My thigh wound is torn wide open again, hot blood mixing with the acid burns on my chest and arms, but I do not stop. I cannot stop. The bond is gone and every second without Master’s voice in my head feels like another claw raking my ribs from the inside.

I push up, tail lashing slow and heavy behind me, ears pinned flat, blonde hair matted dark and dripping. The cavern stretches black and vast around me, the underground river cutting through the centre. That is the direction my instincts keep pulling me, the same way I always knew where Master was when we hunted together. I follow the river downstream on all fours, claws scraping wet stone, body low and tense. Every movement sends fresh fire through my wounds, but the yandere fire in my chest burns hotter. These rats tried to keep me from him. They failed. Nothing will keep me from him.

The air changes without warning.

A sudden gust of cold wind rushes up from deeper in the cavern system, pressure shifting somewhere far below like the mountain itself is breathing. It hits me hard enough to make my ears pop. Fine mineral dust and glowing spores lift from the rock in swirling clouds, turning the black air into a silver blizzard that sparkles and drifts like snow. The particles glow faint blue-white, lighting the walls in shifting patterns, making every stalactite and ripple in the river visible for the first time. It is beautiful and wrong all at once, like the cave is weeping light. I freeze on all fours, tail stiff, watching the glowing dust swirl around me and settle on my blood soaked skin like tiny stars. For a moment the fever haze clears and I can see farther ahead, the river curves southwest into a wider passage, the walls rising high and smooth.

I shake my head hard, sending glowing particles flying from my ears, and keep moving. The “snow” makes navigation easier, the soft light catching on wet stone and showing me safe footing. I do not question it. The mountain is strange down here. I accept it and push on.

Ten minutes later the wind dies as suddenly as it came. The glowing dust settles slowly, leaving faint silver trails on the rock that fade after a few breaths. The cavern darkens again but I have already seen the way forward. I follow the river deeper, the water rushing louder now, echoing off the walls.

Then I smell it.

Warm water. Clean. Mineral rich. Not the cold, iron tasting river beside me.

I turn toward the scent, claws clicking on stone, and find a narrow side passage half-hidden behind a curtain of flowstone. The air inside is warmer, humid, carrying the faint sulphur tang of a hot spring. I crawl inside on all fours, tail dragging, ears forward. The passage opens into a small, rounded chamber. In the centre is a shallow pool, steam rising gently from the surface, the water clear and bubbling softly from a crack in the floor. The edges are smooth stone, worn by centuries of flow. Along one wall grows a thick patch of glowing mushrooms, pale blue caps the size of my fist, their stems pulsing with soft light. The air here is warmer, almost gentle after the cold river.

I stop at the edge of the pool, breathing hard, tail curling tight around my waist. My wounds throb in time with my heartbeat. The infection in my thigh feels like liquid fire. The acid burns from the mother rat’s stomach sting across my chest and arms. But the pool is here. Clean water. Warm. I slide into the pool on all fours, hissing as the heat hits every cut and scrape. The water stings at first, then soothes. I scrub the blood and gore from my skin with my claws, washing the worst of the filth from my blonde hair, letting the warmth sink into my fevered body. I drink deeply, cupping the mineral water to my mouth, letting it wash the taste of rat blood from my tongue.

When I am clean enough I crawl out and drag myself to the glowing mushrooms. I tear one free with my claws and sniff it. Edible. I know the scent from the few times Master and I travelled through cave systems before, safe, nourishing, nothing that will poison me. I eat three of them slowly, the soft flesh glowing faintly in my stomach, giving me strength I did not know I still had. The fever eases a fraction. My hands stop shaking quite so badly.

I sit on the warm stone beside the pool, tail wrapped around my knees, claws tracing the collar over and over. *Master’s property.* The words ground me. The emptiness in my chest still screams, but it is quieter here. The hot spring has given me water to clean my wounds. The mushrooms have given me food. The glowing dust storm showed me the way forward. The mountain is helping me, even if it does not know why.

I re bind my thigh with strips torn from what is left of my light blue trousers, tighter this time, pressing the edges of the wound together. It hurts. I do not care. Pain is nothing compared to the hole where Master’s thoughts should be.

I stay in the chamber for a long time, letting the warmth soak into my bones, letting the fever drop another degree. My mind turns over the plan the same way it has since the bond snapped. Heal first. Eat. Then keep moving southwest, following the river until it leads me to the surface or to something that can tell me where he is. A calm human with a redstone steel sword. Someone who has seen him. Someone who can point me toward the next clue.

The underground river curves sharply east after the hot spring chamber, and I follow it without hesitation. The cavern opens into vast, echoing stretches of pale sandstone that seem to go on forever, the ceiling lost somewhere high above in the dark. The river runs smooth and black through the centre, its surface catching faint silver light from mineral veins in the walls. I move on all fours along the western bank, claws clicking softly on the wet stone, tail dragging low behind me, ears forward but relaxed. Nothing attacks. Nothing stirs. Just wide open space and the steady rush of water.

Master, I whisper into the vast dark, voice hoarse but steady. The cavern turned east. Wide open stretches. No threats. The mountain gave me water and food and now it is giving me easy ground. I am using all of it. I am still yours. Still your kitten. Still your wife.

The river flows straight for a long time. The cavern walls spread far apart, the floor flat and smooth, almost like a road carved by ancient water. I pass through wide chambers where the ceiling vaults so high I cannot see it, the air cool and damp but not hostile. I stop twice to drink from the river, lapping water with my tongue like the cat I am, letting it soothe my raw throat. I eat two more glowing mushrooms I find growing on a damp ledge, the soft flesh giving me another small surge of strength. My tail flicks once in quiet satisfaction. I am surviving. I am moving. I am still his.

Nothing exciting happens. No patrols. No more rats. No sudden drops or traps. Just the steady sound of the river and my own breathing and the occasional drip of water from the ceiling far above. The wide open stretches make me feel small, but also free. No cages. No Anvil Class guards sneering at me. No dead goblins weighing on my heart. Just me and the mountain and the burning need to find Master.

I keep going east for what feels like another hour, the river never turning, the cavern never narrowing. My wounds ache with every push of my legs, but the pain is manageable now. The fever is a low hum instead of a roar. I think about what comes next while I move. Heal more. Find real food. Get information. Head south again once I reach the surface or find a way out. West toward the border hills if the river keeps going east too long. Or stay on this path if it leads somewhere useful. The mountain will show me.

Then the wildlife appears.

I round a gentle bend in the river and the cavern opens into another vast chamber, this one filled with soft, bioluminescent light from thousands of tiny glowing insects clinging to the walls and ceiling. They pulse faint blue white, turning the black water into a river of stars. And in the shallows near the far bank, a small herd of blind underground creatures is drinking, six or seven small, white furred animals the size of large rabbits, with long sensitive ears and soft pink noses. They have no eyes, just smooth skin where eyes should be, and they move with careful, delicate steps, completely unafraid. One of them lifts its head as I approach on all fours, ears twitching in my direction, but it does not run. It simply watches with that blind, curious stillness, then goes back to drinking.

I stop twenty paces away, tail low and still, watching them. They are harmless. Gentle. The mountain’s own creatures, living their quiet lives in the dark. One of the smaller ones hops closer to the edge of the water, nose working the air, then turns and hops back to the group. They pay me no attention at all. I am just another shape in the dark to them. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fight.

I stay there for a long time, sitting back on my haunches in the shallows, letting the cool water lap at my injured leg while I watch the blind herd drink and graze on glowing lichen along the bank. The emptiness in my chest is still there, but it feels a little quieter in the presence of these gentle creatures. The mountain has given me another gift, not just water and food, but a moment of peace. A reminder that not everything in the dark wants to kill me.

I reach out one clawed hand slowly toward the nearest animal. It does not flinch. Its soft white fur brushes my fingertips for a second before it hops away, unconcerned. I pull my hand back, a small, broken smile tugging at my bloodied lips.

Even the mountain’s creatures are not afraid of me, I whisper to the dark. They know I am not here to hurt them. I am only here to find him. I stay a little longer, letting the cool water soothe my wounds, letting the soft blue glow of the insects wash over me. Then I push to my feet on all fours again, tail flicking once in quiet determination.

My body is a mess. The thigh wound from the boar’s tusk has torn open again during the fight with the mother rat. It burns hot and tight, red streaks crawling up toward my hip like angry lightning under my skin. The infection is worse now, I can feel the heat radiating through my whole leg, making every push forward feel like I am dragging fire behind me. The acid burns from the mother’s stomach sting across my chest and arms, the skin raw and blistered. My ribs ache with every breath from being slammed against stone. The bruises from the pound guards and the cavern fall have turned deep purple and yellow. My blonde hair is still matted with dried blood and bile, hanging in stiff ropes across my face. The fever has dropped a little from the hot spring and mushrooms, but it is still there, a low sick heat behind my eyes that makes the edges of my vision soft.

I am tired and feverish. I will heal enough to keep going.

I crawl for another twenty minutes through the vast, echoing space. The river stays straight and smooth. The floor is flat enough that I can move steadily even on my injured leg. I stop twice to lap water from the river with my tongue, letting the cold liquid soothe my raw throat. My tail curls tight around my waist between steps, possessive and insecure, squeezing until the pressure reminds me I am still here, still breathing, still moving toward him.

Then I smell it.

A sharp, clean, bitter scent drifting from a wide ledge on the western bank, the unmistakable tang of cave moss that Master once showed me during a long trek through old tunnels years ago. He called it “green vein” and explained how the glowing green patches had strong antiseptic properties. We had used it on a deep cut he took from a bandit’s blade. It had worked. I know this plant. I know exactly what it can do for the infection burning through my thigh.

I turn toward the ledge without hesitation, moving faster despite the pain. The green-vein moss grows thick in a damp patch where a small seep of water trickles down the stone. It glows soft emerald in the dark, the tiny vein-like patterns pulsing faintly. I crawl straight to it on all fours, tail lashing once with grim satisfaction, and start harvesting.

I use my claws to carefully peel large patches away from the rock, working slowly so I do not damage the living parts. The moss is cool and slightly slimy in my hands, the bitter smell strong enough to make my nose twitch. I gather as much as I can carry, enough for several applications, tucking the clumps into a makeshift pouch I tear from the last clean strip of my ruined light blue trousers.

For the next hour I keep travelling east along the river while I work on myself. I stop every ten or fifteen minutes at the next flat stretch of stone. I chew a portion of the moss into a thick, bitter paste with my fangs, mixing it with a little river water until it is a sticky green salve. Then I carefully unwrap the bandage on my thigh, hissing through my fangs as the cloth peels away from the torn flesh. The wound is ugly, swollen, red, with yellow pus at the edges and those angry red streaks climbing higher. I pack the green vein paste thickly into the cut, pressing it deep with my claws, then re-wrap it tight with fresh strips torn from my rags. The moss stings at first, then cools the burning heat almost immediately. I do the same for the acid burns across my chest and arms, smearing the paste over every raw patch until my skin feels coated in cool green relief.

I keep moving while I work, never stopping for long. East. Always east. The cavern stays wide and open, the river flowing smooth beside me. I eat another glowing mushroom I find growing near the moss patch, chewing slowly while I re bind my thigh. The combination of the hot spring water, the mushrooms, and now the green vein moss is already helping. The fever feels a fraction lower. The burning in my thigh has eased from white hot agony to a deep, manageable throb. My head feels clearer. I am not fixed, far from it, but I am stabilising. I can keep going.

I keep going for the full hour, stopping only to apply more paste and re wrap the worst injuries. The green vein works steadily, the bitter coolness sinking into my skin and fighting the infection from the inside. By the end of the hour my leg feels noticeably better, still painful, still weak, but no longer on fire. The red streaks have stopped climbing. I have enough moss left for at least two more treatments.

Then I smell them.

Metal. Oiled leather. Hot food. The sharp, clean scent of Redstone metal and forge smoke drifting from somewhere ahead. My ears shoot forward. I drop lower to the stone, tail going perfectly still, and creep forward on all fours until I see it.

A tower.

It rises from the cavern floor like a pale finger of sandstone, built right against the eastern wall where the river curves. It is not large, maybe four storeys, narrow, with narrow arrow slits and a single iron door at the base. Lantern light glows warm in the upper windows. Redstone banners hang limp from the battlements, the crimson and black of the clan barely visible in the gloom. I can hear low voices inside, the clink of armour, the smell of stew. A watchpost. Nothing more. No settlement. Just a lonely outpost watching the underground river.

I freeze on all fours twenty paces away, hidden behind a jagged outcrop of rock, tail curled tight around my waist. Redstone. The same clan that put me in the pound at Advantage like a stray dog. The same Anvil Class arrogance that sneered at me and called me feral. My first instinct is to slip away, to stay in the dark and keep moving east until I find a way to the surface far from any of them.

But then I listen.

The voices drifting down are not the hard, superior tones I heard at the pound. These guards sound tired. Worn. One laughs softly at something another said. Another mutters about missing the surface sun. They sound human. Forgiving, almost. Like men who have seen too much darkness and learned not to judge everything that crawls out of it.

I stay hidden a little longer, cat vision cutting through the shadows, watching the arrow slits. Two guards on the upper level, leaning on the battlements, spears resting easy. One is a dwarf with a grey streaked beard, the other a tall Alderian with a scar across his nose. They are not on high alert. They are just watching the river the same way I am.

My wounds throb. The fever is still there, low and sick. I am covered in dried blood, moss paste, and the faint green glow that still clings to my skin from the mushrooms. I look like death. But I am still moving. Still fighting. Still pushing through everything the world has thrown at me to reach him.

The guards do not know me. They have not seen the pound escape or the dead goblins. To them I am just another broken thing that crawled out of the dark.

I make my decision. I will approach.

Not as a threat. Not charging in like the reckless cat I was in the elven cave. I will go on all fours, slow and deliberate, tail low, ears forward but not pinned, claws visible but not raised. I will let them see the collar. Let them see the wounds. Let them see the warrior who refused to die even when the mountain tried to swallow her whole.

If they attack, I run. If they are as forgiving as they sound, maybe they will give me water. Food. Information. A direction. Anything that brings me closer to Master.

I rise slowly from behind the outcrop, still on all fours, and begin walking toward the tower. My tail drags low behind me, tip twitching once. My blonde hair hangs in stiff, blood-matted ropes. The copper iron collar glints in the lantern light spilling from the arrow slits. Every step sends a fresh throb through my thigh, but I keep going, eyes glowing soft blue in the dark, ears forward, body tense but not aggressive.

Twenty paces.

Ten.

Five.

I stop directly below the battlements, lift my head, and look up at the two guards who are now staring down at me in stunned silence.

I speak, voice raw and cracked from days without proper rest.

I am not here to fight. I am looking for my Master. A human. Calm. Redstone steel sword. Taken by elves days ago. The bond is gone and I cannot feel him. I have been crawling through this mountain for… I do not even know how long. I am wounded. Infected. But I am still moving. Still his. Still coming for him.

The dwarf guard leans over the battlement, grey beard catching the light, eyes wide but not hostile. The Alderian beside him lowers his spear without thinking.

“I am not here to fight. I am looking for my Master. A human. Calm. Redstone steel sword. Taken by elves days ago. The bond is gone and I cannot feel him. I have been crawling through this mountain for… I do not even know how long. I am wounded. Infected. But I am still moving. Still his. Still coming for him.”

The dwarf guard leans over the battlement, grey beard catching the lantern light, eyes wide but not hostile. The Alderian beside him lowers his spear without thinking, the tip dipping toward the stone floor.

For a long moment neither of them speaks. They just stare down at me, a blood matted, moss stained cat girl on all fours, collar glinting, tail curled tight around my own waist like I am trying to hold myself together. The only sound is the distant rush of the underground river and the soft drip of water from the ceiling far above.

The dwarf clears his throat. His voice is rough, the kind that comes from years of breathing cave dust, but there is no edge to it.

By the ancestors… you look like you’ve been through the forge and back out the other side. We are not the surface pigs, girl. We are too deep to know what trouble you stirred up top. No bells reach us down here. No rumours. Just the river and the dark and the occasional lost fool who wanders too far from the mines.

The Alderian nods slowly, still staring. You said elves took your Master. That explains the wounds. And the… smell. He grimaces but not unkindly. We have seen worse crawl out of these tunnels. You are still on your feet. That counts for something in Redstone eyes.

I stay exactly where I am on all fours, claws resting on the wet stone, ears forward but not pinned. My tail gives one slow twitch. The emptiness in my chest screams louder than ever now that I am close to other people, but I keep my voice steady.

I am still moving. Still his. Still coming for him.

The dwarf leans further over the battlement. Name is Thrain. This is The Valley Under. We run the watchpost here. These caverns are part of The Valley Point mine system. You are south east of Advantage, maybe half a day’s walk if you had legs instead of claws. Not far from the main Valley Point settlement either, there is an access shaft two levels up that goes straight to the surface. Fresh air. Sunlight. Real food. We can point you to it.

Corven finally speaks, voice quieter. Or you can keep going east through the caverns. The river runs that way for another few miles before it splits. Either path stays in Redstone lands for a while. But if you go far enough east and then north east… you will cross into Bogclutch territory. The swamp clan. They keep to themselves mostly.

My ears twitch at the name. Bogclutch.

Thrain continues, voice steady. Two real choices, warrior cat. One, we let you through the tower, you take the shaft up to the surface near Valley Point. You will be in Redstone lands but closer to people, trade routes, maybe news. Two, you keep crawling east through these tunnels. Still Redstone for now, but quieter. Fewer eyes. Eventually you hit the edge and slide into Bogclutch marshes if you want.

He pauses, studying me. You look half dead but you are still talking. Still thinking. Still moving. That tells me you are not some stray. You are a fighter who refused to break. We do not put fighters in cages down here. We give them water and a choice.

Corven nods. Come to the door. We will give you clean water, a bowl of stew, and a place to sit for a few minutes without the ground trying to eat you. No chains. No questions about what happened up top. Just… come inside before that leg gives out.

I stay on all fours a moment longer, blue eyes locked on theirs. I push up slowly and begin walking toward the iron door at the base of the tower, tail low but no longer dragging, ears forward, body tense but not aggressive.

I push the iron door open with one clawed hand. The warm light of the tower spills out across my bloodied face and I step inside.

I step through the iron door into the warm lantern light of the watchpost tower. The air smells of stew, oiled leather, and damp stone. Thrain and Corven are already waiting at the bottom of the narrow spiral stair. Thrain is shorter than I expected, broad and solid like most dwarves, with a grey streaked beard that reaches his belt. Corven is tall and lean, the scar across his nose pulling his mouth into a permanent half-smile. Neither of them reaches for weapons. They simply watch me with the same quiet respect they showed on the battlements.

Sit, Thrain says, nodding toward a rough wooden bench against the wall. Eat first. Drink. You look like you’ve been fighting the mountain itself.

I lower myself onto the bench on all fours at first, then shift to sit properly, tail curling around my own waist. My wounds protest, but the green vein moss is still working. Corven sets a wooden bowl of thick stew and a dented tin mug of water in front of me. I eat fast, using my claws to scoop the hot meat and vegetables, drinking between bites. It tastes better than anything I have eaten in days, real salt, real bread on the side. I finish every drop and lick the bowl clean without shame. My stomach stops twisting. The fever eases another notch.

While I eat, Thrain brings out a bundle of folded cloth.

These are Redstone issue, he says gruffly. Dark red tunic, black trousers, light blue trim on the collar and cuffs, Alderian colours for the alliance. They will fit better than those rags. We do not have cat sized armour, but these are clean and whole. Change in the side room if you want privacy.

I take the bundle without a word and slip into the small side chamber. The door is only a curtain, but they turn their backs. I strip off the torn, blood caked rags and pull on the new clothes.

The dark red tunic is soft wool, long enough to cover my hips but slit high on the sides for movement. It has a high collar with light blue trim that matches the dark blue of my collar perfectly. The black trousers are sturdy and tapered, with light blue stitching along the seams and a special tail hole already cut and reinforced with soft leather, clearly made for someone who works with beasts or has a tail of their own. The fabric is warm and smells faintly of cedar. I pull everything on, then fasten the light blue sash that comes with it around my waist. The outfit is simple but clean, warrior-practical, and the colours make me look proud. Strong. Like I belong to something again.

When I step back out, both guards stare for a moment.

Better, Corven says with a nod. You look like a proper fighter now, not a half dead stray.

Thrain clears his throat. It is not kindness, girl. We need something done and none of us want to do it. There is a sealed letter that must reach the Valley Point mine foreman by dawn tomorrow. The surface route is blocked by a cave-in two levels up. The east tunnels are clear but long and we are short on men tonight. You are already heading east. You deliver the letter, the foreman gives you extra food, a small pouch of silver, and safe passage through the mines. Everyone wins.

He holds out a small iron tube sealed with red wax and the Redstone crest.

I look at the tube, then at the two guards. My tail flicks once.

I agree, I say simply. My voice is still hoarse, but steady. I need the food and the coin anyway. And I am still moving east.

Thrain hands me the tube. Corven brings out the weapons.

Iron spear, iron shield, he says. Nothing fancy, but better than claws alone. The spear is balanced for throwing if you need it. The shield is kite shaped, light enough for you to carry on your back while crawling.

I take them both. The spear haft feels solid in my hand. The shield is plain but sturdy, the Redstone crest stamped small on the boss. I sling the shield across my back and grip the spear in my right hand. The weight is comforting. Real weapons again. I am no longer completely unarmed.

Thrain points to a large rain barrel in the corner filled with clear water.

Take a look at yourself before you go. You earned it.

I walk to the barrel and lean over the still surface.

The reflection that stares back at me is not the broken, blood-matted creature that crawled out of the mother rat’s stomach. This is something else.

Dark red tunic hugging my small frame, light blue trim sharp against the collar and cuffs. Black trousers fitted perfectly, the light blue stitching running down the outer seams like royal piping. My blonde hair is still matted in places but the worst of the blood has been washed away, leaving it a wild, golden mane that frames my face. My blue eyes glow softly in the lantern light, fierce and unbroken. The iron spear rests easy in my right hand. The kite shield on my back catches the light on its polished boss.

I look majestic.

A warrior. A survivor. A cat who refused to die. The Fang Shadow who cut her way out of a monster’s belly and kept walking. The dark red and black make me look dangerous. The light blue trim adds a touch of something almost noble, Alderian colours mixed with Redstone steel. My tail curls once behind me, proud and steady. My ears stand tall and forward. Even with the fresh bandages under the tunic and the faint green glow of moss still clinging to my skin in places, I look like someone who belongs at the side of the Silent Emperor.

I stare at my reflection for a long moment, chest tight with something between pride and aching longing.

Master would be proud, I whisper so quietly only I can hear it. His kitten looks like she still belongs to him.

I turn back to the guards, spear in hand, shield on my back, new clothes clean and sharp.

I will deliver the letter, I say. East through the tunnels. Valley Point mines. I will not fail.

Thrain nods once, respect clear in his eyes.

Safe travels, warrior cat. The mountain has tested you enough for one lifetime. Do not let it win.

I step back out into the dark cavern, the iron door closing behind me with a solid clang. The river still flows east. The letter tube is tucked safely inside my new tunic. The spear and shield feel right in my hands.

I am still wounded. Still feverish. Still missing the bond like a missing limb.

But I am no longer crawling in rags.

I am walking.

I leave the watchpost tower behind and continue east along the underground river, the iron spear resting easy across my back beside the kite shield, the sealed letter tube tucked safely inside my new dark red tunic. The black trousers feel strange against my legs, sturdy and warm, with the light blue stitching running down the seams like a quiet reminder that I am no longer crawling in rags. 

The cavern stays wide and open for another mile, the river flowing smooth and black beside me. Then the light changes. Lanterns. Dozens of them, glowing warm orange ahead where the river curves around a wide bend. I drop lower to the stone, tail going perfectly still, ears swiveling forward. The sound of voices drifts across the water, rough laughter, the clink of picks, the crack of whips, the low murmur of orders. I creep forward on all fours until I can see it clearly.

A large mining encampment.

It is not a proper settlement like Valley Point, just a sprawling camp built against the eastern cavern wall where several mine tunnels open like dark mouths. Canvas tents and wooden shacks line the riverbank. Redstone guards in dark crimson cloaks patrol the perimeter in pairs, spears resting on their shoulders. Miners, mostly dwarves but some humans, move between the tunnels and a central sorting area, pushing carts loaded with ore. And in the middle of it all, chained in long lines, are the slaves: Alderian men and women with the same light skin and fair hair as the surface folk, their clothes ragged, their eyes dull with exhaustion. Non dwarf. Non Redstone. Property, just like the pound tried to make me.

I freeze behind a jagged outcrop of rock, tail curling tight around my waist. My first instinct is to keep moving east, to slip past the entire camp without being seen. I have the letter for Valley Point. I have new clothes, a spear, a shield. I am healing. I do not need another encounter with Redstone authority that might end with me back in chains.

But the river flows right through the middle of the camp. There is no easy way around, the walls on either side are sheer and the only path forward runs straight through the lantern light and the patrolling guards.

I weigh it for ten long heartbeats, one claw tracing the words on my collar.

Approaching means risk. They might recognise the description from Advantage. They might decide a wounded cat girl with a Redstone letter is still suspicious. They might take the letter and the weapons and put me back in a cage “for my own safety.”

Sneaking past is dangerous too, but I am good at dangerous. I am a cat. I was built for shadows and silence.

I choose to sneak.

I drop fully onto all fours, tail low and still, and begin moving along the western bank where the shadows are deepest. The river noise covers the soft click of my claws on stone. I use every outcrop, every pile of fallen rock, every shadow cast by the lanterns as cover. My new dark red and black clothes actually help, they blend better with the cavern gloom than my old light blue rags ever did.

I move slowly. Patiently. The way Master would have told me to move if he were here.A pair of guards walks past twenty paces away, talking about a cave-in in one of the deeper tunnels. I press flat against the rock, ears pinned, tail wrapped tight around my own leg. They do not look my way. I wait until their footsteps fade, then continue.

Further in, near the slave lines, I have to cross a more open stretch. The Alderian slaves are being herded back into the tents for the night, chains clinking. One of them, a tall woman with a bruised face, glances in my direction for a split second. Our eyes meet. She does not shout. She simply looks away, as if she has seen too many broken things crawl out of the dark to care anymore.

I slip past.

A guard on the far side of the camp turns suddenly, lantern raised, as if he heard something. I freeze behind a stack of ore carts, heart hammering against my ribs. He stares into the darkness for a long moment, then mutters something and keeps walking. I do not breathe until he is gone.

It takes me nearly an hour to work my way through the edges of the encampment. And then, finally, the lights begin to thin. I crawl the last fifty paces on all fours, using the river’s edge for cover, until the encampment is behind me and the cavern stretches open and dark once more. The river continues east, smooth and black, the sound of the camp fading into nothing.

I stop on a flat stretch of stone, breathing hard, tail lashing once in quiet triumph. My new clothes are dusty but intact. The letter tube is still safe inside my tunic. The spear and shield are still with me. I made it. I rise slowly to my feet, spear in hand, shield on my back, and look back once at the distant glow of the mining camp. Redstone lands. Still Redstone. But I am past it.