The village square was chaos again.
A boy of seven stood in the dust ring, nose bleeding, grinning ear to ear while three other kids nursed bruised cheeks.
"Come on! Round two!" Orin bounced on his toes like a wind-up toy with a broken stop.
"You broke my tooth!" one boy wailed.
Orin spat pink and laughed. "Grow another. That's what training is."
The adults muttered from the shade. "That Capillet brat… no fear, no brakes."
Orin didn't hear them. The moment fists flew, the world became bright and simple.
He slipped from the village after noon, a stick on his shoulder and a feral sparkle in his eyes. The forest breathed—leaf-chatter, twig snaps, the slow roll of a growl.
A shadow lunged.
A wolf pup—already the size of a man's torso—burst from the underbrush, fangs flashing.
Orin's grin split wide. "Perfect."
He charged. The stick struck like a spear. The wolf bit down, splintering it. Orin didn't flinch. He vaulted onto its back, tiny fists hammering the skull.
"RAAAH! Harder!"
The wolf bucked, claws raking his forearm. Blood sprayed warm. Orin's laugh came out ragged and delighted.
He darted left, caught its snout with both hands and wrenched, slamming its head against a rock. Once. Twice. A savage thud, then stillness.
Orin stood over it panting, face smeared red and dirt-streaked, chest heaving like a drum. Then he threw back his head and cackled. "Too easy!"
He dragged the carcass by the tail, marching home like a tiny conqueror.
He kicked the door. "Yira! I brought dinner!"
A shriek answered.
Yira Capillet, sixteen, long braid swinging and eyes like storm glass, stormed in and smacked him on the head. "You absolute gremlin! You're seven!"
"Seven and dangerous," Orin said proudly.
"Seven and ridiculous." She wrested the wolf free. "You smell like you fought inside its stomach."
"Compliment accepted."
"Not a compliment." She pinched his ear, dragging him toward the water barrel. "Wash. Now."
He leaned close, squinting up at her. "You're really pretty when you're mad."
She flushed despite herself and dunked his head into the barrel.
He surfaced sputtering, grinning brighter. "See? Pretty."
"Keep talking and I'll hold you under."
That evening Yira tried to bathe in peace. She had locked the door. Twice.
A careful knock. "Yiraaa."
Her shoulders tightened. "What."
"I heard splashing. Want me to stand guard? If a frog attacks, I'll punch it."
"Go away."
A pause. "If you drown, who will cook me breakfast?"
"I'm telling Mother you said that."
"Fine, I'll… I'll sit out here and make sure no frogs get past." His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm very scary to frogs."
Through the door she could hear him flop dramatically onto the floorboards and begin whisper-growling at imaginary amphibians. Against her will, a laugh escaped her nose. She smothered it with a hand.
When she came back to her room later, her eyes narrowed. "Where is my ribbon."
Silence.
She stormed to Orin's little room. He was on his mat, eyes closed, obviously pretending. Her blue hair ribbon was tied around his forehead like a warrior band.
"Give. It. Back."
"It's my victory band," he said without opening his eyes. "Smells like home."
She snatched it, ears hot. "You've got a death wish."
"Then marry me when I'm big enough to survive you," he said instantly, grin leaking through the fake sleep.
Her mouth opened. Closed. "Sleep."
He scooted over on the mat, lifting the corner of his blanket. "Nightmares are weak to two people on one mat. Scientific fact."
"You made that up."
"Yes. But it might still be true."
She sighed through her nose, then tugged him up by the scruff and marched him back when he tried to sneak into her room anyway. "Your mat. Not a negotiation."
"Fine. But when I grow up, I'll marry you."
"In your dreams."
"I have those a lot."
"Sleep."
"Night, future—"
She shut the door in his face. He giggled at the wood for a while, then padded back to his mat.
—
Later, when the house quieted, Orin slipped outside. Moonlight silvered the yard. He faced the old ash tree and started punching.
Knuckles split. Breath burned. He laughed anyway, each strike snapping bark, each sting a spark.
"I'll get stronger," he panted between blows. "Stronger and stronger. Then everyone will have to look at me. Especially Yira. And the baker's apprentice. And the herbalist girl. And—"
He hit harder. The bark exploded in chips.
For a heartbeat his eyes flickered—one deep, starless black, the other a soft, uncanny silver.
On the porch, Yira had been watching, arms folded. The glow froze her feet to the boards. That wasn't… normal.
He lowered his fists, chest heaving, blood bright across his knuckles. Then he grinned at the sky like he'd won a crown. "I'll be the strongest! And when I'm the strongest, girls will line up to fight me for first place!"
"Fight you?" Yira said dryly.
He startled, then beamed at her. "You heard nothing."
"I heard everything."
"Then you'll be first in line?"
She stared. He stared back, impossibly earnest for a menace. Heat rose under her skin. She scowled to crush it. "You're an idiot."
"Mm. Your idiot."
"Go wash your hands before you bleed on the steps."
"Aye-aye, wife-someday."
She lobbed a wooden clog. He dodged, laughing, and sprinted to the barrel.
From the porch, Yira pressed a palm to her ribs where a weird little thump refused to calm. The image of that split-colored glow wouldn't leave her.
"Idiot," she whispered again, but this time it sounded like a promise to keep an eye on him—no matter how big the trouble he dragged home next.