4. Chapter Four: Theo

The West is warm and golden and on fire.

"A flawless plan, Sevell Hunter," a soldier simpers at Theo's side. Theo doesn't look at the man – boy would be a more accurate description. He looks a few years older than Theo was when he first took to the battlefield at eleven. The things Theo had to do to climb the ranks – and the boots he had to lick… Theo hides a smile as he raises his chin, observing the village. The wooden structures have crumpled beneath flame, and dark clouds of smoke billow toward the early morning's horizon. The Siacchians evacuate into the welcoming arms of the Kiterans, eyes wide with animal terror, wrapped in patchwork blankets likely still warm from sleep.

See? Theo thinks as he looks below. Commander Jennison thought I couldn't handle this. But I can.

A sigh escapes Theo in a frosty cloud, turned scarlet from the dawning sun and the flickering fire. He holds out his bloodied hands, his ankle-length fur cloak fluttering from his shoulders. "Water."

The soldier looks left and right, hands patting at his leathers for a wineskin. Octavian appears at Theo's side, pouring a steady stream over Theo's sticky fingers.

"You're dismissed. Take inventory of the villagers, but do not harm them. We can use them for later," Theo says to the soldier, who bows and scurries away. Theo returns his attention to his hands, washing the blood away with Octavian's water.

"You didn't account for if they had a hopiar," Octavian says when Theo's hands are clean, voice cast low so the nearby foot soldiers won't hear. "You smoked them out like a flock of hens. Had there been a fox in their midst, we would have taken enormous losses."

"Sometimes it pays to take risks," Theo replies, looking at Octavian out of the corner of his eye. The cut on Octavian's neck is all but healed and he wears a new set of pale blue robes, standing out like a winter sky in a landscape of autumn golds and auburns.

"Yes," Octavian says. "Sometimes you pay for the risks you take."

Theo narrows his eyes. The memory Octavian refers to – the things Theo lost that day to the… the Snake of the South – burns still.

Without another word, Theo pulls Octavian away from the soldiers. He needn't watch as his people collect the Siacchians and prepare them for the camp Theo has ordered built. He knows they will follow his orders or suffer the consequences.

He directs Octavian into the commander's tent erected on the crest of the hillside. A soldier pulls the flap open for them, and Theo waves the woman away. "Help with the gathering of the prisoners."

The interior of the tent is sparse; his bedroll has been compressed into a portable bag, his breakfast bowl is clean of his usual morning gruel, and his clothes have already been folded and tucked away into his rucksack. Only his Ravage board sits untouched and unpacked, pieces splayed in an unfinished game.

"Sit," Theo grunts to Octavian; the latter is almost as tall as he is, and Theo wants to be able to look down on him.

Octavian collects his spindly limbs and perches on the edge of the folded up bedroll. He shifts, eyes straying from Theo to the tent, the oil lamp casting flickering shadows across the curve of his nose.

Theo strikes swiftly. He seizes the smaller man by the throat, forcing him down. Octavian gasps, eyes bulging, but his attempts at escape are feeble at best. He knows that Theo will not kill him.

"Do not question me in front of these soldiers. They are not yet mine," Theo says, voice little more than a deadly calm rasp. "I don't care how low you speak. Someone will hear and rumors will spread, and I cannot afford such weakness, not with my position already as vulnerable as it is."

Octavian desperately nods, nails lengthening to claws as he struggles. His eyes flash from gray to a light wintery blue.

Theo growls, an animal sound, and Octavian's eyes snap back to ghostly gray and his nails return to human size.

"Do you understand?" Theo asks.

"I-I understand."

"Good." Theo releases the man, and Octavian hunches, coughing and gasping.

"You are the only one I trust here," Theo continues. "These soldiers might follow my orders, but they will report back to the Elders. They will tell them of any mistakes I have made – even the smallest of missteps could result in my forced return – and I cannot have that."

"You tell me this," Octavian rasps. "But you used my life for collateral to get here. How could you do such a thing to the one you claim to trust so much?"

Theo's eyes narrow. He turns away to hide any emotions that might slip through his mask of apathy. He cannot allow himself to ever feel anything more than attraction for this man. Not if he wishes to win this war.

"You know what our deal is Octavian. I help you become advisor to the greatest Vell in our history, and you… help me. I need your intel. No one else has been to Siacchi's capital, and you and your spies made it inside only three months before. You know I did what I had to to get us here. You know what I want to accomplish – and you said you would help with that dream."

"Because it aligns so well with mine."

Theo turns. "Exactly. I haven't lost a Ravage match since – I haven't lost a match in years. There was never any doubt."

"But –" Octavian whispers, stroking his throat. The cut at his neck has opened again, and his fingers hover above the blood like anxious birds.

Theo's stomach twists at the sight and he looks away again, squashing any growing sympathy. He mentally curses Octavian's beast. The man has to have the slowest hopiar healing in all the world.

"Would you have had me be a coward and allow this opportunity to pass us by?" Theo says as he stares at the tent walls. He imagines he can see his battalion beyond it, a physical representation of what he has accomplished so far – of what he needs to continue to improve.

Octavian is silent for too long before he finally says in a low voice, "Alright."

At this, Theo turns, watching the man, taking in the fall of dark hair on his hollowed cheeks, the flicker of his tongue as it darts out, wetting full lips. Theo inhales – ah, yes, exactly as he suspected.

"You think you can hide from me?" Theo asks, voice deepening to a rasp much different than the growl he released a moment before.

Octavian glances up through dark lashes. "I figured it was worth a try."

Theo seizes Octavian once again, this time grabbing his face with a single hand. He descends on Octavian's mouth with a fury, the kiss possessive and consuming and full of teeth. Octavian gasps and Theo thrusts in his tongue, his hands digging into the man's hair, into the curve of his waist.

Theo yanks away and Octavian groans, eyes glazed. "Look at you," Theo whispers. "Here I was trying to punish, but you were enjoying that far too much."

"I could say the same for you," Octavian rasps, eyes dropping from Theo's burning gaze to the bulge in his pants. Octavian licks his lips.

It's the look that does Theo in – he can wait no longer. He pulls his throbbing cock free, hissing as it meets the cool air. He wishes he could take a moment to savor the way Octavian's lips part, the way his pupils swell at the sight – but Theo is far too eager. He slaps his cock against Octavian's cheeks before plunging it into the wet warmth of the man's mouth. A sigh escapes Theo's lips as he pumps his hips, and Octavian releases a muffled moan.

Theo plunges deep into Octavian's throat, and the man gasps, hands wrapping around Theo's hips, pushing.

When Theo pulls away, a string of saliva stretches between the tip of his cock and Octavian's lips. Octavian stares up at him with heavy eyes, but then shakes himself.

"What I said before – have you thought – I mean you must have thought about it. They could have one amongst them – the Siacchians," Octavian says, voice hoarse. "A hopiar – I mean. A wolf – or worse – one of the beasts we lost to the West. One we haven't seen before."

Theo shakes his head, stroking his wet cock. "They would have already attacked."

"Not necessarily. They could be waiting – biding their time. They could be planning to ambush us as soon as our backs are turned."

"Oh, Octavian," Theo says, shoving his cock back into the man's mouth before he can continue. "You think I haven't already thought of that?"

It is as evening falls and the sun sinks beneath Siacchi's flatlands that the captured Siacchians finally strike. If Theo's people were caught unaware, the Siacchians would have done irreparable damage to Theo's battalion.

But Theo told Octavian the truth: he is ready.

As bedrolls are folded and armor is polished, four hopiar Siacchians attempt to explode into their beasts – and struggle. The food and drink given to them that evening has been laced with monkshood – or wolfsbane, as it is known in the West. Theo even borrowed a hint of Octavian's favorite poison, the Midnight Kiss, dosing it carefully so as not to blind them.

Theo sits outside the encampment, hidden in the long shadows of evening, watching as the huddled prisoners throw themselves to their feet and clench, attempting to transform. Fur rolls across their skin and their eyes glow. Their fellow Siacchians recoil in disgust, crying out in terror as their neighbors try to turn into animals. The makeshift shelter the Kiterans lofted for the Siacchians to take cover beneath sways in the night breeze, apathetic.

"Get them," Theo orders in a low voice as one lightly furred woman lets out a half moan, half growl, falling on all fours.

His guards surge forward, a sea of hopiar and human alike descending on the enemy. They clear the distance in a handful of long, swift bounds, bringing the Siacchians down.

Bringing them all down, all except one – the woman on all fours screams and surges to her feet, bracing herself – clawing the beast out of her. One of Theo's soldiers – Medora – cries out as the enemy turns from a small woman to a large black wolf.

Theo raises his brows. The change under the influence of monkshood and the Midnight Kiss is no easy feat; it often requires intensive training to concentrate on the animal beyond the stranglehold of pain. Even Theo, who has been force-fed the herb since childhood, sometimes struggles to call forth his beast under the drug's influence. Only weekly consumption of the herb keeps him strong.

The Siacchian wolf throws herself at Medora. Medora, unprepared, crumples with a muffled shriek. The Siacchian's jaws fly open, spittle raining from her finger-length fangs as she moves to tear out her enemy's throat –

But Theo can't have that.

He doesn't need his wolf for this; he tears from the shadows, crossing the clearing on human feet. He draws his forearm-length knife from his belt. Medora screams with terror, feebly slapping at the Siacchian's thick hide with her human nails, eyes rolling in her skull as Theo slices through the thick coil of fur around the Siacchian's throat.

The wolf's attention snaps to him two seconds too late. Blood spurts, thick and hot. Medora and Theo are soaked in seconds.

The Siacchian growls, bubbling blood bursting from her snout, but before she can attempt to attack or escape, she collapses, groaning in pain. A deep moan escapes her as her fur crawls away, revealing sallow skin. Returned to her human form, the woman stares at the sky, eyes wild with pain – and then her body goes still, blood pooling in the dirt. Not dead. Unconscious. Such a blow wouldn't kill a fast-healing hopiar.

Medora lies beside the unconscious Siacchian, soaked and frozen. Theo meets her gaze. "Stand."

Medora clammers to her feet, adjusting the leather armor now hanging in bloody pieces from her broad shoulders and hips. She swallows, spinning to face the rest of the group; Theo's people have subdued the enemy. Medora shifts so she stands by Theo's side, turning slightly so she can guard his back.

The remaining Siacchians gape at them. The subdued hopiars slump. One mutters softly beneath his breath, words that Theo's sharp ears can barely make out: "Oh, dear heart, no."

Theo flicks blood from his blade. "You saw what happened here," he says. "Any attempt at escape – any thought of rebellion – will be met with punishment. The only choice you have is to follow orders. If you do as you're told, I will allow you to live. And you should be grateful."

The hopiar Siacchians glanced at each other. All look terrified but for the man who called the fallen woman dear heart.

And that, Theo reminds himself, is why I can never, ever care about Octavian.

It is the human Siacchians that speak. "Please," a thin, old man begins, Siacchian dialect thickened with terror and age. "Do not associate us with these impyassi. They act independent of us. We will follow your commands."

Theo narrows his eyes at the humans, resisting the urge to scoff as they move to grovel. They stink of fear – and piss. The hopiar Siacchians at least still have some spine left in them.

He forces the disgust from his face as he speaks again. "I'm so glad you've told me as much," he says. "I require information and you seem to be eager to share. Tell me, Siacchian, what is your name?" Theo approaches so he towers over the kneeling prisoners.

The old man audibly gulps. He opens his mouth and no words emerge. It takes three tries before he manages, "Frederick."

"Frederick. You can call me Wolf-Born."

"Wolf – Wolf-Born?" Whatever little color remaining in the man's face instantly flees.

Theo scowls. "I don't like to repeat myself."

Inwardly, amusement flickers. Already his reputation precedes him. Now that is the kind of start of a campaign that the Elders would like to see. Maybe with this war won, they will finally allow him free reign.

Maybe he can finally make a home of his own. Maybe he can finally have a place to return to – finally begin to rebuild that which was lost over ten years ago.

"Tell me, Frederick," Theo says. "The Kiterans have decided to take this country for our own, but we'd hate to destroy your lovely minds. I think with the help of your best strategists, I can keep the people here mostly intact. It's important to preserve such valuable intelligence, don't you think?"

Frederick's head jerks in a nod. "Yes – yes, Danessi Wolf-Born, that makes perfect sense. A wonderful strategy! I would – well – if you're looking for the brightest minds in our country, Cesscounthe's Abraxi District would be –"

"Frederick," a hollow-cheeked woman hisses. "What are you doing?"

Theo meets the eyes of one of his soldiers, dipping his head. The man's arm flashes out, sword sparking in the dying light of the day. The hollow-cheeked woman's head hits the ground.

"Continue," Theo tells Frederick.

The man's eyes bulge as he looks from the stump of his neighbor's neck to Theo. He laces his shaking hands together behind his back. "Cesscounthe. The capital. Our best strategists are there, likely in the heart of the Abraxi District."

Theo nods like he doesn't already know this. "Cesscounthe is a walled city, is it not? How am I to get inside?"

"Your people – and the Southerners – have tried to invade through the tunnels in the past, but… no one knows the routes well enough to survive – except for the nobles, perhaps. Their families were the ones who built them. If you want to use those, you'll need someone on the inside to help you."

His words align with what Octavian's hired mercenaries, the Wolf's Teeth, reported. Kiteran and the southern Balivartian's skeletons line the tunnel's narrow halls. It is a tempting death trap.

"And who am I to target amongst your strategists?"

"T-target? Well, I supposed – the Council Members would be best –" Too protected.

Frederick continues, "But the winner of the Cesse Tournament is considered to be the best of their generation. That individual is thought to be the brightest of our people." He swallows again, eyes flickering from Theo to the other Kiterans, pointedly avoiding the blood-soaked grounds.

The old man shudders and whispers, "Are you really – are you really going to let us live?"

Theo gives Frederick a bared tooth smile. "Of course I am, Frederick. I'll need people like you in the new nation."

"People like me?"

Sheep. People who are easily controlled; humans who have no connection with their inner monster.

Theo simply widens his smile, which only serves to draw more beads of sweat to Frederick's shining forehead. "Yes, I think you'll do nicely, " Theo says. "One last question and then I'll let you all return to your fine evening: what is his name?"

"His name?"

"The one who is to win this tournament."

"Oh – that's – well, it's not yet determined – but they suspect it will be… erm…" The man rustles about before drawing a rumpled length of parchment – no, not parchment, paper – from his blankets, likely stuffed there to keep himself warm. "Reports have stated the victor is likely to be Evland. Evland Childes."

Theo takes the paper. It is smooth beneath his hands. There, on the page, the bold sketch of a young man stares back at him; full lips, wide eyes, dark curls.

Pretty.

"Perfect." Theo nods to his people. "Release them. Ensure they receive food." He meets the eyes of each captured Siacchian, taking in their rage and helplessness. "I reward loyalty." His gaze lands on the hopiar who verbally mourned the death of his comrade. The man's eyes are filled with tears of rage.

Behind Theo, a low whimper rises from the Siacchian woman. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye; her lids flutter, lost to the pain, as her throat slowly knits itself back together, aided by her wolf's healing powers.

"Please," the Siacchian man whispers at the sight.

Theo says, "And I have no patience for deceit."

With that, Theo spins, sword flashing. He swiftly removes the Siacchian's head from her body. Better safe than sorry.

He leaves the Siacchians and his soldiers behind, drying blood from his blade. Each village will be like this: people to crush and informants to use.

Evland Childes – so this is the name of the man that Octavian's spies learned of. Now Theo will have to see what Octavian's connections can find in regards to their target"s whereabouts.

And then, finally, once Theo has found the man, he can break him so this war can be won.

Maybe then, in the years that follow, Theo will be strong enough to rebuild his home.