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Malta was used to warriors. They had the occasional tempermental burst, and she knew how to handle it. She was also aware that one could be snapped at for reasons completely unrelated to anything you did.

It was, though, still jarring to have Detraeus snap at her, and she was briefly taken aback, her mind automatically running through everything she had done up to then that might have possibly upset him. Had she pressed too hard? Gone too far?

But no. He was angry at his friend, not at her.

Maybe I pushed just far enough... she thought, vaguely relieved, as Detraeus began to talk.

It was initially confusing. There were still a lot of pieces she had to make up for herself: she didn't entirely understand what an 'arena' was, though she knew that the warriors of the Shadows Maw tribe, and the other tribes, fought each other for sport in ritualized matches or duels. Perhaps that was similar to what he meant, though she was sure that – either way – it was a place she did not want to be.

Unless he was killing... birds? As in those shrieking animals that the magescians had killed for them and cooked? The Dalak? Did he work in a... what was it called... slaughterhouse? She was briefly confused, but it soon made itself clearer.

'Seren's blood'

He meant Orderites, she realized. Orderites were the 'birds' he had killed. It was a slur. Her cousins used slurs too: 'Waterskins' for Peisios, and 'Flowerclaws' for herself and 'Black-bellies' for a nearby Rival tribe of Diabi and Peisio khehora – the River Guts. Slurs confused her: they were so non-literal. Why not simply refer to what they were? Malta didn't hope to understand the motives behind them.

So he had been killing Orderites, and Detraeus did not – it appeared – like them. She was sure – very sure – he had had good reason to kill them. They were, after all, powerful six-winged monsters who bound khehora to their will and threw painful light at their foes. Oblivionites were people, she had discovered, not mythical creatures... which only made her fear the Orderites even more for wanting to wipe them out: they wanted to subjugate the whole world beneath them, and crush anybody who stood in their way. They were murderers and monsters. They were not good people. Malta hoped never to meet one.

So. Detraeus had killed many Orderites, only to find that his friend of four years bore some of the blood of the monsters of the light.

What was, he wondered, the rest of this friend's blood? She decided to give this friend... former friend... of Detraeus's some benefit of the doubt and assume he was fighting against the terrible light inside him. He was, after all, something else other than Orderite.

“And she knew?” Malta asked, her voice sympathetic, “The whole time?”

She wondered what had happened to have revealed such a secret. Had the friend simply admitted it? Had Detraeus found out about his cursed blood somehow?

“What happened, Detraeus?” she asked, softly – so softly that he might be able to ignore it completely, if he felt like it.

Poisoned... she thought, Abronaxus' Scales...

Was that why he had started the conversation with a question about poisons? Did he want to know what had done this to his former friend? Or had it been connected in a less direct way?

But was poisoned allowed in ritual fights? Clearly it had to do with this 'Arena' thing. 'Pitted' to fight... So they had fought. In a ritual battle. And someone had... cheated? Malta was still confused, but those details were irrelevant. The story was unfolding before her, and she felt her self settle into a receiving mode, offering her kind earfins and expressive face to receive his words.

“And that is how you found out...” she murmured softly, nodding attentively. An accident: a friend, sick and weak, revealed their dire secret – that was what had happened here, and she could not fault this friend for that action. He could not have helped bringing out his wings – a trait that made orderites even more upsetting, that they could hide their distinctive set of wings at will - just as she could not help summoning her poison when upset.

She rumbled sympathetically as he told her how he could not kill this nameless friend, even though he had felt hurt and betrayed by him.

Because, though the wings themselves were blameless, they were damning. They were a secret that he hadn't told his friend, Detraeus. It was the secrets, kept and lurking, that were bothering her friend. He must be wondering, now, what more secrets lurked behind his friends, or if he could trust them without being betrayed again. She was glad he was trusting her. She didn't have anything particularly bad as a secret, at least she didn't think she did.

And then it came to the final events of the story – the realization that the woman he 'shared a home with' had known about the orderite heritage of his friend and kept silent. Was she his mate? No. It didn't seem entirely so, yet – not the way he'd described her. His...

Malta struggled to come up with a khehora equivalent she could understand. Sometimes, khehora lived with potential mates for a time, after the courtship stage, to determine if they would be good at raising a clutch, or as good company as they had seemed. She supposed it must be like this.

That made sense. There was trust, but there were also secrets. They had let each other into their lives, and were most vulnerable. So, it made sense that when she admitted to keeping secrets from him, it would upset him. He seemed sensitive to betrayal, and he probably hadn't been feeling very well after his friend had shown his wings (how could, she wondered, someone fly with uneven wings? But that was irrelevant.) So, when she revealed her own secret, and admitted to love...

Scales... she admitted to love. That was a special, emotionally-charged event that Malta hoped she would experience one day. But to feel both that feeling and betrayal at the same time... No wonder he was upset. No wonder he needed to talk.

Malta rumbled encouragingly. “It's good to talk, sometimes.” she said, “It helps... well it just helps.” she hesitated for a moment, collecting her thoughts.

“So... I don't think you've killed the tree at all.” she said, returning to the metaphor of before. “You didn't hurt it's roots.”

Every word brought a sense of pleased confidence with it. She knew what was happening – at least enough of it. And she could help him, after all.

“You just maybe pruned it a little.”