"Petra," Nyssa said, and shook the servant's shoulder. It was early, too early for even the hunters to be out, though there was little game this time of year. "Petra, you have to wake up." She awoke with a start; she fumbled for something to say and blinked repeatedly.

"What," she all but croaked out. She was tired, Nyssa could see, and could not fault her for it. What was home to Nyssa was a labyrinth of demons for Petra. All save for Helena, her father, and herself were vicious toward Petra. The servant had confided in her that she was afraid to fall asleep at night, for she feared not waking up.

Or waking up in Hircine's Hunting Grounds, a place not meant for a mere servant.

Petra was haunted day and night by the pack. Somehow she braved their snapping, their glares, their shoving and clawing and kicking. Somehow she still found it in her to maintain her dignity and not give them what they wanted: an opposing display of her magicka. Nuel was clever, Nyssa had to admit; he stalked through the tunnels, baiting on upset family members, especially the elders so used to a traditional way of Nordic life.

But never did Nuel or Ritta outright confront Petra. Oh, no—they knew Garald would not stand for that.

"Petra," Nyssa said quietly, not wanting to disturb the other servants, "father asked for you." Petra's face hardened, her fatigue forgotten as she comprehended Nyssa's words. "Quickly, now. Before anyone else wakes."

Nyssa led Petra through her home. The tunnels were empty of pack members, but their soft snores and snuffles filled the air. When they past Ivor's chamber, Petra frowned; she could not hear him snoring. So he is awake, she calmly concluded. Blinking back the stinging behind her eyes—Ivor had been the cruelest of them all—she inhaled and straightened her back.

She was too quiet, Nyssa noted, and not a stealthy sort of quiet. This was silent pain, the type of trials a person endures in solitude. Looking back over her shoulder confirmed it: arms stiffly at her sides, every step deliberate, her eyes trained forward and hardly blinking. Petra had taught herself how to be a shell instead of a person.

Nyssa inclined her head when they reached Garald's chamber. She quietly excused herself after Petra ducked inside. She hardly had to turn before meeting her cousin's dangerous glare. Blankly, Nyssa stared at him, and then went on with her way.

Petra held her hands politely in front of her and kept her eyes lowered. She had been in the Alpha's quarters many times and knew every fur, every trophy, and every uneven rock to avoid. Though, there was an eerie feeling to the room, a stale smell, that was so strong she could almost see it.

"Petra," Garald said with a smile. She nodded in acknowledgment. "Please, dear. You needn't fear ridicule or backlash from me. Come in." Nodding again, she stepped further into the room.

Before Garald could speak further, Petra squared her shoulders and leveled her head. Still, her eyes were focused somewhere between his chest and chin. "Alpha Garald, I know why you've summoned me." He lifted a brow. She braced herself with a breath. "I have been nothing but trouble for your pack. I am grateful you've let me live amongst your family for so long—seventeen years, I believe. But I am no good, Alpha Garald, no good at all. It is only logical and expected that you remove this rotten thing in your pack, as Hircine wishes it, to ensure your survival."

She swallowed. Realizing that she'd been pulling her fingers, she stopped and kept her hands at her sides. Taking in another breath, she found the courage to look her Alpha in the eye.

And then she was hidden in his embrace. Broad shoulders and strong arms were common in his family, at least in the men, and this notion of safety brought forth that prickly feeling behind her eyelids again. She struggled to keep her breathing even, and she schooled her breaths into long ones.

"Oh, dear girl," he whispered. "What have we done to you?" He rubbed her back, trying to calm her so her shoulders would stop quaking. "I know, I know," he murmured. He held her at arm's length. Her lip was wedged between her teeth, and her eyes were everywhere but on him.

"Alpha Garald, please—" Sucking in a breath, she stared at the far wall where an elk trophy was displayed. He cupped her face, and her nose crinkled when her façade cracked. "I cannot be strong if you are kind." His thumbs wiped her cheeks.

"You have withstood this pack's atrocity for too long, Petra." He smoothed the hair away from her forehead. "Yesterday you were attacked."

"It was noth—"

"You were attacked," he continued calmly, "and even though Askel was detained from the hunt as punishment, more attempts will follow. Mage or not, there is no excuse for my family, for your family, to lash out at you. You nearly lost an eye, Petra." He held her again. "Even my own nephew, my own blood, is targeting you. By Hircine, I cannot stand by and let this continue."

Petra shook her head, hiding it further in his shoulder. "You are very kind, Alpha Garald, and you are a good man."

"What sort of man allows this vicious behavior to continue in his family," he growled softly. "I promised your parents that I would protect you, Petra. And by Talos, at least I am a man of my word."

"My Alpha?"

He tilted her chin up. It was then that she saw the exhaustion in his face. Alpha Garald of the Hedera Black-Coats was tired, and not just from lack of sleep or being awake too early. She saw in his brown eyes a vision for his family, for his legacy, that sat precariously on a jagged mountain. The precipice of change was upon them.

Despite his creased brow and drooping eyes, he was smiling. A warm smile, a kind smile, one that she had been a stranger to for a while, now. "I am freeing you, Petra." She frowned in confusion. "I give you the freedom to leave this pack, to denounce yourself as a Black-Coat without being labeled as a deserter or traitor."

"Alpha Garald!" she gasped. She shook her head, she opened and closed her mouth. Grasping her hair, she pulled and shook her head more fervently. "I couldn't! Where would I go? What would I do? I can't even read, Alpha Garald!"

"Petra," he said. Garald gripped her hands before she'd yank a chunk of her hair out. He repeated her name, his baritone voice lulling her sobs and gasps. "Dear girl, I am not ordering you to do anything. It is only an option available to you; the choice is ultimately yours. If you leave, you will flee this hatred that has been bred into my pack. You will not be mocked for possessing magicka."

"I may also die," she said.

He nodded. "You may also die in this pack. Two days ago a knife 'accidentally' grazed your arm during the evening meal."

"But this is my home," she said through a trembling mouth.

Garald chuckled a hollow sound that held more sadness than mirth, and placed a kiss on her brow. "Home, Petra, is with the people who make you the happiest. The choice is yours. Whatever you choose, you shall always be a friend to me."

Petra walked back to her quarters with legs moving like ancient Dwemer technology—still functioning, still full of purpose, but choppy and uneven due to rusted hinges. She expected Ivor to confront her, and there he was, standing at the mouth of the corridor which led to his chambers. She was welling, but with what emotion, she did not know for certain.

All she knew that whatever hell brewed in his eyes, she would match with her own. When he grabbed her arm and pulled it across his chest, she pushed back with it. When her back thudded against the cave wall, she lifted her chin to hold his gaze. He was but inches from her, her arm the only thing separating them.

"What did he say?" he demanded. He tightened his grip on her arm after she made no attempt to answer him. Instead, she chose only to smile at him, the expression making her look like she was a Seer with all of the answers for Man and Mer. "Did I say something amusing, vermin?"

This look was unsettling him. His soul was bare before her. And he had put himself in this position.

"I am just wondering," she said softly—not because she was nervous or afraid, but because there was no reason to shout. "How can you be this way after knowing me for seventeen years?"

"You have been lying for seventeen years. Longer still, your life," he growled.

She laughed, and he did not know what to make of her. "For seventeen years, I have followed every order, every wish, and every request. Not once have I harmed anyone, nor have I made to harm. What would you have me do, Ivor?"

"Brute Ivor," he corrected with a snarl.

"Ivor," she said. His jaw tightened. "Go ahead, then." She leaned her head back, exposing her throat. But yet her eyes remained on his. "If it is in your heart to kill me, then just do it already. I am tired of being your toy."

Did she expect this from him? Her eyes were still red from whatever his uncle had told her, and for the life of him, Ivor could not say what she was feeling. Her very essence veiled and protected her, made her that much more unique in a pack of black coats.

"Go on," she said, as if she was politely motioning him to walk in front of her. "Kill the vile mage. You will be a hero within the pack."

His breathing was labored, now, and he looked between her eyes and her throat. Wetting his lips, he whispered, "You've bewitched me." He took a step closer so that his knee pressed into her thigh and her arm squished between their chests. "You are burning me."

She had to tilt her head further to look at him. His forehead was an inch above hers and their noses just touched. Pain sparked in her eyes when he dug his fingers into her arm. "You're hurting me," she said. The pressure continued, and she thought her bones would snap. Biting her lip, she tried to hold her ground after witnessing his own turmoil across his face.

But this pain was too much.

Magicka rushed in her veins to her fingertips, hot as liquid steel, and sizzled around his palm. He released her, opening his mouth in a silent cry, and stepped away far enough for her to rush past him. Ignoring his burnt hand, he cursed and clawed the cave wall right where her neck had been. Snarling, he threw himself against the wall and dragged his palm through the ragged stones.

Panting like a wild beast, Ivor slumped to the ground and bit into his arm hard enough to draw blood. A breeze tickled him, holding no scent save for that terrible stench of magicka: metallic, stale, dying, and rotten.

This was too easy for Angelo. Rubbing himself with salts that hid his scent, cloaking himself in an invisibility spell, muffling his footsteps with an intermediate illusion casting—oh, this was child's play. How those pawns, Nuel and Ritta, were so incompetent in this weak pack, he'd never know.

His biggest problem, at the moment, was finding which tunnel to take. This den was too complicated, like a spider web, and he relied heavily on his nose to find the correct chamber.

Angelo ghosted through the tunnels, turning to the side when that red-haired servant, docile servant Petra, ran his way. Silently, he inhaled to the full capacity of his lungs as she past him, letting her scent flood him. Indeed, she was sweet like mountain flowers, but there was a telltale hint of magicka about her. He grinned, all teeth, and a tremor ran up his neck.

This was too much fun.

Moving onward, his fingers flexing in anticipation, he found another Black-Coat leaning against the wall. This man's whole body was coiled like a viper ready to strike. Blood ran down his arm, and again, her magicka was drizzled around him. Angelo could only guess as to who this man was, though he had a very good hunch. A necromancer learned to trust his instincts early on, after all.

Licking his lips, he made the last bend to the Alpha's chambers. He stood before the divider quietly, listening for any traces of life: the soft padding of feet, a cough, and then some murmuring. Brushing aside the divider with his staff enough to slip into the chamber, Angelo opened his mouth in delight.

Alpha Garald was everything he expected him to be: weak. The werewolf stood facing the head of a great elk perched on his wall. His eyes were closed, and softly, he spoke in prayer. "Let her survive as she has always done under Your watch," he whispered.

This was the exciting part, the part that made Angelo's stomach turn in anticipation. Idly, he twirled his finger around one of the intestines looped over his neck. Oh, but which spell to use first on the beloved Alpha? Strike him with a shock spell and watch his skin peel away like a carpenter carving furniture? No, too fast, not enough time to gloat.

Untwining his finger, Angelo smirked. It wouldn't do to have him scream and alert the rest of his pack members. No, that won't do at all. His teeth had sharpened, and with a smile, he charged his spell in his palm and released it on the Alpha.

It was like a puff of breath over the back of his neck. Whatever words he planned on saying would not be spoken, for his throat closed and his vocal cords became useless things. The Alpha grasped his chest, not understanding this phenomenon, and then the end of Angelo's staff rested over the Alpha's shoulder. The Alpha had just turned, teeth bared in fury, when Angelo's spell took hold. He crumpled like weak scaffolding but remained midair; something had caught him.

Letting his invisibility spell tear itself apart, Angelo lowered Alpha Garald to the floor. He was bulky and heavy, almost too much for his Imperial build, but Angelo still grinned. Garald's eyes were ablaze, the desire to kill evident in them, but so was the comprehension of what had happened and what would happen. A true Nord Alpha Garald was, and true Nords did not practice filthy magicka.

Pity, as that was what would have saved him from Saverio's will.

Confident in his magicka, Angelo leaned closer to Garald. "Good morning," he said in a voice quieter than a whisper. "Nothing to say? Silenced, are we? You'll find even your lycanthropy to be dimmed." The paralysis spell forbade Garald from moving; all he could do was breathe and move his eyes—he couldn't turn his head side to side. His eyes settled on the human skull around Angelo's decorative intestines. The Alpha let out a knowing breath. "How unfortunate."

Angelo glanced about the room, his lip jutted in thought. "Quaint space you have. Many trophies. I'm impressed by the sabre cat. Was that your Proving?" He renewed his spells on Garald. "You know, I have to hand it to you Black-Coats: you're all such… annoying obstacles. Nuel is a fop—oh, yes, he betrayed you—and his daughter is just…" He sat back on his haunches while trying to think of a word. "Distasteful, I think, is what I will call her. All claws, all teeth, let me rip them to shreds. We have wolfblood, sure, but our kind requires class."

Angelo frowned when a growl reverberated in Garald's throat. He silenced him once more. "Oh, no, none of that. You're angry, I see. At me? At Nuel? He's been planning this for a while, you know: the great takeover of the—what are you called again? Hairy Black-Coats?" He waved his hand. "No matter. He planned on the Tangled-Knots becoming involved. Reinhart's still a bit miffed at you for winning over Verena's heart, I believe. Shame that the man knows how to carry a grudge, no?

"But I doubt Nuel ever thought we'd go so far as to kill his Alpha and, following, his entire pack. He'll be mighty disappointed. But," Angelo sighed and shrugged, as if to say what am I to do?

Garald's fingers twitched. "More paralysis?" Smirking, Angelo looked him over. The Alpha's eyes were watering from being unable to blink. "Usually there's blood right about now. Yours, of course; never mine. But this is fun, Garald, yes? Go on, crack me a smile." Hissing a quiet chuckle, Angelo twitched his fingers and his magicka forced the corners of Garald's mouth into a mockery of a grin.

"At first I thought I would pursue that servant girl. Oh, you're fond of her, I see. Like she's your daughter or niece. Her scent is all over this chamber. Some of my Brothers are quite partial to redheads, you see, and oh we would have had fun with her. She was a problem, keeping Ritta and—what's your nephew's name again?—Ivor, yes, apart.

"Not that I entirely favored Nuel's mating scheme," he sighed. "It was a bit clichéd and predictable, if you want my opinion. But oh, that servant girl. She's a mageling, no? Tell me—oh, don't bother—which element does she prefer? Fire, like her hair?"

"Good," he purred. Angelo wiped Garald's eyes. "It's far too cold in here. I don't know how you can stand it." He grinned, exposing his fangs. He licked his lips, not caring for his teeth cutting his tongue. Mouth smeared with blood, he held his palm out and nurtured the flames growing. "Pity," he hissed. He pressed down on Garald's stomach, the fire twisting and spitting when it was given fodder. The Alpha's body jerked and lurched; his limbs kicked out on their own accord, like he was falling into a deep sleep.

"This smell will take weeks to clear."