Roarke decided to skip the birthday.

It was not the first time he had missed something important. It also would not be the last. This was simply another entry in a very long ledger.

Right now, he was not hired as an assassin. He was hired as a spy. An assassin solved problems with blades. A spy solved problems with patience. And while Arzhen Vasiliev annoyed him, annoyance was not sufficient justification for murder.

Also, there was the Luna to consider.

Lady Sees had made her position on Ruby Vaiva abundantly clear. The Saintess was hers. Her toy, her target and her vengeance. No one was permitted to touch Ruby without the Luna’s express permission.

And Arzhen was still Ruby’s extension. He was her ally. If the Luna wanted Arzhen dead, she would have said so. She would have ordered it. The fact that she had not meant the man was, for now, protected.

Roarke did want his chance to be with his family. The window in the garden waited for him, calling his name to see Rinne’s face, lit by firelight, calling another man Father.

But killing Arzhen Vasiliev might close that window permanently.

The window was not his end goal. It was a glimpse of something more, if he behaved and was patient. He should not murder the wrong person and ruin everything the Luna was building.

So, no murder tonight.

After some back and forth, with Oleg awkwardly arranging the spare blanket, Roarke politely insisting that the floor was fine, Oleg counter-insisting that the bed was large enough for two, Roarke counter-counter-insisting that he would not dream of displacing his host, they ended up sleeping on the bed.

Together. With one polite, measly sofa pillow between them.

The room was dark and the candle had burned out. The only light came from the pale sliver of winter moon through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the cramped quarters.

Roarke lay on his side, his back to the weretiger. The small clock on the side cabinet ticked softly, its hands inching toward midnight.

Soon. Soon it would be the Winter Solstice.

Soon Roarke would miss it.

Seventy years ago, around the time they were both thirty, young, stupid, convinced of their own immortality, they had been deployed to wipe out a monster wave at the northern border.

Monster waves were common back then, the seasonal, cyclical surges of low-intelligence sentient creatures that had plagued the continent for centuries. Orcs, goblins, ogres and cyclopes, ferocious and endless, thickening and thinning in a hundred-year cycle.

Young beasts were regularly sent on official expeditions to deal with them. It was considered training, or... character-building. A way to blood the next generation of warriors before they took on responsibilities that actually mattered.

One winter night, Arkai had looked into his bag to retrieve his usual ration. Dried meat and hard bread, at most, and had found a box inside.

A small box, wrapped inexpertly, the paper creased at the corners and the twine clearly tied by someone who had never been good at this kind of thing.

"I don’t know." Roarke had shrugged, but his heart had been pounding. His palms, inside his gloves, had been sweating despite the cold. "Open at midnight."

"What?" Arkai immediately sneered, not expecting the sentiment. "Who are you? Did a mimic replace you?" He paused, and Roarke saw a flicker of something soft in his expression. "You actually remembered my birthday?"

"Shut up." Roarke had huffed, turning away to hide the heat rising to his cheeks.

But Arkai had put the box back in his bag with a care that belied his teasing. His chuckle, when it came, was low and warm. "Alright. I will open it by midnight."

He had looked elated. Just a little bit.

And Roarke had felt, in that moment, like it was everything he had ever wished for. Just that small happiness. Just that little anticipation. Just his brother, looking forward to a gift.

But that midnight, a large monster wave had descended down the freezing mountains. Like an avalanche, waves of black army had enveloped the white-dusted cliffs. The screaming of goblins and the roar of orcs suffocated the night.

On his bed, on his side, in this cramped servant’s room, with Oleg breathing behind him, Roarke silently clasped his own shoulder. The scar was long since healed, but the memory of the wound was as fresh as the night it had been made.

Werewolves had extraordinary regenerative power. It was one of their greatest advantages, the thing that made them so difficult to kill.

But if the injury was too large, or the wound too fatal, even a werewolf could be brought down. Their bodies could only repair so much, so fast, before the damage outpaced the healing.

That night, a goblin was thrown by an orc. It had pointed its spear mid-flight. Whether by intention or by accident, the creature had aimed itself directly at him. The sharpened obsidian had pierced his shoulder, tearing through muscle and sinew, and had missed his heart by inches.

Roarke remembered the snow. White, then red. The cold, then the burning. The way his body had refused to move, refused to heal, refused to do anything but bleed.

Arkai had wiped the hoard almost immediately after that. The young alpha’s rampage had been frenzied, the violence of a wolf who stopped thinking and started feeling.

When the last goblin had fallen and the snow was silent again, Arkai had knelt beside him, pressing his hands against the wound, trying to suppress the bleeding with nothing but pressure and desperation.

"I will not ever open the box if you fucking die on me."

Ha.

Of course. As he said, that man would never, ever open the box if he died.

He understood exactly how stubborn his brother could be. Arkai Dawnoro would carry that unopened box to his grave, just to spite him.

"You don’t have to, dumbass..." Roarke had heaved, his breath coming in wet, rattling gasps. The spear had done something to his lung. "It was just garbage anyway... throw it away..."

He had painted a small picture. A small, stretched canvas, procured from a trader who had passed through the northern outpost months earlier.

He had painted Arkai’s wolf form, the massive black beast, fur like shadow, eyes like blood, against a backdrop of half moon, half earth. The composition had taken him weeks. He had hidden the canvas, worked on it in secret, agonized over every brushstroke.

Roarke genuinely thought it was either trash-worthy or a sincere, silly gift. There was no middle ground. He had no artistic training or natural talent, after all. Just the stubborn desire to make something for the man who had given him everything.

At the time, Arkai had been closer to a god to him. Beyond an alpha. Beyond a lord. Beyond a king. Painting a picture of a god, in their culture, was the greatest form of worship.

True to his words, Arkai had opened the box after Roarke was stabilized and the danger had passed. True to his word, he had waited.

When he finally saw the painting he had scoffed. But the scoff had been accompanied by a smile when he ordered someone to frame it.

The small picture had rested above his fireplace for a long, long time.

Years. Through battles and border disputes. Through the cold northern winters and the brief, brilliant summers. Through everything.

And then—

After Roarke got Sienna pregnant, Arkai had ripped it off the wall and fed it to the fire.