Lazro will be there, and I bet there will be time during the reception to chat."

Oryen perked up at that. "I do like weddings," he said.

Aryeta clapped her hands together once. "Who doesn't?"

It was the largest wedding Oryen had ever attended. A tide of people spilled into the amphitheatre. It had been decorated with wreaths of pine boughs, holly berries and red cardinal flowers. Beeswax candles made the air fragrant with honey—a scent Oryen's newfound senses didn't find too pungent or cloying. Collar tags winked from the necks of every guest, painted with a slash of colour to denote their allegiance. There were plenty of golden stripes for Mardero, but Aryeta pointed out the red for Zarkir, blue for Qaelish, and very occasionally an evergreen for Nomoir.

Aryeta's eyes glittered with excitement. "I've never seen a turnout like this before."

"I don't imagine there are lots of parties in quarantine," Oryen mused. "Carpe diem and all that."

Aryeta squinted at him. "You've got a lot of funny ideas. Quarantine's been going on for twenty years. People get married all the time in here."

That was him told. "What makes this one so special?"

Aryeta leaned in conspiratorially. Oryen was suddenly aware that Aryeta's movements were mirrored by those around them. Everywhere, people leaned close to speak into one another's ears, their eyes skittering down to the amphitheatre stage where a bower of holly waited for the bride and groom.

Aryeta said, "This isn't the bride's first wedding." When this didn't have the desired effect on Oryen, she leaned even closer. "She was married to the groom's brother, Aro, first. But Aro was murdered last month. I heard that their engagement was—"

Before she could estoll further gossip, they were jostled by a man with a chest like a barrell.

Serove stood behind them, grinning ear to ear in an unfriendly way. "It's your lucky day. After last week's incident, me 'n the boss figured it's best I keep an eye on you."

Oryen's stomach sank. He didn't know who had told Lazro about the hazing, and he certainly didn't know why they'd left out the part where Serove had been involved, but having an escort put an enormous damper on the night. If this was Lazro's attempt to protect him, he did not appreciate it. Serove and the rest probably thought Oryen had gone crying to Lazro himself.

Not to mention, he wanted to hear more of what Aryeta had to say about this wedding. He certainly wouldn't want to marry his brother's widow, sexuality notwithstanding.

He couldn't brush Serove off now though. "And that makes me lucky how?"

"Because I've got front row seats." Serove gave Aryeta an apologetic look. "Only one, I'm afraid, Cupcake."

Oryen blew air out between his lips in an exasperated rush. He hated that Serove called her that, always with a note of condescension.

"Didn't know I'd be needing a babysitter." He turned to Aryeta. "I'll catch you up later?" Hopefully, she could hear the apology in his tone.

"Sure," she answered. Then, lower, so Serove wouldn't hear, "But you'll be telling me what he means by 'incident.'"

He groaned inwardly but nodded.

Serove forded a path down the steps through the crowd. It was easy for him—many werewolves deferred to his rank by stepping aside, heads bowed. A section of seating at the bottom of the amphitheatre had been marked out with chalk and labeled in Serove's name. Oryen sat in the adjacent spot just as a song began to play.

Musicians under the arches played strange metal instruments like the shells of turtles on their laps. To the music, two figures emerged from archways at opposite ends of the arena.

The first was a man—doe eyed and auburn haired. The warmth of the man's smile radiated across the theatre. Oryen could practically hear the distraught sighs of women who'd lost their chance.

The bride opposite him wore blue, her platinum hair tied back in an elaborate plait peppered with baby's breath. For every degree of warmth her groom exuded, she met it with equal cold. Her eyes, like shards of glass, stared straight ahead and through him. Oryen recognized them. They'd both been standing on the throne the day he'd arrived in Mardero.

Oryen wished that Serove had not found him so Aryeta could have finished her story. This was clearly much more than a simple wedding. He didn't expect to get answers out of Serove though.

The couple met under the bower, facing one another. They did not reach for one another's hands. The man smiled. The woman did not. From the arch beyond them, a third figure emerged, this one more familiar. Lazro wore an enormous fur cloak across his shoulders that reminded Oryen disconcertingly of a skinned wolf. He joined the couple under the bower and raised his arms for quiet. The crowd fell silent.

"Thank you so much, everyone, for coming out today to witness the marriage of our beloved Reyz Zarkir to the lovely Kalysto Nomoir," Lazro said, his voice carrying up through the steps and into the stands a hundred feet above them.

"For years—" he continued, "—our Packs have been friends over great distances. Allies in our times of turmoil and co-conspirators in our everyday joys. For generations we have been like family, so if you don't mind my saying so, it's about time we made it official."

Laughter from the stands. Oryen felt an involuntary clench somewhere behind his sternum at the word family used so casually.

"Reyz," he addressed the man. "Would you promise your blood to this woman so that you are forever with her?"

"Yes."

"And Kalysto. Would you promise your blood to this man, so that you are forever with him?"

The pause that followed lasted perhaps five seconds. Five long seconds. Reyz's smile faltered. Beside Oryen, Serove's fingers clenched in the stone and the scrape of gravel sounded loud in the wake of Kalysto's silence.

"Yes," Kalysto said, finally.

Oryen thought the vows sounded rather cryptic, and that some kind of blood ritual would follow. Instead, they both plucked berries from the bower and smeared them between their fingers. Then, in tandem, they raised a finger to the other's face and drew a red line down from their chin to the dip between their collarbones. From this close, it seemed to Oryen that Kalysto pressed unnecessarily hard and her fingernail took several layers of skin with it. Reyz didn't flinch.

"You may exchange rings," Lazro said then. Each of them procured rings from inside their clothing. Instead of wearing them on their fingers, they attached the rings to one another's collars. True to Aryeta's words, Kalysto already bore a ring on hers. Reyz attached his alongside it.

Lazro nodded when they were done, beaming between them. "Like wolf and man, I name you—Reyz Zarkir and Kalysto Nomoir—two halves of the same whole. From this moment until your last."

The ceremony concluded. From the arches, food was brought to the long tables behind the altar. Through one such arch, Lazro left after congratulating the happy couple. Oryen stood to follow, only to find Serove's broad hand suddenly heavy as an anvil on his shoulder.

"Where're you off to? Food's just arrived. Ain't a wedding party without the party."

"Will my brother be joining us?"

Serove frowned. "Too busy and important for that. Come on, if I miss the best appetizers you'll be doing push ups tomorrow 'til you're sick."