The first time Revelin changes is within moments of being bitten. He doesn’t know whether it was Bacchus’ teeth or the teeth of the maimed wolf, but acid radiates outward from the wound, through every vein, every fiber, every cell of his body. He collapses in a heap for the agony of it. Scorpio leaves the wolves to fight, though neither seems interested in the other anymore, and goes to Revelin’s side. The wound is vicious, seeping blood and quickly turning dark—black like death. Revelin is convulsing, muscles cramping and releasing leaving exhaustion and pain in their wake. He’s terrified. He cries. He’s sure he’ll die. He knows he’s no longer human, that the bite has made him one of them—a wolf. With a trembling hand, a hand that feels as though the bones are being ground to dust, Revelin reaches for the silver dagger Scorpio wears on his hip. Scorpio helps him withdraw it, allows Revelin to guide the blade to his chest, between a pair of ribs that would allow quick access to the heart. “Kill me,” Revelin murmurs. He’s pale, trembling, eyes blown wide as if infused with drops of opiate. “Please. Just kill me now.” Scorpio can’t. Scorpio won’t. Revelin is his dearest friend, his dearest…period. The hunter runs a hand through his hair. “I won’t,” Scorpio says. “I can’t.” He leans close over his friend’s suffering form and presses his forehead against Revelin’s. “I’ll bring both wolves to you. Slay them both. The effects will reverse. You’ll be fine.” When Revelin tries to answer that one of the wolves is his beloved, Scorpio shushes him. “Then we’ll kill the scarred one first. I’ll bring them to you. You’ll deliver the killing blow. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” Revelin isn’t fine. He transforms slowly, painfully, against his will, and on the spot. The wolf Revelin becomes is weak, emaciated. It whimpers and cowers in Scorpio’s lap like a wounded hound. Scorpio clutches the wolf, the animal—his friend—by the fur, and makes promises he doesn’t know he can keep.