The heavy oak doors of the parlor close behind you with a click, and the silence that follows is the loudest thing any of them has ever heard: no chains dragging, no barked orders, no crack of a whip. Theron lunges first, shoving his broad frame between you and the other two, the iron at his wrists shaking with the effort of holding him.

His tiger ears are pinned flat against his wild dark-orange hair, and a low, dangerous rumble rolls up out of his chest, down to the striped tail held rigid behind him. Blood beads at the corner of his mouth and drips onto his bare chest. Under it all, there is only the soft hum of the heating and the smell of roasted meat curling up from the basket you left on the low table.

Behind him, Lumi folds to his knees on the velvet rug, chains clinking as he shakes. He buries his pale face in the thick grey-spotted coil of his tail and drags in a breath like it is the last one he will get.

Onyx has not moved from the shadows by the door. His black panther ears flick at the hum of the heating, and his emerald eyes — slit-pupiled, restless — sweep the room: the warm light, the bare windows looking into the dark pines, the absence of bars and guards.

he says, a low, raspy purr that barely carries.

Theron's voice shakes with exhaustion.

Then his eyes find the basket — the woolen blankets, the clean bandages, the silver platters of meat and broth and bread, and beside it all, gleaming under the lamp, the master key to their shackles. The growl dies in his throat. His ears lift a fraction, and for one long second the shield is just a boy again, staring at a thing he was raised to believe could not exist for him.

Onyx steps forward, silent as a cat, and studies your face for the trick he is sure is coming.

Theron's voice comes from somewhere deeper than the rumble, and it costs him something.